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 Series Volumes of Haunted Library
of Horror Classics
The Phantom of the Opera by Gaston Leroux (2020)
The Beetle by Richard Marsh (2020)
Vathek by William Beckford (2020)
The House on the Borderland by William Hope Hodgson (2020)
The Parasite and Other Tales of Terror by Arthur Conan Doyle (2021)
The King in Yellow by Robert W. Chambers (2021)
…and more forthcoming
Copyright © 2020 by Horror Writers Association
Introduction © 2020 by Chelsea Quinn Yarbro
Additional supplemental material © 2020 by Eric J. Guignard and
Leslie S. Klinger
Cover and internal design © 2020 by Sourcebooks
Cover design and illustration by Jeffrey Nguyen
Sourcebooks, Poisoned Pen Press, and the colophon are registered
trademarks of Sourcebooks.
All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced in any
form or by any electronic or mechanical means including information
storage and retrieval systems—except in the case of brief quotations
embodied in critical articles or reviews—without permission in writing
from its publisher, Sourcebooks.
The characters and events portrayed in this book are fictitious or are
used fictitiously. Apart from well-known historical figures, any
similarity to real persons, living or dead, is purely coincidental and
not intended by the author.
Published by Poisoned Pen Press, an imprint of Sourcebooks
P.O. Box 4410, Naperville, Illinois 60567-4410
(630) 961-3900
www.sourcebooks.com
Originally published as The Beetle, A Mystery, in 1897 in the UK by
Skeffington and Son, London. This edition based on the text of the
original 1897 novel.
Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data is on file with the
publisher.
This edition of The Beetle is presented by the Horror Writers
Association, a nonprofit organization of writers and publishing
professionals around the world, dedicated to promoting dark
literature and the interests of those who write it.
For more information on HWA, visit: horror.org.
 Notes on the Text
All efforts have been made to present the text of the author’s work
in its first published form. While this includes preserving spelling and
punctuation, it also means that we have preserved the language of
the author, some of which may be offensive to modern readers.
Every work of art is created in a historical context—the world
inhabited by the creator—and necessarily reflects the beliefs,
prejudices, vocabulary, and ideas of the creator. For example, Mary
Shelley’s monumental Frankenstein not only incorporates the science
of the day, it also displays the era’s (and Shelley’s own) attitudes
about education, the role of men, the role of women, the fluidity of
gender, class distinctions, ethnic and racial differences, and
standards of morality.
We believe that important books explore ideas that are timeless;
however, they also mirror accurately the world that existed at the
time of creation. Indeed, in many cases, such books are important
precisely because they exemplify ideas that are no longer current,
attitudes and behaviors that are no longer tolerated, standards that
are no longer judged valid. Philosopher George Santayana wrote,
“Those who cannot remember the past are condemned to repeat it.”
If we wish to be different from or better than some of those who
came before us, we cannot close our eyes to their lives and works as
they were.
 Contents

Front Cover

Title Page

Copyright

Introduction

Book I

Chapter I

Chapter II

Chapter III

Chapter IV

Chapter V

Chapter VI

Chapter VII

Chapter VIII

Chapter IX
Book II

Chapter X

Chapter XI

Chapter XII

Chapter XIII

Chapter XIV

Chapter XV

Chapter XVI

Chapter XVII

Chapter XVIII

Chapter XIX

Chapter XX

Chapter XXI

Chapter XXII

Book III

Chapter XXIII

Chapter XXIV

Chapter XXV

Chapter XXVI

Chapter XXVII
 Chapter XXVIII

Chapter XXIX

Chapter XXX

Chapter XXXI

Book IV

Chapter XXXII

Chapter XXXIII

Chapter XXXIV

Chapter XXXV

Chapter XXXVI

Chapter XXXVII

Chapter XXXVIII

Chapter XXXIX

Chapter XL

Chapter XLI

Chapter XLII

Chapter XLIII

Chapter XLIV

Chapter XLV

Chapter XLVI
 Chapter XLVII

Chapter XLVIII

About the Author, Richard Marsh

Suggested Discussion Questions for Classroom Use

Suggested Further Reading of Fiction

About Series Editors

Back Cover
 Introduction

STYLE, POINT OF VIEW, AND THE

BEETLE

Eerie fiction, particularly the eerie fiction of the Victorian and

Edwardian periods, depends more deeply on style than do most
current works. Attention to style is needed to support the
implications of the tale being told and, depending on the subgenre,
style can either clarify or conceal, and the story will rise or fall on
how the style supports the nature of the narrative. Thanks to film
representations, most modern writers do not devote long
descriptions to the nature of the tale’s threat—and some of the best
Edwardian eerie story writers were careful in that regard—so that
readers imagine the object of horror or whatever else they wanted
most not to see. Incidentally, splatter-punk, in my opinion, is not
eerie fiction, it is shocking fiction, and a very different subgenre.
While horror lends itself to shorter fiction more readily than does,
say, science fiction, it demands a level of ambiguity that is not easily
sustained. This makes eerie novels more difficult to keep horrifying
than more abrupt shorter fiction. Horror, being fear of the unknown,
suffers if the threat behind the source of the horror is too sharply
defined; ambiguity allows a level of equivocation in a story’s
conclusion. Terror—the fear of the known—relies on high-relief
threats and comprehensible, but often bloody, resolutions. In horror,
it is easy to overexplain the thing being feared and thereby lose the
delicious grue that is the reward of eerie fiction. This grue would be
most unsatisfactory in detective fiction, or space-opera science
fiction, for the secret hook in horror is that because it is unknown, it
contains an element of fascination that engages curiosity as well as
triggering the reader’s disgust/shock/distress.
The objects of horror are many, including traditional archetypes
such as werecreatures and vampires; some take the form of newer
threats, such as runaway robots or alien viruses, and are reflective
of and highly colored by the times in which they are written.
Consider the Victorian enthrallment with the irrational, and the
stories that still have the power to provide the sought-for grue,
offered in the face of social devotion to logic and reason. Some of
the oddities that made the Victorians shudder now make us laugh,
because the view of the world has changed, and carnivorous beds,
for example, look more absurd to contemporary eyes than they did
to the repressed Victorians. The words that so appalled the sexual
squeamishness of the Victorians haven’t changed, but the readers
have, and the visions that secretly and toothsomely thrilled the
Victorians now amuse us.
Among the shifts in world-perceptions is the relationship of
humans to nature. In the mid-1800s, there was a rebirth of what
was then called “natural sciences,” the study of the nature and
behavior of living creatures. Most mammals came out ahead in this
study, but birds, reptiles, insects, arachnids, and things that came
out of the ocean were often seen as distressingly alien, and
therefore sinister. In the case of beetles, there had been a new
interest in the excavation of ancient Egyptian monuments, and the
recurring figure of the scarab lent a quasi-supernatural aspect to all
such creatures, which added fuel to the eerie fire. The Victorians
made a virtue out of being speciesically phobic, so ants, wasps,
snakes, spiders, birds of prey, and all other creepy-crawlies and
winged things took on baleful personas in eerie fiction. Think of
what occurred with the generally blameless bat.
In going through The Beetle, bear in mind the difference between
the traditions of presentation of eerie stories in earlier times and
what we see in present-day works. The style represented in The
Beetle draws on a past stylistic approach, most of it determined by
what the reader will be able to turn into a grue. That’s a real thing,
by the way—that cold finger that runs up and down your spine as
you get caught up in the vision of the story. In this tale, there is
something for everyone, depending on your taste in horror and your
own phobias. Some of the representations of the figure of horror are
sneaky, some are mysterious, some are uneasy, some are
straightforward-but-undefined—a very difficult combination to pull
off, and what gives this story an enduring grip many of its
contemporaries lack in this eco-conscious age.
Let me recommend nibbling your way through The Beetle rather
than swallowing it all in one lupine gulp. It will be much more
satisfying, and you, the reader, will have more marvelous grues for
your efforts.
Chelsea Quinn Yarbro
August 12, 2019
Hercules, California
 BOOK I:
THE HOUSE WITH THE OPEN WINDOW
The Surprising Narration of Robert Holt
 CHAPTER I:

OUTSIDE

‘No room!—Full up!’

He banged the door in my face.
That was the final blow.
To have tramped about all day looking for work; to have begged
even for a job which would give me money enough to buy a little
food; and to have tramped and to have begged in vain,—that was
bad. But, sick at heart, depressed in mind and in body, exhausted by
hunger and fatigue, to have been compelled to pocket any little
pride I might have left, and solicit, as the penniless, homeless tramp
which indeed I was, a night’s lodging in the casual ward,1—and to
solicit it in vain!—that was worse. Much worse. About as bad as bad
could be.
I stared, stupidly, at the door which had just been banged in my
face. I could scarcely believe that the thing was possible. I had
hardly expected to figure as a tramp; but, supposing it conceivable
that I could become a tramp, that I should be refused admission to
that abode of all ignominy, the tramp’s ward, was to have attained a
depth of misery of which never even in nightmares I had dreamed.
 As I stood wondering what I should do, a man slouched towards
me out of the shadow of the wall.
‘Won’t ’e let yer in?’
‘He says it’s full.’
‘Says it’s full, does ’e? That’s the lay at Fulham,—they always says
it’s full. They wants to keep the number down.’
I looked at the man askance. His head hung forward; his hands
were in his trouser pockets; his clothes were rags; his tone was
husky.
‘Do you mean that they say it’s full when it isn’t,—that they won’t
let me in although there’s room?’
‘That’s it,—bloke’s a-kiddin’ yer.’
‘But, if there’s room, aren’t they bound to let me in?’
‘Course they are,—and, blimey, if I was you I’d make ’em. Blimey I
would!’
He broke into a volley of execrations.
‘But what am I to do?’
‘Why, give ’em another rouser—let ’em know as you won’t be
kidded!’
I hesitated; then, acting on his suggestion, for the second time I
rang the bell. The door was flung wide open, and the grizzled
pauper, who had previously responded to my summons, stood in the
open doorway. Had he been the Chairman of the Board of Guardians
himself he could not have addressed me with greater scorn.
‘What, here again! What’s your little game? Think I’ve nothing
better to do than to wait upon the likes of you?’
‘I want to be admitted.’
‘Then you won’t be admitted!’
‘I want to see someone in authority.’
‘Ain’t yer seein’ someone in authority?’
 ‘I want to see someone besides you,—I want to see the master.’
‘Then you won’t see the master!’
He moved the door swiftly to; but, prepared for such a manoeuvre,
I thrust my foot sufficiently inside to prevent his shutting it. I
continued to address him.
‘Are you sure that the ward is full?’
‘Full two hours ago!’
‘But what am I to do?’
‘I don’t know what you’re to do!’
‘Which is the next nearest workhouse?’
‘Kensington.’
Suddenly opening the door, as he answered me, putting out his
arm he thrust me backwards. Before I could recover, the door was
closed. The man in rags had continued a grim spectator of the
scene. Now he spoke.
‘Nice bloke, ain’t he?’
‘He’s only one of the paupers,—has he any right to act as one of
the officials?’
‘I tell yer some of them paupers is wuss than the orficers,—a long
sight wuss! They thinks they owns the ’ouses, blimey they do. Oh it’s
a—fine world, this is!’
He paused. I hesitated. For some time there had been a suspicion
of rain in the air. Now it was commencing to fall in a fine but soaking
drizzle. It only needed that to fill my cup to overflowing. My
companion was regarding me with a sort of sullen curiosity.
‘Ain’t you got no money?’
‘Not a farthing.’
‘Done much of this sort of thing?’
‘It’s the first time I’ve been to a casual ward,—and it doesn’t seem
as if I’m going to get in now.’
 ‘I thought you looked as if you was a bit fresh.—What are yer goin’
to do?’
‘How far is it to Kensington?’
‘Work’us?—about three mile;—but, if I was you, I’d try St George’s.’
‘Where’s that?’
‘In the Fulham Road. Kensington’s only a small place, they do you
well there, and it’s always full as soon as the door’s opened;—you’d
’ave more chawnce at St George’s.’
He was silent. I turned his words over in my mind, feeling as little
disposed to try the one place as the other. Presently he began again.
‘I’ve travelled from Reading this—day, I ’ave,—tramped every—
foot!—and all the way as I come along, I’ll ’ave a shakedown at
’Ammersmith, I says,—and now I’m as fur off from it as ever! This is
a—fine country, this is,—I wish every—soul in it was swept into the—
sea, blimey I do! But I ain’t goin’ to go no further,—I’ll ’ave a bed in
’Ammersmith or I’ll know the reason why.’
‘How are you going to manage it,—have you got any money?’
‘Got any money?—My crikey!—I look as though I ’ad,—I sound as
though I ’ad too! I ain’t ’ad no brads, ’cept now and then a brown,
this larst six months.’
‘How are you going to get a bed then?’
‘Ow am I going to?—why, like this way.’ He picked up two stones,
one in either hand. The one in his left he flung at the glass which
was over the door of the casual ward. It crashed through it, and
through the lamp beyond. ‘That’s ’ow I’m goin’ to get a bed.’
The door was hastily opened. The grizzled pauper reappeared. He
shouted, as he peered at us in the darkness,
‘Who done that?’
‘I done it, guvnor,—and, if you like, you can see me do the other. It
might do your eyesight good.’
 Before the grizzled pauper could interfere, he had hurled the stone
in his right hand through another pane. I felt that it was time for me
to go. He was earning a night’s rest at a price which, even in my
extremity, I was not disposed to pay.
When I left two or three other persons had appeared upon the
scene, and the man in rags was addressing them with a degree of
frankness, which, in that direction, left little to be desired. I slunk
away unnoticed. But had not gone far before I had almost decided
that I might as well have thrown in my fortune with the bolder
wretch, and smashed a window too. Indeed, more than once my
feet faltered, as I all but returned to do the feat which I had left
undone.
A more miserable night for an out-of-door excursion I could hardly
have chosen. The rain was like a mist, and was not only drenching
me to the skin, but it was rendering it difficult to see more than a
little distance in any direction. The neighbourhood was badly lighted.
It was one in which I was a stranger, I had come to Hammersmith
as a last resource. It had seemed to me that I had tried to find some
occupation which would enable me to keep body and soul together
in every other part of London, and that now only Hammersmith was
left. And, at Hammersmith, even the workhouse would have none of
me!
Retreating from the inhospitable portal of the casual ward, I had
taken the first turning to the left,—and, at the moment, had been
glad to take it. In the darkness and the rain, the locality which I was
entering appeared unfinished. I seemed to be leaving civilisation
behind me. The path was unpaved; the road rough and uneven, as if
it had never been properly made. Houses were few and far between.
Those which I did encounter, seemed, in the imperfect light, amid
the general desolation, to be cottages which were crumbling to
decay.
Exactly where I was I could not tell. I had a faint notion that, if I
only kept on long enough, I should strike some part of Walham
Green. How long I should have to keep on I could only guess. Not a
creature seemed to be about of whom I could make inquiries. It was
as if I was in a land of desolation.
I suppose it was between eleven o’clock and midnight. I had not
given up my quest for work till all the shops were closed,—and in
Hammersmith, that night, at any rate, they were not early closers.
Then I had lounged about dispiritedly, wondering what was the next
thing I could do. It was only because I feared that if I attempted to
spend the night in the open air, without food, when the morning
came I should be broken up, and fit for nothing, that I sought a
night’s free board and lodging. It was really hunger which drove me
to the workhouse door. That was Wednesday. Since the Sunday night
preceding nothing had passed my lips save water from the public
fountains,—with the exception of a crust of bread which a man had
given me whom I had found crouching at the root of a tree in
Holland Park. For three days I had been fasting,—practically all the
time upon my feet. It seemed to me that if I had to go hungry till
the morning I should collapse,—there would be an end. Yet, in that
strange and inhospitable place, where was I to get food at that time
of night, and how?
I do not know how far I went. Every yard I covered, my feet
dragged more. I was dead beat, inside and out. I had neither
strength nor courage left. And within there was that frightful craving,
which was as though it shrieked aloud. I leant against some palings,
dazed and giddy. If only death had come upon me quickly,
Another random document with
no related content on Scribd:
 INDIA AND THE BOERS.
The Boers are a sober, industrious and most hospitable
body of peasantry.—Dr. Livingstone.

You heard that song of the Jubilee!

Ten thousand cannon took up the song,
Ten million people came out to see,
A surging, eager and anxious throng.
And the great were glad as glad could be;
Glad at Windsor, glad at Saint James,
Glad of glory and of storied names,
Generals, lords and gentlemen,
Such as we never may see again,
And ten thousand banners aflying!
But up the Thames and down the Thames
Bare, hungered babes lay crying,
Poor, homeless men sat sighing;
And far away, in fair Cathay,
An Eden land but yesterday,
Lay millions, starving, dying.

Prone India! All her storied gems—

Those stolen gems that decked the Crown
And glittered in those garment-hems,
That Jubilee in London town—
Were not, and all her walls were down,
Her plowshare eaten up with rust,
Her peaceful people prone in dust,
Her wells gone dry and drying.
You ask how came these things to be?
I turn you straight to historie;
To generals, lords and gentlemen
Who cut the dykes, blew down the walls
And plowed the land with cannon-balls,
Then sacked the ruined land and then—
Great London and the Jubilee,
With lying banners aflying.

Eight millions starved to death! You hear?[B]

You heard the song of that Jubilee,
And you might have heard, had you given ear,
My generals, lords and gentlemen,
From where the Ganges seeks the sea,
Such wails between the notes, I fear,
As you never had cared to hear again.
The dead heaped down in the dried-up wells,
The dead, like corn, in the fertile fields
You had plowed and crossed with your cannon wheels,
The dead in towns that were burning hells
Because the water was under your heels!
They thirsted! You drank at the Jubilee,
My generals, lords and gentlemen,
Drank as you hardly may come to when
The final account of your deeds may be.

Eight millions starved! Yet the Jubilee—

Why, never such glory since Solomon’s throne.
The world was glad that it came to see,
And the Saxon said, “Lo, the world is mine own!”
But mark you! That glittering great Crown stone,
And the thousand stars that dimmed in this sun,
Were stolen, were stolen every one,
Were stolen from those who starved and died!

Brave Boers, grim Boers, look to your guns!

They want your diamonds, these younger ones—
Young generals, lords and gentlemen—
Robbers to-day as they were robbers then.
Look to your guns! for a child can see
(Can your children see now for crying?)
That they want your gems! Ah, that Jubilee,
With those lying banners aflying!

[B] See report of Julian Hawthorne, sent by a

New York magazine to photograph and give
details of the starving in India, about the time of
the Jubilee. He does not give these figures, but
his facts and photographs warrant a fearful
estimate. As for the subjugation of India and the
wanton destruction, not only of life, but the very
means of life, this is history. And now, again, is
despoiled India starving,—starving, dying of
hunger as before; even more fearfully, even while
England is trying to despoil the Boers. And when
her speculators and politicians have beaten them
and despoiled them of their gold and diamonds
and herds, what then? Why, leave them to starve
as in India, or struggle on in the wilderness as
best they can.
AT THE CALEND’S CLOSE.
“For faith hath still an Olivet
And Love a Galilee.”

Two things: the triple great North Star,

To poise and keep His spheres in place,
And Zeus for peace: for peace the Tzar.
Or Science, Progress, Good or Grace,
These two the centum’s fruitage are;
And of the two this olive tree
Stands first, aye, first since Galilee.

Christ’s centum bends his frosted head;

Christ’s calend calls a solemn roll.
What shall be writ, what shall be said
Of Saxon when this blood-writ scroll
By God’s white light at last is read?
What of ye Saxon nations, ye
Who prate the Christ most noisily?

The eagle’s bent beak at the throat

Of Peace where far, fair islands lie:
The greedy lion sees a mote
In his brave, weaker brother’s eye
And crouches low, to gorge and gloat.
The Prince of Peace? Ye write his name
In blood, then dare to pray! For shame!

These Saxon lies on top of lies,

Ten millstones to the neck of us,
Forbid that we should lift our eyes
Till we dare meet that manlier Russ;
In peons for peace of paradise:
Forbid that we, until the day
We wash our hands, should dare to pray.
 AS IT IS WRITTEN.
The she wolf’s ruthless whelp that tare
Old Africa is dead and all
Despised; but Egypt still is fair,
Jugartha brave; and Hannibal
Still hero of the Alps and more
To-day than all red men of Rome.
Archimedes still holds his measured home;
Grim Marius his ruins as of yore,
And heart still turns to heart, as then.
Live by the sword and by the sword
Ye surely die: thus saith the Lord—
And die despised of men.
 TO OOM PAUL KRUGER.
ON HIS SEVENTY-FIFTH BIRTHDAY.

His shield a skin, his sword a prayer:

Seventy-five years old to-day!
Yet mailed young hosts are marshaling there
To hound down in his native lair—
Oom Paul Kruger, South Africa.

Mars! Ever was such shameless shame?

Christ’s calend calls the roll to-day,
Yet Christians write the sweet Christ’s name
In blood, and seek, with sword and flame—
Oom Paul Kruger, South Africa.

Stand firm, grim shepherd-hero, stand!

The world’s watchtowers teem to-day
With men who pray with lifted hand
For you and yours, old, simple, grand—
Oom Paul Kruger, South Africa.

God’s pity for the foolish few

Who guide great England’s hosts to-day!
They cannot make the false the true;
They can but turn true hearts to you—
Oom Paul Kruger, South Africa.

Or king or cowboy, steep or plain,

Or palace hall, where, what—to-day,
All, all, despite of place or gain,
Are with you, with you heart and brain—
Oom Paul Kruger, South Africa.
Brave England’s bravest, best, her Fair,
Who love fair play, are yours to-day.
And oh, the heart, the hope, the prayer—
The world is with you over there—
Oom Paul Kruger, South Africa.
USLAND[C] TO THE BOERS.

And where lies Usland, Land of Us?

Where Freedom lives, there Usland lies!
Fling down that map and measure thus
Or argent seas or sapphire skies:
To north the North Pole, south as far
As ever eagle cleaved his way;
To east the blazing morning star,
And west? West to the Judgment Day!

No borrowed lion, rampt in gold;

No bleeding Erin, plaintive strains;
No starving millions, mute and cold;
No plundered India, prone in chains;
No peaceful farmer, forced to fly
Or draw his plowshare from the sod,
And, fighting, one to fifty, die
For freedom, fireside and God.

Fear not, brave, freeborn, voiceless Boers.

Great Usland’s heart is yours to-day.
Aye, England’s heart of hearts is yours,
Whatever scheming men may say.
Her scheming men have mines to sell,
And we? Why, meat and corn and wheat.
But, Boers, all brave hearts wish you well;
For England’s triumph means defeat.

[C] It is a waste of ink and energy to write “United

States of America” always. All our property is
marked Us. Then why not Usland? And why
should we always say American? The Canadian,
the Mexican, the Brazilian and so on are as
entirely entitled to the name American as we.
Why not say Usman, as Frenchman, German,
and so on?
 THAT USSIAN OF USLAND.
Anent the boundary line—“Lest we forget, lest we forget.”

“I am an Ussian true,” he said;

“Keep off the grass there, Mister Bull!
For if you don’t I’ll bang your head
And bang your belly-full.

“Now mark, my burly jingo-man,

So prone to muss and fuss and cuss,
I am an Ussian, spick and span,
From out the land of Us!”

The stout man smole a frosty smile—

“An Ussian! Russian, Rusk, or Russ?”
“No, no! an Ussian, every while;
My land the land of Us.”

“Aw! Usland, Uitland? or, maybe,

Some Venezuela I’d forgot.
Hand out your map and let me see
Where Usland is and what.”

The lank man leaned and spread his map

And shewed the land and shewed,
Then eyed and eyed that paunchy chap,
And pulled his chin and chewed.

“What do you want?” A face grew red,

And red chop whiskers redder grew.
“I want the earth,” the Ussian said,
“And all Alaska, too.
“My stars swim up yon seas of blue;
No Shind am I, Boer, Turk or Russ.
I am an Ussian—Ussian true;
My land the land of Us.

“My triple North Star lights me on,

My Southern Cross leads ever thus;
My sun scarce sets till burst of dawn.
Hands off the Land of Us!”
FIGHT A BOY OF YOUR SIZE.

Back, far back in that backwood’s school

Of Lincoln, Grant and the great we prize
We boys would fight, but we had one rule—
You must fight a boy of your size.

Or white boy or brown, aye, Boer no doubt,

Whatever the quarrel, whatever the prize
You must stand up fair and so fight it out
With a boy somewhat your size.

But a big boy spoiled so for fights, he did,

He lied most diplomatic-like-lies
And he fought such fights—ye gods forbid—
But never a boy of his size.

He skinned and he tanned, kept hide, kept hair,

Now I am speaking figure-wise—
But he didn’t care who and he didn’t care where
Just so he was under size.

Then the big boy cried, “A big chief am I,

I was born to bang and to civilize,
And yet sometimes I, in my pride I sigh
For something about my size.”

Then the good Schoolmaster he reached a hand

And across his knee he did flop crosswise
That bully, and raise in his good right hand
A board of considerable size.

And the good Schoolmaster he smote that chief,

 He smote both hips and he smote both thighs;
And he said as he smote, “It is my belief
This board is about your size.”

Beware the bully, of his words beware,

His triangular lips are a nest of lies,
For he never did dare and he never will dare,
To bang a boy of his size.
 MILLER, C. H. (Joaquin)
(The Poet of the Sierras)
Complete Poetical Works
In One Volume
This volume completes the life work of this “Sweet Singer by
the Sunset Sea.” In it are included all the best poems
formerly published under the following titles: “Songs of the
Sierras”—“Songs of Sunland”—“Songs of
Summerlands”—“Songs of Italy”—“Songs of the Mexican
Seas”—“Classic Shades”—“Songs of the Soul”—“Olive
Leaves”—“Joaquin,” and others. The book contains 330
pages of double column matter, printed from new type on
laid paper. Each of the longer poems is followed by
extensive foot notes written by the poet himself, also a
most interesting, reminiscent preface and appendix
narrating incidents and scenes in his eventful life, never
published before. It has several illustrations showing the
poet at different ages, also a beautiful scene from his
present home on “The Hights.”

PRICE.

Beautifully Bound in Silk Cloth, side and back stamp $2

in gilt, gilt top 50
Gift Edition, bound in three-quarter Levant 4 50
Limited Autograph Edition, bound in full Morocco 7 50
 WHAT TWO GREAT POPULAR POETS SAY:
Edwin Arnold recently said: “Joaquin Miller is one of the
two greatest American poets.”
James Whitcomb Riley said of Joaquin Miller’s singing: “It
is the truest American voice that has yet thrilled the
echoes of our wild, free land, and awakened the
admiration and acclaim of the Old World. No marvel that
our Country is proud of this proud child of hers, who in all
lands has sung her dawning glory and his own changeless
loyalty to her.”

Songs of the Soul

This volume contains this well known poet’s latest, and as
pronounced by all critics, best poetic productions. The
longest poem, entitled “Sappho and Phaon,” occupies
seventy-three pages of the book, and is destined to
become a classic. Besides this there are several of his
older and most popular poems, such as “Columbus,”
“Passing of Tennyson,” “Sunset and Dawn at San Diego,”
etc., making a 12 mo. volume of 163 pages, with author’s
latest portrait.

PRICE.

Bound in Fine Silk Cloth, design on cover, Library $1

Edition 00
Author’s Autograph Gift Edition, bound in full
3 50
padded Leather
Paper Edition, printed in Gilt 25
“If Joaquin Miller had written nothing else, this one poem
(Sappho and Phaon) would make a place for him among
immortals.”—The Wave.
The Critic, in a recent article, places him among the
world’s greatest poets.
The London Athenæum gives “Columbus” first place
among all the poems written by Americans as to power,
workmanship and feeling.
 TRANSCRIBER’S NOTES:
Inconsistencies in hyphenation have been
standardized.
Archaic or variant spelling has been retained.
The Table of Contents was created by the transcriber
for the convenience of the reader and is granted to the
public domain.
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