It is the business of the true Philistine to rescue from the environment of custom and ostentation the beauty and the goodness cribbed therein. And so the Philistines of these days, whose prime type is the Knight of La Mancha, go tilting at windmills and other fortresses—often on sorry nags and with shaky lances, and yet on heroic errand bent. And to such merry joust and fielding all lovers of chivalry are bidden: to look on—perhaps to laugh, it may be to grieve at a woeful belittling of lofty enterprise. Come, such of you as have patience with such warriors. It is Sancho Panza who invites you. * * * * * _The Chip-Munk_ has a bright reference in the issue of May 15 to Coventry, Patmore, Pater and Meredith. These are four great men, as _The Chip-Munk_ boldly states. _The Chip-Munk_ further announces that the Only Original Lynx-Eyed Proof Reader has not gone on a journey. Really, I supposed of course he had been gone these many moons! * * * * * I wonder if Carman is still upon a diet of Mellin’s Food that he imagines people do not know that this poem LITTLE LYRICS OF JOY—V. Lord of the vasty tent of Heaven, Who hast to thy saints and sages given A thousand nights with their thousand stars, And the star of faith for a thousand years. Grant me, only a foolish rover, All thy beautiful wide world over, A thousand loves in a thousand days, And one great love for a thousand years. —BLISS CARMAN in _The Chap Book_, May, 1895. was written years and years ago as follows: The night has a thousand eyes, And the day but one; Yet the light of the bright world dies With the dying sun. The mind has a thousand eyes, And the heart but one; Yet the light of a whole life dies When love is done. —FRANCIS W. BOURDILLON. I desire to swipe him after this manner: LITTLE DELIRICS OF BLISS. MDCCCXCIV. Lord of the wires that tangle Heaven, Who hast to thy brake-persuaders given, The longest of days to ring and grind, And no least screen from the winter’s wind. Grant me, only, a summer lover, Sunshiny days the long year over, A thousand whirls and a thousand fares, And one long whirl of a thousand hours. JOY TROLLEYMAN. IV-XI-XLIV. White and rose are the colors of strife, What care I for the crimson and blue? Greater than football the battle of life And tragic as aught the gods may view, The clutch and the gripe of inward ills; Pallid the People and Pink the Pills. JOY CARTMAN. * * * * *