THE LOTUS _is published every two weeks and is supplied to subscribers for One Dollar a year; foreign subscription, $1.25. Sample copy five cents. On sale at all news stands._ THE LOTUS, Kansas City, Mo. The Roycroft Quarterly: Being a Goodly collection of Literary Curiosities obtained from Sources not easily accessible to the average Book-Lover. Offered to the Discerning every three months for 25c. per number or one dollar per year. Contents for May: I. Glints of Wit and Wisdom: Being replies from sundry Great Men who missed a Good Thing. II. Some Historical Documents by W. Irving Way, Phillip Hale and Livy S. Richard. III. As to Stephen Crane. E. H. A preachment by an admiring friend. IV. Seven poems by Stephen Crane. 1—The Chatter of a Death Demon. 2—A Lantern Song. 3—A Slant of Sun on Dull Brown Walls. 4—I have heard the Sunset Song of the Birches. 5—What Says the Sea? 6—To the Maiden the Sea was Blue Meadow. 7—Fast Rode the Knight. V. A Great Mistake. Stephen Crane. Recording the venial sin of a mortal under sore temptation. VI. A Prologue. Stephen Crane. THE PHILISTINE. NO. 2. July, 1896. VOL. 3. A SEA SONG. Away with care! Away with grief! Hurrah for life! Hurrah, we’re free! Away with sorrow! Perish wrong! Hurrah, Hurrah! The sea! The sea! Yo ho, The waves are dashing, Yo ho, The billows crashing, Yo ho, The spray goes flashing Down the bay. Hurrah! The gulls are winging, O’er bows the waves are flinging The cooling, pelting, stinging, Salt sea spray. Away with care! Away with grief! Hurrah for life! Hurrah, we’re free! Away with sorrow! Perish wrong! Hurrah, Hurrah! The sea! The sea! F. W. PICKARD. A BIT OF WAR PHOTOGRAPHY. After the applause won by Mr. Stephen Crane’s _Red Badge of Courage_, a little reaction is not strange; and this has already taken, in some quarters, a form quite unjust and unfair. Certainly any one who spent so much as a week or two in camp, thirty years ago, must be struck with the extraordinary freshness and vigor of the book. No one except Tolstoi, within my knowledge, has brought out the daily life of war so well; it may be said of these sentences, in Emerson’s phrase, “Cut these and they bleed.” The breathlessness, the hurry, the confusion, the seeming aimlessness, as of a whole family of disturbed ants, running to and fro, yet somehow accomplishing something at last; all these aspects, which might seem the most elementary and the easiest to depict, are yet those surest to be omitted, not merely by the novelists, but by the regimental histories themselves.