Read Ebook: The Philistine: a periodical of protest (Vol. II No. 4 March 1896) by Various

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FOR MARCH, 1896.

A Great Mistake, Stephen Crane

The Model of a Statesman, Charles M. Skinner

The Filling of the Joneses, William McIntosh

Paul Knew, Frederic Almy

A Complaint of Some Editors, Neith Boyce

Wind of the West, John Northern Hilliard

The Port of Ships, Joaquin Miller

A Buccaneer Toast, Eugene Richard White

Notes.

Subscriptions can begin with the current number only. A very limited quantity of back numbers can be supplied. Vol. 1, No. 1, 75 cents. Nos. 2, 3, 4 and 5 at 25 cents each.

Mr. Collin's PHILISTINE poster in three printings will be mailed to any address on receipt of 25 cents by the publishers. A few signed and numbered copies on Japan vellum remain at .00 each.

MDCCCXCVI

Subscriptions for 1896 at the regular price, 50 cents in advance, postpaid, are taken for the complete year only. After March 1, the rate will be 75 cents, which will, on completion of Volume II, be advanced to .00 net.

THOMAS B. MOSHER, Publisher. Portland, Maine.

Quarterly. Illustrated.

THE FLY LEAF.

A Pamphlet Periodical of the Modern, conducted by Walter Blackburn Harte and an able corps of "Les Jeunes," who believe in the future of American Authorship and Literature.

Overcrowded market? Yes--with Poor Stuff! But there is room enough in the Literary Show for a Periodical of LITERATURE. The Most Periodicals are only PRINT.

For Sale by all Booksellers.

Sample copies cost 5 cents, or three for 10 cents. Current number 10 cents single copy. a year in advance.

THE FLY LEAF, 269 St. Botolph Street, Boston, Mass.

THE PHILISTINE.

NO. 4. March, 1896. VOL. 2.

A BUCCANEER TOAST.

To the Fiend of the Seven Seas, To the Print of the Dead Man's Thumb; To a Curse at Death with a dying breath, Here's Death in a Draught of Rum!

To the Dead in the Dismal Sea, To the Bleaching Bones on the Beach, To a hate-born stroke of the Valiant Folk And the Tunes that the Sea can teach!

To a slash at the Heart of a Don, To the Port that never may be, Drink deep to the Ghosts of the Spanish Hosts, Who loom in the Mists of the Sea!

EUGENE R. WHITE.

A GREAT MISTAKE.

An Italian kept a fruit stand on a corner where he had good aim at the people who came down from the elevated station and at those who went along two thronged streets. He sat most of the day in a backless chair that was placed strategically.

There was a babe living hard by, up five flights of stairs, who regarded this Italian as a tremendous being. The babe had investigated this fruit stand. It had thrilled him as few things he had met with in his travels had thrilled him. The sweets of the world laid there in dazzling rows, tumbled in luxurious heaps. When he gazed at this Italian seated amid such splendid treasure, his lower lip hung low and his eyes raised to the vendor's face were filled with deep respect, worship, as if he saw omnipotence.

The babe came often to this corner. He hovered about the stand and watched each detail of the business. He was fascinated by the tranquility of the vendor, the majesty of power and possession. At times, he was so engrossed in his contemplation that people, hurrying, had to use care to avoid bumping him down.

He had never ventured very near to the stand. It was his habit to hang warily about the curb. Even there he resembled a babe who looks unbidden at a feast of gods.

One day, however, as the baby was thus staring, the vendor arose and going along the front of the stand, began to polish oranges with a red pocket-handkerchief. The breathless spectator moved across the sidewalk until his small face almost touched the vendor's sleeve. His fingers were gripped in a fold of his dress.

At last, the Italian finished with the oranges and returned to his chair. He drew a newspaper printed in his language from behind a bunch of bananas. He settled himself in a comfortable position and began to glare savagely at the print. The babe was left face to face with the massed joys of the world.

For a time he was a simple worshipper at this golden shrine. Then tumultuous desires began to shake him. His dreams were of conquest. His lips moved. Presently into his head there came a little plan.

He sidled nearer, throwing swift and cunning glances at the Italian. He strove to maintain his conventional manner, but the whole plot was written upon his countenance.

At last he had come near enough to touch the fruit. From the tattered skirt came slowly his small dirty hand. His eyes were still fixed upon the vendor. His features were set, save for the under lip, which had a faint fluttering movement. The hand went forward.

Elevated trains thundered to the station and the stairway poured people upon the sidewalks. There was a deep sea roar from feet and wheels going ceaselessly. None seemed to perceive the babe engaged in the great venture.

The Italian turned his paper. Sudden panic smote the babe. His hand dropped and he gave vent to a cry of dismay. He remained for a moment staring at the vendor. There was evidently a great debate in his mind. His infant intellect had defined the Italian. The latter was undoubtedly a man who would eat babes that provoked him. And the alarm in him when the vendor had turned his newspaper brought vividly before him the consequences if he were detected.

But at this moment, the vendor gave a blissful grunt and tilting his chair against a wall, closed his eyes. His paper dropped unheeded.

The babe ceased his scrutiny and again raised his hand. It was moved with supreme caution toward the fruit. The fingers were bent, claw-like, in the manner of great heart-shaking greed.

Once he stopped and chattered convulsively because the vendor moved in his sleep. The babe with his eyes still upon the Italian again put forth his hand and the rapacious fingers closed over a round bulb.

And it was written that the Italian should at this moment open his eyes. He glared at the babe a fierce question. Thereupon the babe thrust the round bulb behind him and with a face expressive of the deepest guilt, began a wild but elaborate series of gestures declaring his innocence.

The Italian howled. He sprang to his feet, and with three steps overtook the babe. He whirled him fiercely and took from the little fingers a lemon.

STEPHEN CRANE.

WIND OF THE WEST.

The wind tonight is cool and free, The wind tonight is Westerly; Sweeping in from the plains afar, Sweet and faint--yet wild as are All scents and odors blent In the Occident.

My thoughts tonight are far and free, My thoughts tonight are Westerly; Sweeping out to the plains afar, Where roses grow and grasses are Carpets that spread so cool and sweet For my naked feet.

My heart tonight is wild and free, My heart tonight is Westerly; But I'm living again those old, glad days, Roaming at pleasure the grassy ways,-- Only a herder ridingtthe swales Of the prairie trails.

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