4 ROYAL SOCIETY OF CANADA 
the ear of the world-wide English speaking audience. Born, like 
Kirby, across the sea and transplanted in childhood to Canada, he 
entered heart and soul into our Canadian life and was again in thought 
and sympathy and literary work distinctly a Canadian. 
While we reverently bow the head as we stand beside the honoured 
tomb of the veteran of almost fourscore and ten, we feel a sharper 
pang, as if at the loss of a brother, when we remember the strong 
man from whom the world had learned to expect great things for many 
years and who has been taken away from us so suddenly in his very 
prime. 
While we thus pay our tribute to the memory of those who have 
passed away, and rejoice in the fresh laurels of our brethren, permit 
me to give a word of kindly greeting to some new faces who are just 
entering the field of Canadian literature. Marian Keith is proving 
her right to an honourable place as a writer possessed of fine native 
gifts and of no mean skill as a literary craftsman. Helena Coleman 
presents us with a volume which will appeal to the deeper heart of our 
people to the men and women who strive after a high moral ideal and 
out of suffering are made perfect, and yet she links with this some 
exquisite touches of the lighter fancy which plays around the everyday 
things of nature. Prof. Blewett has given us a volume which to rich 
and varied learning and profound philosophical insight has added a 
prose style which places him high among the masters of noble English. 
There are also others from whom I may mention one, Marjory Picthall, 
who, young in years, already shows gifts which are full of promise. 
May I quote one or two verses: 
A MOTHER IN EGYPT. 
“About midnight will I go out into the midst of Egypt: and all 
the firstborn in the land of Egypt shall die, from the firstborn of 
Pharoah that sitteth upon the throne, even unto the firstborn of the 
maidservant that is behind the mill.” 
Is the noise of grief in the palace over the river 
For this silent one at my side? 
There came a hush in the night, and he rose with his hands a-quiver 
Like lotus petals a-drift on the swing of the tide. 
O, small cold hands, the day groweth old for sleeping! 
O, small still feet, rise up, for the hour is late! 
Rise up, my son, for I hear them mourning and weeping 
In the temple down by the gate! 
