which constitute perhaps the most important contribution made by the present collection, although not necessarily the most attractive—on all these points one might dwell at some length with pleasure and possible profit were one writing a formal essay. Even in a brief foreword it seems incumbent to forestall the notes in emphasizing the daring unconventionality of "Last night we had a thunderstorm in style," the humor of "Eh, man Henley, you're a don," the curious anticipation of Kipling in "If I could arise and travel away," the poignant note of "The rain is over and done,"—not exceptional in the verses of this fermenting epoch of Stevenson's life—and, last but not least, the rather extraordinary quality of certain individual lines. Evidences of immaturity in respect to details of literary training are everywhere to be found, but who, save a poet of authentic utterance, would have been likely to achieve such initial verses as—
"I saw red evening through the rain,"
or "Love is the very heart of spring,"
or "Of schooners, islands, and maroons,"
or "Far over seas an island is,"
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