With perhaps a trifle less confidence we may acquit him of dragging into notice as a prominent name in English letters the hitherto obscure or wholly mythical “Carlysle,” who figures on page 177. But in excusing the writer from the fatherhood of these literary foundlings we are compelled to look to the publishers or at least to their proof-reader as the responsible man, a sense of decency no less than the requirements of this metaphor, repudiates the suggestion that he might after all turn out to be a woman, and whether the reproach belong at the door of the principals or of the workman is quite immaterial to us, the house must stand the breakage of glassware, not the bartender. A matter of two typographical errors within the space of a single short article may seem but trifling subject for comment in a world where the surest footed at times slip, but one or two considerations make even such venial sins fit objects for animadversion. The publishers of the little fortnightly, in the manner of their issues if not in so many words, set themselves up, in a fashion, as guides in the matter of literary elegance, it behooves them therefore to take heed that the unwary be not led astray. “Who drives fat oxen should himself be fat,” nor should the venerable name of Caxton be made a laughing-stock in the mouths of scoffers. W. SAN FRANCISCO, August, 1895. * * * * * TO MARK TWAIN: I am awfully sorry you have lost all your money. I am in the same boat, but let’s not talk about it all the time. A LANTERN SONG. EACH SMALL GLEAM WAS A VOICE —A LANTERN VOICE— IN LITTLE SONGS OF CARMINE, VIOLET, GREEN, GOLD. A CHORUS OF COLORS CAME OVER THE WATER, THE WONDROUS LEAF-SHADOWS NO LONGER WAVERED, NO PINES CROONED ON THE HILLS, THE BLUE NIGHT WAS ELSEWHERE A SILENCE WHEN THE CHORUS OF COLORS CAME OVER THE WATER, LITTLE SONGS OF CARMINE, VIOLET, GREEN, GOLD. SMALL GLOWING PEBBLES THROWN ON THE DARK PLANE OF EVENING SING GOOD BALLADS OF GOD AND ETERNITY, WITH SOUL’S REST. LITTLE PRIESTS, LITTLE HOLY FATHERS, NONE CAN DOUBT THE TRUTH OF YOUR HYMNING WHEN THE MARVELOUS CHORUS COMES OVER THE WATER, SONGS OF CARMINE, VIOLET, GREEN, GOLD. STEPHEN CRANE. THE RUBAIYAT OF O’MARA KHAYVAN. ERIN (IRAN?) YEAR OF THE HEGIRA 94—VIA BROOKLYN. Wake! for the night that lets poor man forget His daily toil is past, and in Care’s net Another day is caught to gasp and fade; Oh, but my weary bones are heavy yet! Wake! son of kings that bears a hod on high, And builds the world. The red sun mounts the sky And circles squares in the cot’s every chink And gilds ephemeral motes that whirl and die.