Did our slow mood, O God, with thine accord?
Then weld our diverse millions, Lord,
Into one single swinging sword.

I have been combing over the files of the Sun Dial, and it is
disheartening to see these deposits of pearl and pie-crust, this
sediment of fine mind, buried full fathom five in the yellowing archives
of a newspaper. I thought of De Quincey's famous utterance about the
press:

Worlds of fine thinking lie buried in that vast abyss, never to be
disentombed or restored to human admiration. Like the sea, it has
swallowed treasures without end, that no diving-bell will bring up
again.

Greatly as we cherish the Sun Dial, we are jealous of it for sapping all
its author's time and calories. No writer in America has greater of
more meaty, stalwart gifts. Don, we cry, spend less time stoking that
furnace out in Port Washington, and more on your novels!

There is no more convincing proof of the success of the Sun Dial than
the roster of its contributors. Some of the most beautiful lyrics of the
past few years have been printed there (I think particularly of two or
three by Padraic Colum). In this ephemeral column of a daily newspaper
some of the rarest singers and keenest wits of the time have been glad
to exhibit their wares, without pay of course. It would be impossible to
give a complete list, but among them are William Rose Benét, Clinton
Scollard, Edith M. Thomas, Benjamin De Casseres, Gelett Burgess, Georgia
Pangborn, Charles Hanson Towne, Clement Wood.