GIFT OF University of California Berkeley THE HUMPBACK, THE CRIPPLE AND THE ONE-EYED MAN v LIOMC1. 40SAPHARE AN FRANCISCO M. ROBERTSON PUBLISHER VOL. I. NO. 2 THE FLAME SERIES SENT POSTPAID, . . 25 CENTS A COPY . SUBSCRIPTION FOR 6 NUMBERS, $1 ADDRESS ALL COMMUNICATIONS TO - \LIONEL JOSAPHARE 12,6 -. POST .$TREET, SAN FRANCISCO, CAL. CONTENTS JFOltNO. 2. BY Lionel JosapHare The Cynic at the Feast page 5 Renunciation S A Sweetheart of Other Days 13 THE HUMPBACK, THE CRIPPLE AMD THE ONE'EYED MAW IS The Sovereign in the Street 23 Sonnets of an Angel 29 The Workingman's Cod 34 COPYRIGHTED, 1903 BY A. M. ROBERTSON THE HUMPBACK, THE CRIPPLE Poems AND THE on the State ONE-EYED MAN. O f Ubor. BY LIONEL JOSAPHARE. PUBLISHED BY A. M. ROBERTSON SAN FRANCISCO THE CHARLES L. GASKILL PRESS PREFACE AND ANNOUNCEMENT The work of Mr. Christian Binkley, an nounced in the first number of the Flame Series, does not appear herein. Mr. Binkley has received some of the highest praise ac corded a California poet, and we hope to pub lish some of his literature anon. From a critical view, the poems in this vol ume may seem an attempt to exalt, rather than a manner of receiving exaltation from, the subject matters thereof. It may be declared that only beautiful objects are the re sources of poetry. I do not deny that poetry is the expression of the beautiful, but deny that it is always such. Objects of less heavenliness have also their places in art. Poetry can con template physical misery and lose none of its own elemental grandeur, if it is true and in trinsically divine. It may be said that . benevolence is one thing and beauty another. Yet benevolence is the beauty of the soul. There, are some to whom an oil-painting of Christ in a gorgeous throne room, curing a Syrian prince of a languid feeling, would contain more essential beauty than would a representation of Him at the Mount of Olives, protecting the woman who had sinned. The misconception would arise from the fact that the paraphernalia of regal magnificence in itself would be so ad- 459868 vantageous that an artist of ordinary ability could not fail making a portrayal of beauty of it. But the episode at the Mount of Olives, with its native background, requires, for its presentation, a limner of the soul. Anyone can fancy riches; but soul must be shown to us. Moreover, the baser sentiments of envy and greed are quickly aroused to the admira tion of sumptuous beauty, even though poorly painted, while poverty is so repugnant to our thoughts that few can keep their pride in abeyance until their artistic discernment has had the time to examine the art quietly. Or, in respect of the same subject of sheer beauty demanded by some poets, one might ask, Which are the most beautiful, the child ren of the poor or of the wealthy. Romance would answer that the juvenile dauphins, princes and czarowitzes of our own Four Hundred, with their bright hair, large eyes and cracker-fed complexions, have the true and best beauty. But I give judgment against them. Their faces are the product of their environment. In them already appear the selfishness, the petulance, the obstinacy, the cruelty and all the favors of wealth. You may call this beautiful. It is. It is. But it is earth compared with the divinity of sadness in the countenance of a child of careless beauty. When poverty is beautiful, it is supreme. L. J. THE CYNIC AT THE FEAST The parlors glowed. Their frescoed heavens fed On music's cry and flowers' breath that spread Round scenic women, who through all did shine That all the triumph seemed of woman shed; Which Junos vouched what happiness was mine; Spoke from their hearts, which languidly they fanned ; And pressed good wishes on my happy hand. Well-manned, well-darned was Pleasure's easy crew. To them the sphinx of wine loquacious grew. Life's meaning in the amorous goblet showed, Like Jove's with Cupid's face reflecting through. While from the high-held glass base pas sion flowed As midnight in the mirrors twice did shine On them who drank of the carnivorous wine. The secret in the bottle was revealed To all, and none the mystery concealed; Till, from the mouth of each lascivious varlet, To space the tongues and lips of wine ap pealed. Folly mocked folly; crimson blushed at scarlet ; Youth preached its broad experience ; and Age Its longer wisdom led upon the stage. Sweet and lascivious, drunken and divine, Some new mythology these gods design, Whose vice their heirs will emulate in art When future pagans light the bloody shrine. With such affections taken to her heart, Her smooth complexion jeweled o'er with smiles, The flashing wife her spirit's life beguiles. The men! How airily their deeds encroach! On what a precious-hedged preserve they poach ! To what rare task is all their wit ad dressed? Ah ! Some with gay flirtation would approach A mother nursing her wee babe at breast. Who would not groan? A thornless rose of joy Ne'er made a cynic of the gardener's boy. If it be sin to throw a loaf away, What greater crime to feed them who can pay ! Why give the feast to them who do not need, When thousands for the want of it decay? Why take from modesty and give to greed ? Why to rich bellies boast what foods inflate? Good men are starving; let the full ones wait. RENUNCIATION Defrayed in hope and in my soul's respect, And heart-mad, I forsook the world's defect; Absconded from this pushing world's de sires, And lit the ghost within me to reflect ; Whereby to swage the burn of wicked fires, Which flare so wide along our mortal ways That even virtue feels the general blaze. I studied thus : The world has done me wrong By making virtue weak and evil strong. With ancient foulness it besets my youth ; With tainted breath it sings the sweetest song. Moss grows upon the shady side of truth, And the same slanderous vapors trickle down Walls of ill fame or homes of sweet renown. What opportunity has virtue here? Its duty, toil ; its recompense, a tear ; Its innocence the object of attack, A scene where strategy can reappear. What splendors can illumine wicked black? Rather will darkness, hardly put to rout, Besiege the lamp until its oils give out. If still in pleasure I could live alone, The woes of others were not worth a groan. But who will dare to lock his doors to duty And revel in perfection all his own? And yet the sotted crowd will smirch his beauty, His deeds refute and cumber him with hate, Predict his fall and wide the tale relate. Lo, night-browed Melancholy, fierce Despair, Far-limping ills, Repentance and dull Care, And Hope with sagging wounds, and Grief serene, And Poverty with dust upon its hair, Make dingy figures in a wicked scene. But Wealth, corrupt physician of their pain, Neglects relief, howe'er the lips complain. My brow is heavy at the bleeding sight; But these, my friends, now scorning to requite The long arraignment of truth-telling day, With pleasure and with perfume fill the night. Sick with my conscience, while my friends are gay, I wonder if there will be God's forgiving For those who now commit the sin of living. 10 Ashamed of all, I leave their ways unkind, To live in the condemned cells of my mind. There in what glory may I fall asleep, Or else what massy locks and queer keys find ! What passages and subterfuges deep, What sliding panels, clap-traps in the floors, What stairways, private streets and dreamy doors 1 In what suspense of tumult shall I dwell, Or storms that rock the columns of mid-hell? Ghosts I shall meet, and question them who wrote Of sorrow, in what griefs their own they fell. And I may find, within those halls remote, What windows that on secret landscapes look, Or what dark midnights for a lamp and book? ii Perhaps, along those haunted prison-stones, Some human visitor may clank his bones; At whose intruding footstep, I my head Shall raise, inviting him to share my groans, And make the villain feed as I have fed, Although he make a wry face at my fare, The bread of wisdom, waters of despair. A SWEETHEART OF OTHER DAYS The shantied street was crooked where I walked With insignificance at eve. The houses, Corrupt, or damaged of proportion, seemed Built of some weird solidity of shadow, Or haply bronze, but very druxy bronze, Which, pretty for a picture of a story, Looked quite unreal or the fanciful And stark romance of realism, as if Some pessimistic architect planned them As purgatorial homes for sinners auld Awaiting the divinity of death. Yet here the heart of man feels the same beat Of Nature's incorruptible jurisprudence As elsewhere feels it ; and Fate works here too. Sweetheart of other days, we meet again. I wist I had farewelled our love away; I did not think to act this part again ; That I should stalk before an audience Of shadowy sick-featured, sallow Fates And let a gallery of evil spirits Clap me again upon a pelted stage! Is Hell the repetition of a grief That has already saturated years With undiminished sighs? I grieve again. And yet, like one who opes a truthful book, To find again some poetry forgot, I read again the beauty of your face And feel the rushing sympathy of yore, That still contents. A moment's peace be with me! The noon and Sabbath of my soul is now. THE HUMPBACK, THE CRIPPLE AND THE ONE-EYED MAN One eve, as at my window-panes I stood, Gray films of memory patched the dull gray view, Where thoughts, blithe- winged, meandered as they would, Like odd-eyed fairies that from childhood flew. When mind's deep glass on childhood's ground reflects, Where is the childish tenant of that place? Dead in his older self, now recollects The inscrutiable sorrow on that infant's face. Yond sets the sun, that has not lost a day In tacking through the sky his blazing hull. But where's the light that sunned that child at play? E'en memory's picture-light of it is dull. Thus oft, while legendary youth adjusting To present movings in the glare of wealth, I gaze past little house-tops poor and rusting, Where honor crawls and freedom breathes by stealth. To those brown wooden homes my thoughts 'gan fall, My love and pity passed ; and fancy strayed Through dark defiles of streets, which ended small, And there the ragged-running rabble played. Out of that struggling multifarious throng, A movement, as of setting forth, began ; From which emerged a captain huge and strong, What time I saw he was a humpbacked man. 15 I next beheld him in my room. His tread Was like an army's, though he came alone. With woes to stoppage fraught, he gazed ahead And, victim of a thousand crimes, did groan. Lofty, though wronged and lulled from beau ty's line, Despoilt with task and years, on him, withal, Innumerable beauties did still twine, Like roses livening a ruined wall. Rigid with strength, solidified with grief, He felt no amber sun-beams make him bright, But saw, with the magic eyesight of belief, The hand of wrong betwixt him and the light. His frown was apt with anger to chastise, Like God's, to awe the ungodly to obey ; And yet the kindlier manner of his eyes Was like a twilight turning bluebells gray. His smile was like a hope of sweeter woe, A vision rising from a lake of tears; For tears from hopes and pent-up visions flow, And his had flowed in spirit through the years. Of sentences to tie into a tale, He lacked supply, nor gained them from the gloom, And, when of his few words he made avail, His voice was like the midnight in a tomb. 16 He showed me wrongs and schedules of com plaint, In wide expectance of my soon surprise; And at such misery as he could paint, Asked me to imitate his bardlike sighs. But I, in walls with gladder pictures brimming, Did look on his with courtesy at most. Ill-framed with splendors, frightless was his limning The noontime telling of a midnight ghost. Then he, with toppling-heavy shoulders bowed, Withdrew unsoothed and midst his people went, Obscurely as the shadow of a cloud Through a dark forest. Then my view was bent. Then came a rogue who entered with a thud A crippled, crack-legged, crimson-browed alarm, A night-hag's dwarf, inbred with Satan's blood And stamped by Hell's astrology for harm. Softly! He is all memory now. But I Remember what a tragic rage he had And wrinkly folds of shadow that did ply His face and seem, each one, a scowl to add. Hobblcr upon mismated legs he came, Stopping in fault, or with short-coming hurry. Limped hither thither like a shifting flame And cursed and perjured with exceeding worry. 17 From a short reverie and scowl aside, This flame-and-smoke hued villain then re bounded ; "Remorse on you! Fall down and weep," he cried, And, being raged, a throaty tale expounded. "Boilers will burst in wrath and vent their ills; New patriots your walls from walls will pluck, Unlock the axles of the steaming mills And hurl the hot vibrating wheels amuck. I see your windows bursted spouting flame And you in cinders blacker than ours now " Madman! I stopped him there and, with ex claim, Seated my fist compactly on his brow. Binding his forehead with his arms he quailed Out of my eyes, nor back his dudgeon darting, Avaunted and himself with tears regaled And sobs to keep him company departing. And then I saw that I was not alone: The third who now against me did contrive Was clad in mouldy black, not aye his own, And, having but one eye, looked half alive. The eye survivor seemed in fright to stare Still at the violence that had quashed the other ; Or else accounted all the world unfair To leer upon the cave left by its brother. 18 Shiftless, erelong he into words did stray; Inhaled the simple twilight for his lung, Which worked (in their behalf who were away) The leaky loud poetics of his tongue. His plural and most voluble debating Paused often and amazed to pick its choice Of words and repetitions lost and waiting In the invisible mazes of his voice. He said that we are foernen to defeat them Whose lives we press and purchase hour to hour ; And swore that we are cannibals and eat them W r hose strength is in the dainties we devour. "Tripe-fed philosopher and gloomy dunce!" To him I quick in rising soul replied, "You are the devils cast from Heaven once, Now from the light of heavenly wealth denied. A fool tongue curling, 'justice' is your word : Not you, not I, but God knows what that is, And how much debt the crime of life incurred, And how each yearning knave may reason his. To vanquish Heaven is a feat for Hell, That Pleasure, smiling, frighten at Hell's frown ; Your duty is to envy and rebel; Mine is to battle your rebellion down. ''Therefore, should I be gracious to your will, Letting your fortunes bask where mine have flourished, And with my art your artless hopes fulfill, Your wants would grow in purpose, being nourished; Yet would, as grew their project, lose in power, For, being wronged, the courage gains in force ; But favors, man, would steal your anger's flower, Leaving you poor in motive and resource. Then should I grant the simple things you ask, T would be shrewdly stealing all you own: The conquest of its own is honor's task; Without which task, how would its work be known ?" Then he, naught saying or attempting, turned, Slinking off like a lean cat in the rain. But scarce outside his transit I discerned, Another carne to give my fancies pain. O mortal horror! Not until Hell's doom, When the last shivering consumptive imp Will slam the black and icy gates of gloom And fall convulsed with many a woeful crimp Will there again such mangled monster crawl Out of the glimmering pits (as if surviving Satan and all his tortures) as did fall Into my sight a shape that howled arriving. 20 Of the deformities of them before He was the ghastly, physical conjunction; Shaped by his wounds and showing many more To try my fear or delicate compunction, Threefoldly damaged, wrenched from noble height, With blood-stains in his beard and hair that ran Into mad masses, he was all, outright, Humpbacked and crippled and a one-eyed man. Like the first huge up-shouldered one he loomed, And like the angry cripple dragged a limb, And like the one-eyed man's his one eye bloomed, And as a gory giant he was grim. He spoke : "I am that one you firstly scanned. I am the man of many woes and wrongs. I know the backs that suffer and withstand. I know the hearts to which your blood be longs. No longer I am anvil to your pride : I walk, though lamed by Jealousy and Fear; For when my comrades took me for their guide, The jealous rivals of my wrath stabbed here. Then I the wisdom of our wants became, And he who was half-sighted was put by, Shrieking as he struck here with hideous aim, "Let our great leader be one-eyed, as I.' 21 "Thus I am fit memorial of the strife ; My body is become a bloody flag. Adorned with the atrocities of life, I am the fury of the hut and rag. Humpbacked I am from shouldering golden wrongs ; Lame all my deeds by jealousy are crippled ; One-eyed in the half-wisdom of my throngs,, But in resolve all their terrifies tripled. I threaten you, Revenge has yet in keep Memory of inextinguishable stuff, And retribution can through armies leap Till overcrowded Hell must cry 'Enough!' "Your crimes, though weak, have bent me into strength, That I may clasp your struggles in my hand. Though bowed, I crush ; though lame, limp to great length ; One-eyed, my deeds I need not understand. Tremble and move as timber struck by steel. Howl with repentance through your vacant fame. Depart on limbs that soon may learn to kneel ; And, fallen in escaping, bleed with shame!'' He said no more; but his dark arm rose high. And he is here. His shoulders heave with woe. And he is thinking and he has one eye ; Monster, with wrongs and wrath, he will not go- 22 THH SOVEREIGN IN THE STREET From a castle of thoughts that my conscience was building I studied a man who was cutting a street, While the round-rolling sun was demeaning and gilding Him thinking and ripping the ditch at his feet. Of this native of grief, as he shoveled the fur row, I write, be the subject a poem or not; For as deep did he burrow, my love traveled thorough And writes, be the truth of it rubies or rot. Oh, 'tis weird that the truth, like a corpse on the floor, Should bleed on our carpets and stare at the light; And that Art should ignore what she taught us before, And tear up the lessons we prattled last night. Not with your eyes, my poet, rose-haunted and grave Thou poet with wondering violet eyes Did I look on the slave digging low in the cave, Corroded with dust, sweat, itch, sun beams and flies. O dim-blushing poet with Grecian-strung lyre, Declare not my earth-man in melody wrong, Nor that Beauty's attire and effulgence in spire : 'Tis the voice of the singer makes noble the song. Like a grave-digger digging a terrible grave Like a sun spirit heaving the hot day with coal, His dredger he drave and he hove to the pave The clods that he tore from the earth and flung whole. The freight of his spade, coming dun from the bung Of the foul-smelling sand, seemed the filth of his fate. And fast while he flung the material dung Of the earth he built sidelong the mound of his hate. The wealth-wasting givers of feasts grew in riches ; Wide, wide grew the hands at the hilt of the task; And there came a dream which is a curse on all ditches And pain guised the laborer's face like a mask. The point of the shovel grew inward and blunt And the love in the eye of the trencher grew dim ; As he dug with a grunt, became shorter in front, And his fingers grew crooked, knock- knuckled and grim. Still at underground honor his scepter he points, With negligence digging a tragical story; While some dunce who anoints with fat wealth his vile joints, Stands proud on the swift-rolling chariots of glory. O for a lithe shovel of truculent aim To gouge at the greed that keeps need in the sands! For the spade of good fame is of wood and steel frame, But to masters of men it is wood, steel and hands. 25 Then dig, ye bones, dig; ye have many more years ; Your sorrows will shine to the eyelids of God; And Destiny hears your soft-falling tears: O'er the task of the spade let your man's noddle nod. What matters it, marrow and gristle and brain Or tendon and belly and tooth are intent? Or that eyeball and vein in a perishing strain To the rim of the earth-riving shovel are bent? Empowered of shoulder and elbow and groin, In struggle terrific he wearies at length, While innard and loin to the hot shovel join, Converting his pride to the need of new strength. What long-contained smiles have been stop ped at those lips? What thoughts dead and useless are ooz ing in sweat? What majesty drips on those foul-flanneled hips? How laboring low makes nobility wet! 26 What tears that his eyelids a passage denied Took a brinier course through the fast- weeping pores? What thoughts were untied what escapings of pride When first he dug sands for their silver- less ores? I could shout to the sun (whose hot splendors are falling And burning this handler of shovels) be hold! What devils are calling and gambling and brawling For them who with fingers of gold count their gold. But it boots not relating what devils, alack, With smutty red limbs and blue bellies are waiting To harrow a pack of scared souls on the rack; That's a matter of prayers and religious debating. But the pendulum swaying through seasons to bring The scenic effusion of May, we remem ber From flowery Spring will as quietly swing Back, back in its path to the wilds of No vember. 27 So the beam in Time's balance will pass in its frame And the places of wealth become blighted and cold; For its gold and its fame from weary blood came, And Time will refund it with blood from the gold. SONNETS OF AN ANGEL God's ancient deeds within my thoughts abide ; I can remember Eden palm and glen. Far rolled the word when chaos did subside, And there was sunlight when I looked again. Jehovah smiled : the garden livened then ; His words to beastly shapes transformed ran wide Or blossomed in the paths of future men Or spoke to heaven, which with stars re plied. Fair shone the days; and, plentily bedewed. The boughs of Eden kept primeval Spring. At Adam's flank Eve walked those weathers nude, In the respect of every living thing. Ate she for man the apple of disgrace, And faltered, pregnant with the human race. 29 There was a stillness in the dark blue night, Whose musk from viewless jars' abroad was blown, Making that balmy which the moon made bright, Deep in the wells of space where Eden shone. Night's heaven suddenly was wider grown, Showing a field of limpid sapphire light, Which, like the rays from Heaven's glow ing throne, Burned the surrounding orbs from earthly sight. God walked among the stars in tranquil wrath ; The distances of heaven rolled away; Cerulean leagues receded from his path, Where, in the night, his thoughts made purple day. Then spoke the Lord to one of men: "Work thou Until thy master's deeds weigh on thy brow." Man worked. The futures thawed before his face. He searched the seas and ploughed the plains between ; Prayed to his God, kneeled under Heaven's grace, And hung his rotting tombs with ever green. The toiler treaded gloomily the scene, Remembering the God of years and space (Though time and horizons did intervene) Through the remembering souls of all his race. Sometimes, brow-sick where steadfast shades accrue, He thought he witnessed God's traditional form, Brushing the mist of years from memory's view, Voicing melodious thunders through the storm. Then from his breast the toiler's voice came free: "Father, behold what has been wrought with me!" Thou too, proud Hell, behold this world of men! O that I could, to set my censure high, In some volcano's molten dip my pen And write their shame athwart the plain blue sky. Ye lilies of your sex, with pathos dry, Your cheeks will dim beneath Time's dismal ken, Your mild sweets curdle 'neath Time's bitter eye, But kindly acts will make you live again. Ye lovers of the lily-aspect maids, Ye mouldering hearts of earth's original dust, For that -ye hate the dwellers in the shades, Look up and the breath of divine disgust Be on you all until your given breads Regain His love to your unloving heads. When to the witness of your varied crimes, There comes the anguish of despairing thought, To make the poet throw away his rhymes, The drinker dash the glass with nectars fraught, When in wrath's blazes patience burns to naught, Seeing your contracts broken many times, The soul beweeps the stuff of which 'tis wrought, And anger high in honor's tower climbs. Because ye sell the roses of the earth For coins to them who watched the bush bloom wild; And that ye buy more than your needs are worth, And sell the useless to the hungry child; Boldly abuse the workers where they plod, And in your wealth pray to the workman's God. 33 THE WORKWOMAN'S GOD Though wit and logic disbelieve And gospels bend While creeds contend, There breathes above the nurtured sod A greater God Than faith and folly now perceive. Though pagan dance and Christian sing- Though folk and priest And skeptic feast And angels of the choir give praise On holy days, A planted seed will conjure Spring. Though Bible be the godly word, Or be it not, When 'tis forgot, A greater God than Moses knew Will speak to you And tell you where His prophets erred. 34 \e chanters of the sweetened prayer, Ye hearts that reign, Do not disdain The guider of the wheel and rod; The workman's God Answers the kneeling millionaire. Think, as with myrrh you warm the prayer And blow avast The golden blast, The cost of odor and of gold Will be enscrolled Against the charity ye bear. While the cathedral aisles are warm, And every night The heavens fright The tenants of Jehovah's rain, Your prayers attain The God of them within the storm. 35 The Lord beholds you on your knees; He takes your praise And sees your ways And knows the music of the song To which belong The singers' virtue, which he sees. The churchless and unsapphired God, Though pleased with hymns And creedish whims, Bends out of Heaven's richest air To hear the prayer The ploughboy whispers to the sod. As, thick with lust or pale with hate, Ye tempt the skies With earthly prize And bring to God some stolen gold, And some withhold, The workman prays to One as great. As loud ye beat at Heaven's wall, For place when Death Will have your breath, Believe that somewhere on the slopes, The God of hopes Will build sweet poverty a hall. ROBERTSON'S PUBLICATIONS Binkley, Christian /O "Songs and Sonnets for a House of Days" $ 1.25 net Deimas, D. M> "Speeches and Addresses" . . 2.50 net Fletcher, Robert Howe "Observations on Chinatown." With Illus trations by Ernest Peixotto 3.50 net Gerberding, Elizabeth "The Golden Chimney." The story of a boy's mine ... . 1,00 net Hibbard, Grace "California Violets." A Book of Verse . i.oo net "Wild Roses of California." A book of verse i.oo net Hyde Mabel "Jingles from Japan. With pictures by Helen Hyde . . . . .75 net Josaphare, Lionel "The I,ion at the Well." A remarkable poem .50 net "Turquoise and Iron" . . . 1.20 net feeler, Charles "A Season's Sowing." Quatrains and couplets. Decorated by Louise Keeler . 1.25 net Hand illuminated edition . . 10.00 net "Idyls of El Dorado." Decorated by Louise Keeler . . . 1.25 net "Songs of the Sea." . . i.oo net Lewis, Arthur "The Rag Tags." An illustrated juvenile . 1.25 net ROBERTSON'S PUBLICATIONS (CONTINUED) Lichtenstein, Joy "For the Blue and Gold." A story of life at U. C. $ 1.50 net Markham, Edwin "The Mail with the Hoe." Original edition, in paper . . . . i.oo net O'Connell, Daniel "Songs from Bohemia" . . . 1.50 net Robertson, Louis Ji. "The Dead Calypso," and other verse . . 1.50 net "Beyond the Requiems" . . . i.oo net "Cloistral Strains" . ... .75 net Robertson, Peter "The Seedy Gentleman." Designs by Gordon Ross 1.50 net Skidmore, Harriet M. "Roadside Flowers." A book of verse . . i.oo net Stoddard, Charles Warren "In the Footprints' of the Padres." Reminiscences of early days in California . .1.50 net Students of the State University "Under the Berkeley Oaks." Stories of college life by the students of U. C. . . i.oo net Ventura, L. D. "Cocur de Noel." With French exercises. Illus trated .... .50 net ROBERTSON'S PUBLICATIONS (CONTINUED) TURQUOISE rfMD IRON By Lionel Josaphare Despite that Lionel Josaphare's work has been sub- jec ted to the fierce light of adverse criticism, it would be manifestly unjust and, worse still, extremely stupid, to deny him the possession of talent. Talent he un doubtedly has, and there are gleams of a great genius in much of his writing. JOHN HAMILTON GIIMOUR in 5. F. Evening Post. With "Turquoise and Iron," which contains pre sumably most of the author's fugitive pieces, we are able to" go a; step further in identifying the new versifier. The originality is confirmed; the strength is undeni able; there is nothing that we can call rant. Brooklyn Eagle. Quoting the Sonnet to the Ink-well The follow ing sonnet of more than usual originality from Lionel Josaphare's powerful (that is the word) book of poems. The Book Lover In the rooms of Elder <& Shepard 238 Post Street Main Room Books of all kinds. General literature Holiday Editions, Fiction and Current Publica tions. A discount of 20 per cent, from publish ed ed price save on net books. Art Room Objects of Art for the collector and lover of the beautiful. Ceramics, Brocades, Brasses, J. I. S. Photographs, Leather Work of Miss A. C. Crand. Children's Room Gay with a host of bright books and pictures for the little ones. Usual 20 per cent, discount. Old Book Room Fine Books for Private Library in leather bindings. Publications of Elder and Shepard Destructive * Original * Important Descriptive Illustrated Catalogue upon application. ELDER . SHEPARD 238 Post Street & San Francisco * " ' * / PS Gay lord Bros. Makers Syracuse, N. ' PAL JAN. 21, W GENERAL LIBRARY -U.C. BERKELEY B0008fcO!2M 459868 UNIVERSITY OF CALIFORNIA LIBRARY