The Fly Leaf

A Pamphlet Periodical of
the New—the New Man,
New Woman, New Ideas,
Whimsies and Things.


Conducted by Walter Blackburn Harte.


With Picture Notes by
H. Marmaduke Russell.

Published Monthly by the Fly Leaf Publishing Co.,
Boston, Mass. Subscription One Dollar a Year.
Single Copies 10 Cents. January, 1896. Number Two.


A Word of Praise in Season.

Philip Hale, the well-known and brilliantBoston literary and musical critic writes asfollows:

“Walter Blackburn Harte is beyond doubt and peradventurethe leading essayist in Boston today. For Boston perhaps youhad better read ‘the United States.’ His matter is originaland brave, his style is clear, polished when effect is to be gainedthereby, blunt when the blow of the bludgeon should fall, and attimes delightfully whimsical, rambling, paradoxical, fantastical.But read for yourself, Miss Eustacia; and Harte’s ‘Meditationsin Motley’ will remain one of your favorite books. And nowMr. Harte is the editor of The Fly Leaf. The first number isout, and let us earnestly call your attention to it.”

A vigorous writer and thoroughly animated by the idea thatthe field of letters in this country should bloom with the geniusof its youth. If The Fly Leaf doesn’t achieve a great successit will not be for lack of talent and energy on the part of itsdirector.—The Boston Traveller.

A new and wholly up to date brochure, The Fly Leaf, hasjust appeared under the conductorship of Walter BlackburnHarte, one of the brightest young men in American literature.—TheBoston Home Journal.

Promises to be something of a novelty in periodical literature,for it is filled with piquant comments on current fads and fashions,and contains some spicy and whimsical essays in miniature,written in a vivid impressionistic manner.—The BostonTranscript.

These are a few press notices. But all theyoung men and women in every city and townin the United States are discussing The FlyLeaf and spreading its fame.


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The Fly Leaf


No. 2. January, 1896. Vol. 1.



THE MONK.

We were gay fellows, all of us,
And christened him “the Monk.”
He sat among us silently,
His wine was never drunk.
He heard the music passionate,
But did not join the dance,
Unmoved, he saw white arms and throats,
Unloving, caught Love’s glance.
I asked him why he cared to live,
“Because,” responded he,—
I like to watch these pictures
O
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