RUE BARRÉE.
“Crimson nor yellow roses nor
The savour of the mounting sea
Are worth the perfume I adore
That clings to thee.”
“The languid-headed lilies tire,
The changeless waters weary me;
I ache with passionate desire
Of thine and thee.”
“There are but these things in the world—
Thy mouth of fire,
Thy breasts, thy hands, thy hair upcurled
And my desire.”
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NE morning at Julian’s, a student said to Selby; “that is Foxhall Clifford,” pointing with his brushes at a young man who sat before an easel, doing nothing.
Selby, shy and nervous, walked over and began: “My name is Selby,—I have just arrived in Paris, and bring a letter of introduction—”His voice was lost in the crash of a falling easel, the owner of which promptly assaulted his neighbor, and for a time the noise of battle rolled through the studios of MM. Boulanger and Lefebvre, presently subsiding into a scuffle on the stairs outside. Selby, apprehensive as to his own reception in the studio, looked at Clifford, who sat serenely watching the fight.
“It’s a little noisy here,” said Clifford, “but you will like the fellows when you know them.” His unaffected manner delighted Selby. Then with a simplicity that won his
