Solomon or Shebaf 



sunlight robing him in the full splendor of scar- 

 let and barbaric gold. With head ruffled up in 

 thought or held pensively in one crooked claw, 

 he formulated proverbs which were the residue 

 of his old, wicked mind. They were, indeed, 

 dark sayings. I could not understand the words 

 of wisdom though I inchned my ear. But it was 

 impossible to miss the balance, the biblical monot- 

 ony of repetition, so forcible in driving home 

 the truth. And who knew better the way of sin- 

 ners; of those "whose feet run to evil and make 

 haste to shed blood" ? 



One evening, though, the words grew suddenly 

 articulate and I was troubled with a doubt. 



"Poor Solomon. Poor old Solomon. Sol- 

 omon is a bad boy. Poor Sol." 



The voice was deep and gruff, yet full of a 

 commiseration that decency and natural pride 

 forbade to be expended on oneself. And Sol? 

 The use of the absurd diminutive ! A pet name 

 no doubt bestowed by Sheba, in a moment of 

 affection daring to make free. Was this then 

 she, lamenting with that mothering instinct that 



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