"Death?"

"Well, he's off for Japan to-morrow. They're getting through fifty doctors a week out there at the front. They're shot down faster than they can set them up."

I was unprepared for the effect of this on Eleanor. For two cents she would have fainted then and there. It's awful to hear a woman moan, and clench her teeth, and pant for breath.

"Oh, Eleanor, can't you do anything?"

"I am helpless, Ezra. My pride—my woman's pride—"

"Oh, how can you let such trifles stand between you? Think of him out there, in his tattered Japanese uniform—so far from home, so lonely, so heartbroken—standing undaunted in that rain of steel, while—"

"Oh, Ezra, stop! I can't bear it! I can't bear it!"

"Is the love of three years to be thrown aside like an old glove, just because—"

Her face was so wild and strained that the lies froze upon my tongue.

"Oh, Ezra, I could follow him barefooted through the snow if only he—"

"He's leaving Grand Central to-morrow at ten forty-five," I said.

She fumbled at her neck, and almost tore away the diamond locket that reposed there.

"Take him this," she whispered hoarsely. "Take it to him at once, and say I sent it. Say that I beg him to return—that my pride crumbles at the thought of his going away so far into danger."

I put the locket carefully into my pocket.

"And, Eleanor, try and don't rub him the wrong way about his name. Is it worth while? There have to be Joneses, you know."

"Tell him," she burst out, "tell him—oh, I never meant to wound him—truly, I didn't ... a name that's good enough for him is good enough for me!"

The next morning at nine I pulled up my Porcher-Mufflin car before Jones' door. He was sitting at his table reading a book, and he made no motion to rise as I came in. He gave me a pale, expressionless stare instead, such as an ancient Christian might have worn when the call-boy told him the lions were ready in the Colosseum. Resignation, obstinacy and defiance—all nicely blended under a turn-the-other-cheek exterior. He looked woebegone, and his thin, handsome face betrayed a sleepless night and a breakfastless morning. I could feel that my presence was the last straw to this unfortunate medical camel.

I threw in a genial remark about the weather, and took a seat.

Jones hunched himself together, and squirmed a sad little squirm.

"Mr. Westoby," he said, "I once made use of a very strong expression in regard to you. I said, if you remember, that I'd be obliged if you'd keep your paws—"

"Don't apologize," I interrupted. "I forgot it long ago."

"You've taken me up wrong," he continued drearily. "I should like you to consider the remark repeated now. Yes, sir, repeated."

"Oh, bosh!" I exclaimed.

"You have a very tough epidermis," he went on. "Quite the toughest epidermis I have met with in my whole professional career. A paper adequately treating your epidermis would make a sensation before any medical society."

Somehow I couldn't feel properly insulted. The whole business struck me as irresistibly comical. I lay back in my chair—my uninvited chair—and roared with laughter.

I couldn't forbear asking him what treatment he'd recommend.

He pointed to the door, and said laconically: "Fresh air."

I retorted by laying the diamond locket before him.

"My dear fellow," I said, as he gazed at it transfixed, "don't let us go on like a pair of fools. Eleanor charged me to give you this, and beg you to return."

I don't believe he heard me at all. That flashing trinket was far more eloquent than any words of mine. He laid his head in his hands beside it, and his whole body trembled with emotion. He trembled and trembled, till finally I got tired of waiting. I poked him in the back, and reminded him that my car was waiting down stairs. He rose with a strange, bewildered air, and submitted like a child to be led into the street. He had the locket clenched in his hand, and every now and then he would glance at it as though unable to believe his eyes. I shut him into the tonneau, and took a seat beside my chauffeur.

"Let her out, James," I said.

James let her out with a vengeance. There was a sunny-haired housemaid at the Van Coorts' ... and it was a crack, new, four-cylinder car with a direct drive on the top speed. Off we went like the wind, jouncing poor Jones around the tonneau like a pea in a pill-box. But he didn't care. Was he not seraphically whizzing through space, obeying the diamond telegram of love? In the gentle whizzle and bang of the whole performance he even ventured to raise his voice in song, and I could overhear him behind me, adding a lyrical finish to the hum of the machinery. It was a walloping run, and we only throttled down on the outskirts of Morristown. You see I had to coach him about that Japanese war business, or else there might be trouble! So I leaned over the back seat and gently broke it to him. I thought I had managed it rather well. I felt sure he could understand, I said, the absolute need of a little—embellishing and—

"Let me out," he said.

I feverishly went on explaining.

"If you don't let me out I'll climb out," he said, and began to make as good as his word over the tonneau.

Of course, there was nothing for it but to stop the car.

Jones deliberately descended and headed for New York.

I ran after him, while the chauffeur turned the car round and slowly followed us both. It was a queer procession. First Jones, then I, then the car.

Finally I overtook him.

"Jones," I panted. "Jones."

He muttered something about Ananias, and speeded up.

"But it was an awfully tight place," I pleaded. "Something had to be done; you must make allowances; it was the first thing that came into my head—and you must admit that it worked, Jones. Didn't she send you the locket? Didn't she—?"

"What a prancing, show-off, matinee fool you've made me look!" he burst out. "I have an old mother to support. I have an increasing practice. I have already attracted some little attention in my chosen field—eye, ear and throat. A nice figure I'd cut, traipsing around the battlefields in a kimono, and looking for a kindly bullet to lay me low. If I were ever tempted by such a thing—which God forbid—wouldn't I prefer to spread bacilli on buttered toast?"

"I never thought of that," I said humbly.

"I have known retail liars," he went on. "But I guess you are the only wholesaler in the business. When other people are content with ones and twos, you get them out in grosses, packed for export!"

He went on slamming me like this for miles. Anybody else would have given him up as hopeless. I don't want to praise myself, but if I have one good quality it's staying power. I pleaded and argued, and expostulated and explained, with the determination of a man whose back is to the wall. I wasn't going to lose Freddy so long as there was breath in my body. However, it wasn't the least good in the world. Jones was as impervious as sole-leather, and as unshaken as a marble pillar.

Then I played my last card.

I told him the truth! Not the whole truth, of course, but within ten per cent. of it. About Freddy, you know, and how she was determined not to marry before her elder sister, and how Eleanor's only preference seemed to be for him, and how with such a slender clue to work on I had engineered everything up to this point.

"If I have seemed to you intolerably prying and officious," I said, "well, at any rate, Jones, there's my excuse. It rests with you to give me Freddy or take her from me. Turn back, and you'll make me the happiest man alive; go forward, and—and—"

I watched him out of the corner of my eye.

His tread lost some of its elasticity. He was short-circuiting inside. Positively he began to look sort of sympathetic and human.

"Westoby," he said at last, in a voice almost of awe, "when they get up another world's fair you must have a building to yourself. You're colossal, that's what you are!"

"I'm only in love," I said.

"Well, that's the love that moves mountains," he said. "If anybody had told me that I should...." He stopped irresolutely on the word.

"Oh, to think I have to stand for all that rot!" he bleated.

I was too wise to say a word. I simply motioned James to switch the car around and back up. I shooed Jones into the tonneau and turned the knob on him. He snuggled back in the cushions, and smiled—yes smiled—with a beautiful, blue-eyed, far-away, indulgent expression that warmed me like spring sunshine. Not that I felt absolutely safe even yet—of course I couldn't—but still—

We ran into Freddy and Eleanor at the lodge gates. I had already telephoned the former to expect us, so as to have everything fall out naturally when the time came. We stopped the car, and descended—Jones and I—and he walked straight off with Eleanor, while I side-stepped with Freddy.

She and I were almost too excited to talk. It was now or never, you know, and there was an awfully solemn look about both their backs that was either reassuring or alarming—we couldn't decide quite which. Freddy and I simply held our breath and waited.

Finally, after an age, Jones and Eleanor turned, still close in talk, still solemn and enigmatical, and drew toward us very slowly and deliberately. When they had got quite close, and the tension was at the breaking point, Eleanor suddenly made a little rush, and, with a loud sob, threw her arms round Freddy's neck.

Jones fidgeted nervously about, and seemed to quail under my questioning eyes. It was impossible to tell whether things had gone right or not. I waited for him to speak.... I saw words forming themselves hesitatingly on his lips ... he bent toward me quite confidentially....

"Say, old man," he whispered, "is there any place around here where a fellow can buy an engagement ring?"



THE BEAR STORY

THAT ALEX "IST MAKED UP HIS-OWN-SE'F"

BY JAMES WHITCOMB RILEY

W'y, wunst they wuz a Little Boy went out In the woods to shoot a Bear. So, he went out 'Way in the grea'-big woods—he did.—An' he Wuz goin' along—an' goin' along, you know, An' purty soon he heerd somepin' go "Wooh!"— Ist thataway—"Woo-ooh!" An' he wuz skeered, He wuz. An' so he runned an' clumbed a tree— A grea'-big tree, he did,—a sicka-more tree. An' nen he heerd it ag'in: an' he looked round, An' 't'uz a Bear!—a grea'-big shore-nuff Bear!— No: 't'uz two Bears, it wuz—two grea'-big Bears— One of 'em wuz—ist one's a grea'-big Bear.— But they ist boff went "Wooh!"—An' here they come To climb the tree an' git the Little Boy An' eat him up!

An' nen the Little Boy He 'uz skeered worse'n ever! An' here come The grea'-big Bear a-climbin' th' tree to git The Little Boy an' eat him up—Oh, no!— It 'uzn't the Big Bear 'at dumb the tree— It 'uz the Little Bear. So here he come Climbin' the tree—an' climbin' the tree! Nen when He git wite clos't to the Little Boy, w'y nen The Little Boy he ist pulled up his gun An' shot the Bear, he did, an' killed him dead! An' nen the Bear he falled clean on down out The tree—away clean to the ground, he did— Spling-splung! he falled plum down, an' killed him, too! An' lit wite side o' where the Big Bear's at.

An' nen the Big Bear's awful mad, you bet!— 'Cause—'cause the Little Boy he shot his gun An' killed the Little Bear.—'Cause the Big Bear He—he 'uz the Little Bear's Papa.—An' so here He come to climb the big old tree an' git The Little Boy an' eat him up! An' when The Little Boy he saw the grea'-big Bear A-comin', he 'uz badder skeered, he wuz, Than any time! An' so he think he'll climb Up higher—'way up higher in the tree Than the old Bear kin climb, you know.—But he— He can't climb higher 'an old Bears kin climb,— 'Cause Bears kin climb up higher in the trees Than any little Boys in all the Wo-r-r-ld!

An' so here come the grea'-big Bear, he did,— A-climbin' up—an' up the tree, to git The Little Boy an' eat him up! An' so The Little Boy he clumbed on higher, an' higher, An' higher up the tree—an' higher—an' higher— An' higher'n iss-here house is!—An' here come Th' old Bear—clos'ter to him all the time!— An' nen—first thing you know,—when th' old Big Bear Wuz wite clos't to him—nen the Little Boy Ist jabbed his gun wite in the old Bear's mouf An' shot an' killed him dead!—No; I fergot,— He didn't shoot the grea'-big Bear at all— 'Cause they 'uz no load in the gun, you know— 'Cause when he shot the Little Bear, w'y, nen No load 'uz any more nen in the gun!

But th' Little Boy clumbed higher up, he did— He clumbed lots higher—an' on up higher—an' higher An' higher—tel he ist can't climb no higher, 'Cause nen the limbs 'uz all so little, 'way Up in the teeny-weeny tip-top of The tree, they'd break down wiv him ef he don't Be keerful! So he stop an' think: An' nen He look around—An' here come th' old Bear!

An' so the Little Boy make up his mind He's got to ist git out o' there some way!— 'Cause here come the old Bear!—so clos't, his bref's Purt 'nigh so's he kin feel how hot it is Ag'inst his bare feet—ist like old "Ring's" bref When he's ben out a-huntin' an's all tired. So when th' old Bear's so clos't—the Little Boy Ist gives a grea'-big jump fer 'nother tree— No!—no he don't do that!—I tell you what The Little Boy does:—W'y, nen—w'y, he—Oh, yes— The Little Boy he finds a hole up there 'At's in the tree—an' climbs in there an' hides— An' nen th' old Bear can't find the Little Boy At all!—But, purty soon th' old Bear finds The Little Boy's gun 'at's up there—'cause the gun It's too tall to tooked wiv him in the hole. So, when the old Bear find' the gun, he knows The Little Boy's ist hid 'round somers there,— An' th' old Bear 'gins to snuff an' sniff around, An' sniff an' snuff around—so's he kin find Out where the Little Boy's hid at.—An' nen—nen— Oh, yes!—W'y, purty soon the old Bear climbs 'Way out on a big limb—a grea'-long limb,— An' nen the Little Boy climbs out the hole An' takes his ax an' chops the limb off!... Nen The old Bear falls k-splunge! clean to the ground An' bust an' kill hisse'f plum dead, he did!

An' nen the Little Boy he git his gun An' 'menced a-climbin' down the tree ag'in— No!—no, he didn't git his gun—'cause when The Bear falled, nen the gun falled, too—An' broked It all to pieces, too!—An' nicest gun!— His Pa ist buyed it!—An' the Little Boy Ist cried, he did; an' went on climbin' down The tree—an' climbin' down—an' climbin' down!— An'-sir! when he 'uz purt'-nigh down,—w'y, nen The old Bear he jumped up ag'in!—an' he Ain't dead at all—ist 'tendin' thataway, So he kin git the Little Boy an' eat Him up! But the Little Boy he 'uz too smart To climb clean down the tree.—An' the old Bear He can't climb up the tree no more—'cause when He fell, he broke one of his—he broke all His legs!—an' nen he couldn't climb! But he Ist won't go 'way an' let the Little Boy Come down out of the tree. An' the old Bear Ist growls 'round there, he does—ist growls an' goes "Wooh!—woo-ooh!" all the time! An' Little Boy He haf to stay up in the tree—all night— An' 'thout no supper neether!—On'y they Wuz apples on the tree!—An' Little Boy Et apples—ist all night—an' cried—an' cried! Nen when 't'uz morning th' old Bear went "Wooh!" Ag'in, an' try to climb up in the tree An' git the Little Boy.—But he can't Climb t'save his soul, he can't!—An' oh! he's mad!— He ist tear up the ground! an' go "Woo-ooh!" An'—Oh, yes!—purty soon, when morning's come All light—so's you kin see, you know,—w'y, nen The old Bear finds the Little Boy's gun, you know, 'At's on the ground.—(An' it ain't broke at all— I ist said that!) An' so the old Bear think He'll take the gun an' shoot the Little Boy:— But Bears they don't know much 'bout shootin' guns: So when he go to shoot the Little Boy, The old Bear got the other end the gun Ag'in' his shoulder, 'stid o' th'other end— So when he try to shoot the Little Boy, It shot the Bear, it did—an' killed him dead! An' nen the Little Boy clumb down the tree An' chopped his old woolly head off:—Yes, an' killed The other Bear ag'in, he did—an' killed All boff the bears, he did—an' tuk 'em home An' cooked'em, too, an' et'em! —An' that's all.



COLONEL CARTER'S STORY OF THE POSTMASTER

BY F. HOPKINSON SMITH

"Take, for instance, the town of Caartersville: look at that peaceful village which for mo' than a hundred years has enjoyed the privileges of free government; and not only Caartersville, but all our section of the State."

"Well, what's the matter with Cartersville?" asked Fitz, lighting his cigar.

"Mattah, suh! Just look at the degradation it fell into hardly ten years ago. A Yankee jedge jurisdiction our laws, a Yankee sheriff enfo'cin' 'em, and a Yankee postmaster distributin' letters and sellin' postage stamps."

"But they were elected all right, Colonel, and represented the will of the people."

"What people? Yo' people, not mine. No, my dear Fitz; the Administration succeeding the war treated us shamefully, and will go down to postehity as infamous."

The colonel here left his chair and began pacing the floor, his indignation rising at every step.

"To give you an idea, suh," he continued, "of what we Southern people suffe'd immediately after the fall of the Confederacy, let me state a case that came under my own observation.

"Coloner Temple Talcott of F'okeer County, Virginia, came into Talcottville one mornin', suh,—a town settled by his ancestors,—ridin' upon his horse—or rather a mule belongin' to his overseer. Colonel Talcott, suh, belonged to one of the vehy fust families in Virginia. He was a son of Jedge Thaxton Talcott, and grandson of General Snowden Stafford Talcott of the Revolutionary War. Now, suh, let me tell you right here that the Talcott blood is as blue as the sky, and that every gentleman bearin' the name is known all over the county as a man whose honor is dearer to him than his life, and whose word is as good as his bond. Well, suh, on this mornin' Colonel Talcott left his plantation in charge of his overseer,—he was workin' it on shares,—and rode through his estate to his ancestral town, some five miles distant. It is true, suh, these estates were no longer in his name, but that had no bearin' on the events that followed; he ought to have owned them, and would have done so but for some vehy ungentlemanly fo'closure proceedin's which occurred immediately after the war.

"On arriving at Talcottville the colonel dismounted, handed the reins to his servant,—or perhaps one of the niggers around de do'—and entered the post-office. Now, suh, let me tell you that one month befo', the Government, contrary to the express wishes of a great many of our leadin' citizens, had sent a Yankee postmaster to Talcottville to administer the postal affairs of the town. No sooner had this man taken possession than he began to be exclusive, suh, and to put on airs. The vehy fust air he put on was to build a fence in his office and compel our people to transact their business through a hole. This in itself was vehy gallin', suh, for up to that time the mail had always been dumped out on the table in the stage office and every gentleman had he'ped himself. The next thing was the closin' of his mail bags at a' hour fixed by himself. This became a great inconvenience to our citizens, who were often late in finishin' their correspondence, and who had always found our former postmaster willin' either to hold the bag over until the next day, or to send it across to Drummondtown by a boy to catch a later train.

"Well, suh, Colonel Talcott's mission to the post-office was to mail a letter to his factor in Richmond, Virginia, on business of the utmost importance to himself,—namely, the raisin' of a small loan upon his share of the crop. Not the crop that was planted, suh, but the crop that he expected to plant.

"Colonel Talcott approached the hole, and with that Chesterfieldian manner which has distinguished the Talcotts for mo' than two centuries, asked the postmaster for the loan of a three-cent postage stamp.

"To his astonishment, suh, he was refused.

"Think of a Talcott in his own county town bein' refused a three-cent postage stamp by a low-lived Yankee, who had never known a gentleman in his life! The colonel's first impulse was to haul the scoundrel through the hole and caarve him; but then he remembered that he was a Talcott and could not demean himself, and drawin' himself up again with that manner which was grace itself he requested the loan of a three-cent postage stamp until he should communicate with his factor in Richmond, Virginia; and again he was refused. Well, suh, what was there left for a high-toned Southern gentleman to do? Colonel Talcott drew his revolver and shot that Yankee scoundrel through the heart, and killed him on the spot.

"And now, suh, comes the most remarkable part of the story. If it had not been for Major Tom Yancey, Jedge Kerfoot and myself, there would have been a lawsuit."

Fitz lay back in his chair and roared.

"And they did not hang the colonel?"

"Hang a Talcott! No, suh; we don't hang gentlemen down our way. Jedge Kerfoot vehy properly charged the coroner's jury that it was a matter of self-defense, and Colonel Talcott was not detained mo' than haalf an hour."

The colonel stopped, unlocked a closet in the sideboard, and produced a black bottle labeled in ink, "Old Cherry Bounce, 1848."

"You must excuse me, gentlemen, but the discussion of these topics has quite unnerved me. Allow me to share with you a thimbleful."

Fitz drained the glass, cast his eyes upward, and said solemnly, "To the repose of the postmaster's soul."



LOVE SONNETS OF AN OFFICE BOY

BY S.E. KISER

I

Oh, if you only knowed how much I like To stand here, when the "old man" ain't around, And watch your soft, white fingers while you pound Away at them there keys! Each time you strike It almost seems to me as though you'd found So me way, while writin' letters, how to play Sweet music on that thing, because the sound Is something I could listen to all day.

You're twenty-five or six, and I'm fourteen, And you don't hardly ever notice me— But when you do, you call me Willie! Gee, I wisht I'd bundles of the old long green And could be twenty-eight or nine or so, And something happened to your other beau.

VI

When you're typewritin' and that long-legged clerk Tips back there on his chair and smiles at you, And you look up and get to smilin', too, I'd like to go and give his chair a jerk And send him flyin' till his head went through The door that goes out to the hall, and when They picked him up he'd be all black and blue And you'd be nearly busted laughin' then.

But if I done it, maybe you would run And hold his head and smooth his hair and say It made you sad that he got dumped that way, And I'd get h'isted out for what I done— I wish that he'd get fired and you'd stay And suddenly I'd be a man some day.

VIII

This morning when that homely, long-legged clerk Come in he had a rose he got somewhere; He went and kind of leaned against her chair, Instead of goin' on about his work, And stood around and talked to her a while, Because the boss was out,—and both took care To watch the door; and when he left her there He dropped the flower with a sickish smile.

I snuck it from the glass of water she Had stuck it in, and tore it up and put It on the floor and smashed it with my foot, When neither him nor her was watchin' me— I'd like to rub the stem acrost his nose, And I wish they'd never be another rose.

XIII

Last night I dreamed about her in my sleep; I thought that her and me had went away Out on some hill where birds sung 'round all day, And I had got a job of herdin' sheep. I thought that she had went along to keep Me comp'ny, and we'd set around for hours Just lovin', and I'd go and gather flowers And pile them at her feet, all in a heap.

It seemed to me like heaven, bein' there With only her besides the sheep and birds, And us not sayin' anything but words About the way we loved. I wouldn't care To ever wake again if I could still Dream we was there forever on the hill.

XXVII

It's over now; the blow has fell at last; It seems as though the sun can't shine no more, And nothing looks the way it did before; The glad thoughts that I used to think are past. Her desk's shut up to-day, the lid's locked fast; The keys where she typewrote are still; her chair Looks sad and lonesome standin' empty there— I'd like to let the tears come if I dast.

This morning when the boss come in he found A letter that he'd got from her, and so He read it over twice and turned around And said: "The little fool's got married!" Oh, It seemed as if I'd sink down through the ground, And never peep no more—I didn't, though.



MR. DOOLEY ON THE GAME OF FOOTBALL

BY FINLEY PETER DUNNE

"Whin I was a young man," said Mr. Dooley, "an' that was a long time ago,—but not so long ago as manny iv me inimies'd like to believe, if I had anny inimies,—I played fut-ball, but 'twas not th' fut-ball I see whin th' Brothers' school an' th' Saint Aloysius Tigers played las' week on th' pee-raries.

"Whin I was a la-ad, iv a Sundah afthernoon we'd get out in th' field where th' oats'd been cut away, an' we'd choose up sides. Wan cap'n'd pick one man, an' th' other another. 'I choose Dooley,' 'I choose O'Connor,' 'I choose Dimpsey,' 'I choose Riordan,' an' so on till there was twinty-five or thirty on a side. Thin wan cap'n'd kick th' ball, an' all our side'd r-run at it an' kick it back; an' thin wan iv th' other side'd kick it to us, an' afther awhile th' game'd get so timpischous that all th' la-ads iv both sides'd be in wan pile, kickin' away at wan or th' other or at th' ball or at th' impire, who was mos'ly a la-ad that cudden't play an' that come out less able to play thin he was whin he wint in. An', if anny wan laid hands on th' ball, he was kicked be ivry wan else an' be th' impire. We played fr'm noon till dark, an' kicked th' ball all th' way home in the moonlight.

"That was futball, an' I was a great wan to play it. I'd think nawthin' iv histin' th' ball two hundherd feet in th' air, an' wanst I give it such a boost that I stove in th' ribs iv th' Prowtestant minister—bad luck to him, he was a kind man—that was lookin' on fr'm a hedge. I was th' finest player in th' whole county, I was so.

"But this here game that I've been seein' ivry time th' pagan fistival iv Thanksgivin' comes ar-round, sure it ain't th' game I played. I seen th' Dorgan la-ad comin' up th' sthreet yesterdah in his futball clothes,—a pair iv matthresses on his legs, a pillow behind, a mask over his nose, an' a bushel measure iv hair on his head. He was followed by thee men with bottles, Dr. Ryan, an' th' Dorgan fam'ly. I jined thim. They was a big crowd on th' peerary,—a bigger crowd than ye cud get to go f'r to see a prize fight. Both sides had their frinds that give th' colledge cries. Says wan crowd: 'Take an ax, an ax, an ax to thim. Hooroo, hooroo, hellabaloo. Christyan Bro-others!' an' th' other says, 'Hit thim, saw thim, gnaw thim, chaw thim, Saint Alo-ysius!' Well, afther awhile they got down to wur-ruk. 'Sivin, eighteen, two, four,' says a la-ad. I've seen people go mad over figures durin' th' free silver campaign, but I niver see figures make a man want f'r to go out an' kill his fellow-men befure. But these here figures had th' same effect on th' la-ads that a mintion iv Lord Castlereagh'd have on their fathers. Wan la-ad hauled off, an' give a la-ad acrost fr'm him a punch in th' stomach. His frind acrost th' way caught him in th' ear. Th' cinter rush iv th' Saint Aloysiuses took a runnin' jump at th' left lung iv wan iv th' Christyan Brothers, an' wint to th' grass with him. Four Christyan Brothers leaped most crooly at four Saint Aloysiuses, an' rolled thim. Th' cap'n iv th' Saint Aloysiuses he took th' cap'n iv th' Christyan Brothers be th' leg, an' he pounded th' pile with him as I've seen a section hand tamp th' thrack. All this time young Dorgan was standin' back, takin' no hand in th' affray. All iv a suddent he give a cry iv rage, an' jumped feet foremost into th' pile. 'Down!' says th' impire. 'Faith, they are all iv that,' says I. 'Will iver they get up?' 'They will,' says ol' man Dorgan. 'Ye can't stop thim,' says he.

"It took some time f'r to pry thim off. Near ivry man iv th' Saint Aloysiuses was tied in a knot around wan iv th' Christyan Brothers. On'y wan iv thim remained on th' field. He was lyin' face down, with his nose in th' mud. 'He's kilt,' says I. 'I think he is,' says Dorgan, with a merry smile. 'Twas my boy Jimmy done it, too,' says he. 'He'll be arrested f'r murdher,' says I. 'He will not,' says he. 'There's on'y wan polisman in town cud take him, an' he's down town doin' th' same f'r somebody,' he says. Well, they carried th' corpse to th' side, an' took th' ball out iv his stomach with a monkey wrinch, an' th' game was rayshumed. 'Sivin, sixteen, eight, eleven,' says Saint Aloysius; an' young Dorgan started to run down th' field. They was another young la-ad r-runnin' in fr-ront iv Dorgan; an', as fast as wan iv th' Christyan Brothers come up an' got in th' way, this here young Saint Aloysius grabbed him be th' hair iv th' head an' th' sole iv th' fut, an' thrun him over his shoulder. 'What's that la-ad doin'?' says I. 'Interfering' says he. 'I shud think he was,' says I, 'an' most impudent,' I says. ''Tis such interference as this,' I says, 'that breaks up fam'lies'; an' I come away.

"'Tis a noble sport, an' I'm glad to see us Irish ar-re gettin' into it. Whin we larn it thruly, we'll teach thim colledge joods fr'm th' pie belt a thrick or two."

"We have already," said Mr. Hennessy. "They'se a team up in Wisconsin with a la-ad be th' name iv Jeremiah Riordan f'r cap'n, an' wan named Patsy O'Dea behind him. They come down here, an' bate th' la-ads fr'm th' Chicawgo Colledge down be th' Midway."

"Iv coorse, they did," said Mr. Dooley. "Iv coorse, they did. An' they cud bate anny collection iv Baptists that iver come out iv a tank."



THE FAIRPORT ART MUSEUM

BY OCTAVE THANET

After the war was over, the Middle West addressed itself to Culture. Perhaps the husbands and brothers and fathers might still be busy making money; but the women of the West, whose energies and emotions had been mightily roused, found life a little tame when there were no more sanitary commissions, no more great fairs or little fairs for the soldiers, no more intense emotions over printed sheets. Then it was that the Woman's Club lifted a modest finger at the passing car of progress, and unobtrusively boarded it.

Fairport was conservative, as always, but she had no mind to be left behind in the march of feminine fashion. She did not rush to extremes, but she had women's clubs in 1881. The chief of these were the Ladies' Literary Club and the Spinsters' Alliance. Both clubs tackled the same great themes of ethics and art, and allotted a winter to the literature of a nation, except in the case of Greek and Roman literatures, which were not considered able to occupy a whole winter apiece, so they were studied in company. The club possessed a proper complement of officers, and their meetings went from house to house. They were conducted with artless simplicity, in a pleasant, conversational manner, but with due regard to polite forms; and only at a moment of excitement was the chair addressed by her Christian name.

Naturally, the women's clubs were deeply stirred by the first great World's Fair in America. But the whole West was moved. It turned to art with a joyous ardor, the excited happiness of a child that finds a new beauty in the world. Why had we not thought of the artistic regeneration of our sordid life before? Never mind, we would make amends for lost time by spending more money! In very truth the years following the Centennial witnessed an extraordinary awakening of worship of beauty, almost religious in its fervor. Passionate pilgrims ransacked Europe and the Orient; a prodigal horde of their captives, objects of luxury and of art, surged into galleries and museums and households. No cold, critical taste weeded out these adorable aliens. The worst and the best conquered, together. Our architecture, our furniture, our household surroundings were metamorphosed as by enchantment. And the feature of mark in it all was the unparalleled diffusion of the new faith. Not the great cities only; the towns, the villages, the hamlets, caught fire.

Of course, Fairport went to Philadelphia; and Fairport was converted. It followed, at once that the women's clubs of the place should serve most zealously at the altar; and nothing could be more inevitable than that in course of time there should be a concrete manifestation of zeal. Hence the memorable Art Museum, the fame of which to this day will revive, when there is a meeting of the solid and gray-haired matrons who were the light-footed girls of the Alliance, and the talk falls on the old times.

The art collection would give its admirers shivers to-day, but it excited only happy complacency then. The mood of the hour was not critical. The homes of the Fairport gentry held innumerable oil copies of the great masters of different degrees of merit, which they loaned secure of welcome; with them came family treasures so long held in reverence that their artistic value (coldly considered) had been lost to comparison, and the gems of accomplished amateurs who painted flowers on china cups, or of rising young artists who had not as yet risen beyond the circle of trusting friends in town.

In general, the donors' expectation of gratitude was justified, but even so early as 1881 there were limits to artistic credulity; and some offerings drove the club president, Miss Claudia Loraine, and the club secretary, Miss Emma Hopkins, to "the coal hold." This was a wee closet under the stairs, where the coal scuttles were ranged, until they should fare forth to replenish the "base burners" which warmed the Museum home. In real life the name of the Museum's lodgings was Harness Block, and Mr. Harness had proffered the cause of art two empty stores, formerly a fish market and a grocery. As there was no private office (only a wire cage), when Miss Hopkins felt the need of frank speech she signaled Claudia to the coal hole.

She was closeted with her thus on the morning of the second day. The subject of the conference was the last assault on the nerves of the committee, perpetrated by the Miller twins—not in person, but with their china. The china, itself, had the outward semblance of ordinary blue earthen ware of a cheap grade; but the Miller twins were convinced (on the testimony of their dear old minister, who never told a lie in his life, and who had heard the Millers' grandmother say—and everybody knows that she was a saint on earth, and she was ninety years old at the time, and would she be likely to lie almost on her dying bed?—you might call it her dying bed, averred Miss Miller, since she was bedridden for two years before her death, on that same old four-poster bedstead which belonged to her mother, and at last died on it) that the blue ware had been the property of George the Third, had been sold and was on board the ship with the tea which was rifled in Boston Harbor. They had insisted in pasting these royal claims upon the china in the blackest and neatest lettering. The awkward fact that earthenware does not usually grace a royal board, or that the saintly old grandmother mixed up dates and persons in a wonderful way during her latter days, made no difference to her loyal descendants. Each platter with the black chipping betraying plainly its lowly origin, each tea-cup mended with cement, bore the paper-claim pasted securely upon it.

"It took up a whole afternoon," said Miss Tina Miller, "but it's so precious and there might be other blue ware and it might get mixed—you'll insure it, Miss Hopkins? not that money could replace such things, but, at least"—Miss Tina Miller always left her sentences in the air, seemingly too diffident to complete them, once the auditors were assured of their import.

The Millers kept a tiny little house on a tiny little income; but gave of all they had to give, themselves, without stint. They were public-spirited women, if Fairport ever held any such. Although they had neither brothers nor cousins to go to the war, they had picked lint and made bandages and trudged with subscription papers and scrimped for weeks to have money to spend at the patriotic fairs. In consequence they were deeply respected, so respected that it was simply impossible to refuse their unselfish offering of their dearest god.

"I think it just noble of you," said Miss Tina. "Sister and I felt we must help; so we brought the King George china and a little pencil head our sister Euphrosyne did. The one who died, you know. I'm sorry all your—art things—aren't in yet. No, I can't come to-morrow; I shall be very busy—sister may come—thank you."

* * * * *

Both the keen young listeners knew why Miss Tina could not come; it was neither more nor less than the admission fee.

"But I'll take care of that," said Emma to Claudia in the coal hold. "Elly is going to give her and Miss Ally each a season ticket."

"Then we're in for the King George china!" groaned Claudia softly.

"We are," said Emma. "I've put it in a good but not too good a place, and Mr. Winslow is inspecting it now."

"And he knows about china; he's sent lovely things," mourned Claudia.

"Oh, well, he knows about the Miller girls, too," said Emma, smiling; "I think he'll forgive us."

"You'd better go explain," urged Claudia, "and throw in that landscape with the cow that seems to have five legs and belongs to Mr. Harness. Perhaps he'll forgive that, too."

Emma went,—she was an amiable girl. She was not pretty like her sister, Mrs. Raimund, who had married the great railway man and was a power in Chicago society; but there was something in the radiant neatness and good humor of the plain sister which made her pleasant to look upon.

Winslow's mouth and eyes relaxed at her greeting, and he smiled over her official quotation of the Millers' claims.

"King George's table? H'mn; which table, second or third?" His eyes twinkled at Emma, whose own eyes twinkled back.

"They're awfully good women," said she, in a kind of compunction.

"None better," said he.

As he passed on, with his little son at his side, she thought: "He isn't nearly so grim as I used to think."

Mrs. Winslow and Mrs. Winter were a few paces behind. They halted before the china, which Mrs. Winter examined; but Mrs. Winslow's weary eyes lingered hardly a moment before they found some other object on which to rest and leave as briefly.

"It is to be hoped this priceless relic won't be damaged in any way," said Mrs. Winter. "Still"—she bent confidentially toward Emma—"if such a calamity should occur, I know a shop in Chicago where you can get plenty for three dollars and ninety-nine cents."

"I hope nothing will happen to it," said Emma, with stolid reticence.

Mrs. Winslow had not listened, her listless face had been transformed; it was illumined now by the loveliest of smiles; she half put out her hand as a little boy snuggled up to her silken skirts, with a laugh.

"Papa letted me come," he said gaily, "and Peggy's here, too,—there!"

Peggy was attired with great care, her long red curls were shining and her eyes sparkled.

Immediately both children were immersed in the beauties of a collection of rejected models which had been obtained from the patent office, and which, surely, were the most diverting toys imaginable.

"Poor things, to them they are most valuable!" sighed Mrs. Winslow. She was making conversation about the Miller china; but Johnny-Ivan and Peggy not unreasonably conceived that she spoke of the beautiful churns and hayraking wagons and cars and wheeled chairs and the like marvels which Miss Hopkins was amiably explaining for them.

"The least chip would be irreparable, I suppose," continued Mrs. Winter, "thousands couldn't pay if one were broken!"

"Imagine the feelings of the custodian," said Emma. "I'm in a tremble all the time."

"I pity you," said Mrs. Winter, as the two ladies passed on to Mrs. Winter's great-grandmother's blue and white embroidered bedspread.

"Oh, Peggy, do be careful!" whispered Johnny-Ivan; Peggy was sending a velocipede in dizzy circles round the counter.

Now fate had ordered that at this critical instant the children should be unguarded. Miss Hopkins had stepped aside at the call of an agitated lady who had lost one of her art treasures in carriage; for the moment, there was no one near save a freckled boy in shabby overalls, who eyed the toys wistfully from afar. He was the same little boy whom Johnny-Ivan had bribed with a jack-knife to close the gate a few weeks before; and he was in the Museum to help his mother, the scrub-woman of the store.

Peggy grew more pleased with her play. The velocipede described wider and wider gyrations with accelerating speed; its keen buzz swelled on the air.

"It'll hit somepin!" warned Johnny-Ivan in an access of fear.

But Peggy's soul was dauntless to recklessness. "No, it won't," she flung back. Her shining head was between Johnny and the whirling wheels. He thought a most particularly beautiful little swinging gate in peril and tried to swerve the flying thing; how it happened, neither of the children knew; there was a smash, a crash, and gate and velocipede lay in splinters under a bronze bust. The glass of the show-case was etched with a sinister gray line.

"Now look what you've done!" exclaimed Peggy, with the natural irritation of disaster. "Oh, my!" squeaked the shabby little boy, "won't you catch it!" Peggy's anger was swallowed up in fright and sympathy; she pushed Johnny-Ivan ahead of her. "That Miss Hopkins is looking," cried she, "get behind these folks down the aisle!"

She propelled the little boy out of the immediate neighborhood of the calamity; she forced a wicked, deceitful smile (alas! guile comes easy to her sex) and pointed out things to him, whispering, "Look pleasant! Don't be so scared! They'll never know we did it." Already she was shouldering her share in crime, with a woman's willingness; she said "we" quite unconsciously; but she added (and this was of direct volition): "I did it more'n you; you were just trying to keep the nasty thing straight; I was a heap more to blame. Anyhow, I guess it ain't so awful bad. Just those wooden things."

Johnny-Ivan shook a tragic head; even his lips had gone bluish-white. "She said thousands wouldn't repair the damage," moaned he.

"You can't make me believe those mean little wooden tricks are worth any thousand dollars!" volleyed Peggy; nevertheless, her heart beat faster,—grown people are so queer. "Are you sure she meant them? Maybe it was those things in the next glass case; they're her own things! They're some kind of Chinese china and cost a heap." Peggy's sturdy womanly wits were rising from the shock.

"And the show-case is broked!" sniffed Johnny-Ivan, gulping down a sob.

"It ain't broke, it's only cracked; 'sides, it was cracked a right smart befo'!"

"But this was a new place—I know, 'cause I cut my finger on the other, scraping it over."

"Well, anyhow, I reckon it didn't be much value," Peggy insisted.

"I saw that young lady come back,"—Johnny-Ivan had switched on to a new track leading to grisly possibilities—"maybe she'll find it!"

"Well, we're gone, all right."

Peggy gave an unprincipled giggle; "Maybe she'll think it was him."

"Then we got to tell," moaned Johnny.

"No, we ain't. He'll run off and so she won't ask him questions."

"But she'll think it's him. It'll be mean."

"No it won't."

"It's mean to have somebody else take your blame or your punishment; mamma said so."

The small casuist was too discreet to attack Johnny's oracle; she only pouted her pretty lips and quibbled:

"'Tain't mean if the people who get blamed are mean themselves—like him. I don't care how blamed he gets; I wouldn't care if he got licked."

But Johnny's conscience was not so elastic. "I don't care, either," he protested. "I—I wouldn't care if he was deaded"—anxious to propitiate—"but it would be mean just the same. I got to tell papa, Peggy, I truly have."

Peggy grew very cross. "You are just the foolest, obsternatest little boy I ever did see," she grumbled; "you're a plumb idiot! I'd like to slap you! Your papa'll be awful mad."

Johnny-Ivan essayed an indifferent mien, but his eyes were miserable.

"Say, Jo'nivan,"—her voice sank to a whisper that curdled his blood—"were you ever spanked?"

"Only Hilma sorter kinder—not really spanking, you know," confessed Johnny with a toss of his head. "I just made faces at her; I didn't cry!" he bragged.

"Never your mamma or your papa?"

"Course not," said Johnny with a haughty air; "but, Peggy," he said very low, "were you—did—"

"Oh, my, yes! Mammy did when I was little. I'm too big now."

"I'm too big, too, now, ain't I?"

"I don't know," said Peggy. "Wulf Greiner was licked by teacher, and he's thirteen. It's whether it's mighty bad, you know."

Johnny-Ivan caught his breath and his legs shook under him; the horror of his father's "licking" him came over him cold; it was not the pain; he had never minded Hilma's sturdy blows and he had let Michael cut a splinter out of his thumb with a pocket-knife, and never whimpered; it was the ignominy, the unknown terror of his father's wrath that looked awful to him. As he looked down the crowded room and suddenly beheld Winslow's face bent gravely over Miss Hopkins, who was talking earnestly, he could hardly move his feet. Yet he had no thought of wavering. "I got to tell," he said, and walked as fast as he could, with his white face, straight to the group.

Winslow looked down and saw the two children; and one could discover the signals of calamity in their faces: Peggy's a fine scarlet and Johnny-Ivan's grayish-white.

"What's the matter, Johnny?" asked Winslow.

Johnny's eyelids were glued tight—just as they were when he pulled Peggy's tooth—he blurted everything out breathlessly: "I've done something awful, papa! It'll cost thousands of dollars."

Emma Hopkins had considered Winslow an unattractive man, of a harsh visage, but now, as he looked at his little son, she changed her mind.

"What did you do, son?" said he quietly; his hand found Johnny's brown curls and lay on them a second.

"He didn't do it, really; it was me," Peggy broke in, too agitated for grammar. "I was playing with the little tricks on the table, the models, sah, and I was making the v'losipid run round and he was 'fraid I'd break it; but I did it, really, sah."

"And the model fell on to something valuable? I see."

"But he wasn't playing with it, he was only trying to keep me from breaking—"

"Well, young lady, you two are evidently in the same boat; but you aren't a bit sneaky, either of you. Let's see the wreckage; I suppose you got into trouble because you wanted to see how things worked, and Johnny, as usual, couldn't keep out of other folks' hot water. Where's the ruin?"

"The show-case is broked, too," said Johnny-Ivan in a woeful, small voice.

"But it was cracked before," interjected Peggy.

Winslow looked at her with a little twist. "That's a comfort," said he, "and you have horse sense, my little Southerner. I guess you didn't either of you mean any harm—"

"Indeed, no, sah, and Johnny was just as good; never touched a thing—"

"But you see your intentions didn't protect you. Distrust good intentions, my dears; look out for the possible consequences. However, I think there is one person to blame you haven't mentioned, and that is one Josiah C. Winslow, who let two such giddy young persons explore by themselves. Contributory negligence is proved; and said Winslow will pay the bill and not kick."

So saying, he took Peggy's warm, chubby little fingers in one of his big white hands and Johnny-Ivan's cold little palm in the other, and nodded a farewell to Emma.



THE BALLAD OF GRIZZLY GULCH[1]

BY WALLACE IRWIN

The rocks are rough, the trail is tough, The forest lies before, As madly, madly to the hunt Rides good King Theodore With woodsmen, plainsmen, journalists And kodaks thirty-four.

The bob-cats howl, the panthers growl, "He sure is after us!" As by his side lopes Bill, the Guide, A wicked-looking cuss— "Chee-chee!" the little birds exclaim, "Ain't Teddy stren-oo-uss!"

Though dour the climb with slip and slime, King Ted he doesn't care, Till, cracking peanuts on a rock, Behold, a Grizzly Bear! King Theodore he shows his teeth, But he never turns a hair.

"Come hither, Court Photographer," The genial monarch saith, "Be quick to snap your picture-trap As I do yon Bear to death." "Dee-lighted!" cries the smiling Bear, As he waits and holds his breath.

Then speaks the Court Biographer, And a handy guy is he, "First let me wind my biograph, That the deed recorded be." "A square deal!" saith the patient Bear, With ready repartee.

And now doth mighty Theodore For slaughter raise his gun; A flash, a bang, an ursine roar— The dready deed is done! And now the kodaks thirty-four In chorus click as one.

The big brown bruin stricken falls And in his juices lies; His blood is spent, yet deep content Beams from his limpid eyes. "Congratulations, dear old pal!" He murmurs as he dies.

From Cripple Creek and Soda Springs, Gun Gulch and Gunnison, A-foot, a-sock, the people flock To see that deed of gun; And parents bring huge families To show what they have done.

In the damp corse stands Theodore And takes a hand of each, As loud and long the happy throng Cries, "Speech!" again and "Speech!" Which pleaseth well King Theodore, Whose practice is to preach.

"Good friends," he says, "lead outdoor lives And Fame you yet may see— Just look at Lincoln, Washington, And great Napoleon B.; And after that take off your hats And you may look at me!"

But as he speaks, a Messenger Cries, "Sire, a telegraft!" The king up takes the wireless screed Which he opens fore and aft, And reads: "The Venezuelan stew Is boiling over. TAFT."

Then straight the good King Theodore In anger drops his gun And turns his flashing spectacles Toward high-domed Washington. "O tush!" he saith beneath his breath, "A man can't have no fun!"

Then comes a disappointed wail From every rock and tree. "Good-by, good-by!" the grizzlies cry And wring their handkerchee. And a sad bob-cat exclaims, "O drat! He never shot at me!"

So backward, backward from the hunt The monarch lopes once more. The Constitution rides behind And the Big Stick rides before (Which was a rule of precedent In the reign of Theodore).

[Footnote 1: From "At the Sign of the Dollar," by Wallace Irwin. Copyright, 1905, by Fox, Duffield & Co.]



MY PHILOSOFY

BY JAMES WHITCOMB RILEY

I ain't, ner don't p'tend to be, Much posted on philosofy; But thare is times, when all alone, I work out idees of my own. And of these same thare is a few I'd like to jest refer to you— Pervidin' that you don't object To listen clos't and rickollect.

I allus argy that a man Who does about the best he can Is plenty good enugh to suit This lower mundane institute— No matter ef his daily walk Is subject fer his neghbor's talk, And critic-minds of ev'ry whim Jest all git up and go fer him!

I knowed a feller onc't that had The yeller-janders mighty bad,— And each and ev'ry friend he'd meet Would stop and give him some receet Fer cuorin' of 'em. But he'd say He kindo' thought they'd go away Without no medicin', and boast That he'd git well without one doste.

He kep' a-yellerin' on—and they Perdictin' that he'd die some day Before he knowed it! Tuck his bed, The feller did, and lost his head, And wundered in his mind a spell— Then rallied, and, at last, got well; But ev'ry friend that said he'd die Went back on him eternally!

Its natchurl enugh, I guess, When some gits more and some gits less, Fer them-uns on the slimmest side To claim it ain't a fare divide; And I've knowed some to lay and wait, And git up soon, and set up late, To ketch some feller they could hate Fer goin' at a faster gait.

The signs is bad when folks commence A-findin' fault with Providence, And balkin' 'cause the earth don't shake At ev'ry prancin' step they take. No man is grate tel he can see How less than little he would be Ef stripped to self, and stark and bare He hung his sign out anywhare.

My doctern is to lay aside Contensions, and be satisfied: Jest do your best, and praise er blame That follers that, counts jest the same. I've allus noticed grate success Is mixed with troubles, more or less, And it's the man who does the best That gits more kicks than all the rest.



THE SOCIETY UPON THE STANISLAUS

BY BRET HARTE

I reside at Table Mountain, and my name is Truthful James; I am not up to small deceit, or any sinful games; And I'll tell in simple language what I know about the row That broke up our society upon the Stanislow.

But first I would remark, that it is not a proper plan For any scientific man to whale his fellow-man, And, if a member don't agree with his peculiar whim, To lay for that same member for to "put a head" on him.

Now, nothing could be finer or more beautiful to see Than the first six months' proceedings of that same society, Till Brown of Calaveras brought a lot of fossil bones That he found within a tunnel near the tenement of Jones.

Then Brown he read a paper, and he reconstructed there, From those same bones, an animal that was extremely rare; And Jones then asked the Chair for a suspension of the rules, Till he could prove that those same bones was one of his lost mules.

Then Brown he smiled a bitter smile and said he was at fault, It seemed he had been trespassing on Jones's family vault; He was a most sarcastic man, this quiet Mr. Brown, And on several occasions he had cleaned out the town.

Now, I hold it is not decent for a scientific gent To say another is an ass—at least, to all intent; Nor should the individual who happens to be meant Reply by heaving rocks at him to any great extent.

Then Abner Dean of Angel's raised a point of order, when A chunk of old red sandstone took him in the abdomen, And he smiled a kind of sickly smile, and curled up on the floor, And the subsequent proceedings interested him no more.

For, in less time than I write it, every member did engage In a warfare with the remnants of a palaeozoic age; And the way they heaved those fossils in their anger was a sin, Till the skull of an old mammoth caved the head of Thompson in.

And this is all I have to say of these improper games, For I live at Table Mountain, and my name is Truthful James; And I've told, in simple language, what I know about the row That broke up our society upon the Stanislow.



LOST CHORDS

BY EUGENE FIELD

One autumn eve, when soft the breeze Came sweeping through the lattice wide, I sat me down at organ side And poured my soul upon the keys.

It was, perhaps by heaven's design, That from my half unconscious touch, There swept a passing chord of such Sweet harmony, it seemed divine.

In one soft tone it seemed to say The sweetest words I ever heard, Then like a truant forest bird, It soared from me to heaven away.

Last eve, I sat at window whence I sought the spot where erst had stood A cord—a cord of hick'ry wood, Piled up against the back yard fence.

Four dollars cost me it that day, Four dollars earned by sweat of brow, Where was the cord of hick'ry now? The thieves had gobbled it away!

Ah! who can ever count the cost, Of treasures which were once our own, Yet now, like childhood dreams are flown, Those cords that are forever lost.



THOUGHTS FER THE DISCURAGED FARMER

BY JAMES WHITCOMB RILEY

The summer winds is sniffin' round the bloomin' locus' trees; And the clover in the pastur is a big day fer the bees, And they been a-swiggin' honey, above board and on the sly, Tel they stutter in theyr buzzin' and stagger as they fly. The flicker on the fence-rail 'pears to jest spit on his wings And roll up his feathers, by the sassy way he sings; And the hoss-fly is a-whettin'-up his forelegs fer biz, And the off-mare is a-switchin' all of her tale they is.

You can hear the blackbirds jawin' as they foller up the plow— Oh, theyr bound to git theyr brekfast, and theyr not a-carin' how; So they quarrel in the furries, and they quarrel on the wing— But theyr peaceabler in pot-pies than any other thing: And it's when I git my shotgun drawed up in stiddy rest, She's as full of tribbelation as a yeller-jacket's nest; And a few shots before dinner, when the sun's a-shinin' right, Seems to kindo'-sorto' sharpen up a feller's appetite!

They's been a heap o' rain, but the sun's out to-day, And the clouds of the wet spell is all cleared away, And the woods is all the greener, and the grass is greener still; It may rain again to-morry, but I don't think it will. Some says the crops is ruined, and the corn's drownded out, And propha-sy the wheat will be a failure, without doubt; But the kind Providence that has never failed us yet, Will be on hands onc't more at the 'leventh hour, I bet!

Does the medder-lark complane, as he swims high and dry Through the waves of the wind and the blue of the sky? Does the quail set up and whissel in a disappinted way, Er hang his head in silunce, and sorrow all the day? Is the chipmuck's health a-failin'?—Does he walk, er does he run? Don't the buzzards ooze around up thare jest like they've allus done? Is they anything the matter with the rooster's lungs er voice? Ort a mortul be complanin' when dumb animals rejoice?

Then let us, one and all, be contentud with our lot; The June is here this mornin', and the sun is shining hot. Oh! let us fill our harts up with the glory of the day, And banish ev'ry doubt and care and sorrow fur away! Whatever be our station, with Providence fer guide, Sich fine circumstances ort to make us satisfied; Fer the world is full of roses, and the roses full of dew, And the dew is full of heavenly love that drips fer me and you.



THE MODERN FARMER[2]

BY JACK APPLETON

Observe the modern farmer! In the shade He works his crops by letters-patent now: Steam drives the reaper (which is union-made), As in the spring it pushed the auto-plough; A patent milker manages each cow; Electric currents guide the garden spade, And cattle, poultry, pigs through "process" wade To quick perfection—Science shows them how. But while machinery plants and reaps, he rests Upon his porch, and listens to the quail That pipe far off in yonder hand-made vale, With muscles flabby and with strength gone stale, Until, in desperation, he invests In "Muscle-Building Motions Taught by Mail"!

[Footnote 2: Lippincott's Magazine.]



THE APOSTASY OF WILLIAM DODGE

BY STANLEY WATERLOO

Billy Dodge rose from a seat near the door, and gave the two ladies chairs. Kate looked at him and smiled. The voice of the speaker seemed far away as she thought of the boy and his enthusiasms. Of all the earnest and sincere converts in the Lakeside House none could compare with Master William Dodge, the only son of the mistress of the place. He might be only eleven years old, he might be the most freckled boy in the block, but he had received new light, and he had his convictions. He had listened, and he had learned. He had learned that if you "hold a thought" and carry it around with you on a piece of paper, and read it from time to time throughout the day, it will bring you strength and give you victory in all the affairs of life. He thought the matter over much, for he had great need. He wanted help.

Of Master William Dodge, known as Billy, it may be said that in school he had ordinarily more fights on his hands than any other boy of his age and size, and it may be said, also, that as a rule, where the chances were anywhere near even, he came out "on top." But doggedly brave as the little freckled villain was, he had down in the bottom of his heart an appreciation that some day Jim McMasters might lick him. Jim McMasters was a boy only some six months older than Billy, of North of Ireland blood—than which there is none better—a lank, scrawny, reddish-haired youngster, freckled almost as profusely as Billy. Three times had they met in noble battle, and three times had Billy been the conqueror, but somehow the spirit of young McMasters did not seem particularly broken, nor did he become a serf. Billy felt that the air was full of portent, and he didn't like it.

It was just at this time that to Billy came the conviction that by "holding the thought" he would have what he called "the bulge on Jim," and having the energy of his convictions, he promptly set to the work of getting up texts which he could carry around in his pocket and which would make him just invincible. He talked cautiously with Mandy Make as to good watch-words, in no way revealing his designs, and from her secured certain texts which she had herself unconsciously memorized from many hearings of Jowler preachers. They were:

"Fight the good fight." "Never give up." "He never fails who dies in a good cause." "Never say die."

For a time Billy was content with these quotations, written in a school-boy hand upon brown paper, and carried in his left-hand trousers pocket, but later he discovered that most of the scientists in the house who "held a thought" themselves prepared their own little bit of manuscript to be carried and read during the day, and that the text was made to apply to their special needs. Billy, after much meditation, concluded this was the thing for him, and with great travail he composed and wrote out the new texts which he should carry constantly and which should be his bulwark. Here they are:

"Ketch hold prompt and hang on." "Strike from the shoulder." "A kick for a blow, always bestow." "When you get a good thing, keep it—keep it." "When you get a black cat, skin it to the tail."

Only a week later one William Dodge and one Jim McMasters again met in more or less mortal combat, and one William Dodge, repeating the shorter of his texts as he fought, was again the victor.

"Gimme Christian Science!" he said to himself, as he put on his coat after the fray was over.

* * * * *

Billy Dodge was fast drifting, although unconsciously, toward a crisis in his religious and worldly experiences. At school, during the last term, and so far in the summer vacation, his scheme of fortifying his physical powers with mental stimulants in the form of warlike "thoughts" had worked well. His chief rival for the honors of war, an energetic youngster, whose name, Jim McMasters, proclaimed his Irish ancestry, he had soundly thrashed more than once since adopting his new tactics. So far Billy had found that to hold the thought, "Ketch hold prompt and hang on," while he acted vigorously upon that stirring sentiment, meant victory, and he had more than once tried the efficacy of, "Strike from the shoulder," under adverse conditions and with success.

It was during this summer of anxiety to the more important personages of this story that Billy Dodge was called upon to prove the practical value of his belief in the supremacy of mind over matter, and although Billy emerged from the trial none the worse for his experience, it effected a radical change in his views.

Jim McMasters returned one summer's day from a short camping excursion in the Michigan woods. He had been the only boy in a party of young men, and during their spare hours, as the members of the fishing party were lying around camp, they had instructed Jim in a few of the first principles of the noble science of self-defense. This unselfish action on the part of his elders was brought about by Jim's bitter complaints of Billy's treatment of himself in a fair fight, and by his dire thirst for vengeance.

And so Jim McMasters came back to the city a dangerous opponent, and he looked it. Even Billy, secure in the prestige of former victories, and armed with hidden weapons—namely, the "thoughts" he so tenaciously held—felt some misgivings when he saw Jim and noted his easy, swaggering mien.

"I've got to lick him again," thought Billy, "and I've got to be good and ready for him this time. I must get a set of thoughts well learned and hold 'em, or I'll be lammed out of my life."

The youngsters met one day, each with his following of admirers, in a vacant lot not far from the Lakeside House. There was a queer look in Jim's eye when he hailed Billy, and there was instant response in language of a violent character from the young disciple of Christian Science. As the two stood in a ring of boys, each watching the other and alert to catch some advantage of beginning, Billy was certainly the most unconcerned, and he appeared to advantage. He was occupied throughout every nerve and vein of his being, first in "holding the thought" he had fixed upon for this special occasion, and second, by his plan of attack, for Billy made it a point always to take the initiative in a fight.

As for Jim, that active descendant of the Celts failed to exhibit that alarm and apprehension which should appertain to a young gentleman of his age when facing an antagonist who had "whaled" him repeatedly. His face was neither sallow with long dread, nor white with present fear before his former conqueror. In fact, it must be said of him that he capered about in a fashion not particularly graceful. He rose upon the ends of his toes and made wild feints which Billy did not understand. It was hard, under such disquieting circumstances, to hold a thought, and Billy found himself struggling in mind for equilibrium while he stood forward to the attack. He aimed a wild blow at his capering opponent, and drove into soundless air only, and before he could recover himself the capering opponent had "landed" on Billy's cheek in a most surprising but altogether unrefreshing manner.

The concussion made the cheek the color of an old-fashioned peony, and the jar caused the nose to bleed a little as the astonished Billy staggered back under the impact of a clenched fist.

Then the real fight began, but Billy, though he made a strong effort to rally, was beaten, and he knew, or thought he knew, why he was beaten. "It was holding the thought that done it," he faltered, as he fell after a quick stroke from Jim. He lay quiet on the grass, and his one wish was to die. He fixed his mind resolutely upon this wish, but failed to die at once; indeed he felt every moment the reviving forces of life throbbing through his tough young body. How could he look up and face his victorious foe? He decided rather to continue his efforts to die, and forthwith stiffened out into such rigidity as can be observed only in the bodies of those who have been dead forty-eight hours.

This manoeuver frightened the lads around him. "See here!" said Johnny Flynn, "Billy's hurt bad, an' we ought to do something."

"He looks dead!" whimpered little Davy Runnion, the smallest boy present, and he ran off to tell Jim McMasters, who stood at ease, at a short distance, arranging his disordered dress.

The victor faltered as he looked upon Billy's stiffened limbs.

"We must take him home," he said, ruefully.

Four boys lifted Billy, two at his shoulders, two at his feet. In the center he sagged slightly, despite his silent efforts to be rigidity itself. The small procession was preceded by a rabble of white-faced small boys, while the rear was guarded by Jim McMasters, meditating on the reflection that victory might be too dearly bought. Just as they reached the front steps of Mrs. Dodge's house, and were beginning the tug up toward the door, Jim burst into a loud bawl, and this so much disconcerted the youngsters who were carrying Billy that they almost dropped him on the white door-stone.

Johnny Flynn gave a mighty ring at the door-bell, and then fled down the steps and ran to the street corner, where he stood, one foot in the air, ready to run when the door opened. The neat maid who answered the bell gave a little shriek when she saw Billy's inanimate form. The boys pushed by her, dumped their burden upon the big hall sofa, and rushed out before any questions could be asked. It was plain enough, however, that Billy had got the worst of the fight. "And sure enough he deserves it," mentally pronounced the servant maid as she ran to call her mistress.

Mrs. Dodge gave a dismal shriek when she saw Billy. She sent the maid for Dr. Gordon, and sat down on the sofa with Billy's head in her lap. This was ignominious, and Billy decided to live. He opened his eyes, and in a faint voice asked for water.

When the man of medicine arrived he ordered the vanquished to bed. In the goodness of his heart, pitying the household of women, he even carried Billy upstairs and assisted in undressing him. The doctor noticed during this process various small folded papers flying out of Billy's pockets, but he did not know their meaning. It was left for Cora and Pearl, later in the day, to pick them up and examine them. Alas for Billy's faith!

In his own boyish handwriting were his inspiring "thoughts," "Never say die," "Ketch hold prompt," etc. Billy turned his face to the wall with a groan as the twins laid the slips of paper on his pillow.

That evening, after Billy had held a long session of sweet, silent thought, for he could not sleep, and had eaten a remarkably good supper, he opened his mind to his mother.

"No more of these for me," he began, brushing the texts from his bed onto the floor.

"Of what, Willy?" questioned Mrs. Dodge.

"No more holdin' the thought, and all that," said Billy. "I'm through. Had too much. That's what did me up. If I hadn't been trying to think that blamed thought, I'd 'a' seen Jim a-comin'."

"But, Willy," expostulated Mrs. Dodge, "you must hold fast."

"Hold nothin'!" said Billy. He arose and sat up very straight in the bed. "I tell you I am goin' to have no more nonsense. Gimme quinine, hell, a gold basis, and capital punishment! That's my platform from this on. I'm goin' to look up a good Sunday-school to-morrow, in a church with a steeple on it, and a strict, regular minister, and all the fixin's. Remember, mother, after this I travel on my muscle weekdays, and keep Sunday like a clock!"

The twins picked up the scattered thoughts from the floor—Billy was lying in his mother's room—and their eyes were big with wonder.

"Burn 'em!" commanded Billy. Then, on second thought, he relented slightly. "Keep 'em yourself if you want to," he said to the twins. "Holdin' the thought may be all right for girls, but with boys it don't work!"



SO WAGS THE WORLD

BY ANNE WARNER

(With apologies to Samuel Pepys, Esquire)

February first

My birthday and I exceedingly merry thereat having in divers friends and much good wine beside two pasties and more of all than we could eat and drink had we been doubled. Afterwards to the play-house and a very good play and hence to a supper the which most hot and comforting with a butt of brandy and divers cocktails and they being very full did make great sport and joke me that I had never taken a wife to which replied neatly saying that for my part in my twenties did feel myself too young and in my thirties did never chance upon one comely and to my taste at which great applause and pretty to see me bow to right and left although in mortal fear lest something give way, I being grown heavier of late and the quality of cloth suffering from the New York Custom House. The applause being over did continue my speech and say that in my forties had had little time to think of aught but my own personal affairs, but that now being come to my fifties was well disposed to share them and they did all drink to that and smash their glasses with right good cheer prophesying my marriage and drinking long life to Her and me and Lord but it did like me to hear speak of Her the which brought tears to mine eyes, considering that they did speak of my wife, and so did weep freely and they with me. My mind then a blank but home in some shape and the maid did get me to my room and what a head this morning! Misliketh me much to bethink me how I did comport myself, but a man is fifty but once.

To mine office where did buy and sell as usual.

February third

Comes H. Nevil in a glass coach to take me to drive and did talk much of his niece, she being fresh from France and of a good skin and fair voice. Was of a great joy to ride in a glass coach and pleasant to look constantly out backward, but great rattling and do think my modest brougham sufficeth me well, but H. Nevil very disdainful of the brougham and saith a man is known by the company he keepeth, the which strange in mine eyes we being alone together in the coach but did go with him to a horse dealer's.

To mine office as usual and there did buy and sell.

February eighth

To dine with H. Nevil and his wife and she a monstrous pleasant lady and the dinner good only the wine poor and my vest too tight which vastly misliked me, I being loth to grow stout and yet all at odds with my belts, the which trying me sadly for I do pay my tailor as many do not. And the niece a striking fine girl modest and not raising her eyes the which much to my taste and drinking only lambs-wool and at cards knowing not tierce from deuce. H. Nevil making great ado over my new coach did have it out with pride and we to the Country Club for a late supper, the which well-cooked but my vest much tighter and so home and to bed.

Railway stocks risen two points.

February twentieth

Did take a box at the Play and ask H. Nevil, his wife and niece and a supper afterwards and pretty to see how miss did refuse mine eyes and hardly speak two words, the which greatly to my admiration and after supper did lead her to the coach and press her hand with curious effect to mine own hair, the which strange and prickly and home and much thinking on the merry talk at my birthday before sleep.

Stocks falling somewhat.

March nineteenth

Much agitated and all trembling and of a cold sweat. The Lord have mercy and me all unwitting until in some strange way do find myself today betrothed the which I do heartily pray to be for the good of all concerned, although expensive and worse to come.

No heart for stocks, but the same arising.

April sixteenth

Do find the being betrothed more to my taste than anticipated and tell H. Nevil he shall be remembered with pointers when the market turns again. We to the park to drive each afternoon and many admiring of her beauty, she desiring often to drive but I firm in refusing for I will be master in my own house.

Comes one Lasselle and makes a great tale of a mine and I with no time for him, but do set the office boy to look him up in Bradstreet.

These be busy days with a corner on parsnips.

May tenth

The business of being director in Lasselle's mine ended this day and to a great dinner that he giveth in my honor and my portrait on all the cards the which pleaseth me mightily and I all complimented and congratulationed and sly hints on my approaching marriage to the which I all smiles for Lord the thing being done one must be of good courage.

Quotations low, beshrew them.

June seventh (the Mountains)

Married this day and to do in a turmoil wheat being all a-rage and me forced to go home to dress before noon. Did scarce know where I was with Extras being cried outside the church window and H. Nevil giving the bride away and on the wrong side of the market by my advice. The bride hystericky in the carriage and at the station wept so that I was fair beside myself. Did bethink me to kiss her in the train, but small comfort to either. What will become of my affairs I know not, this place being all without stock reports and I half mad and with naught to pass the time.

Comes my wife as I write and will have the key to her largest trunk the same it doth appear is lost, the which on discovery she layeth at my door and weepeth afresh. Did strive to cheer her but with a heavy heart.

August tenth

This do be the hottest summer in many years and lest I forget to set it down more mad dogs than can well be handled. My wife very hystericky and forever in a smock and declareth she would be dead and married life a delusion, the which opinion I take small issue with having my hands full of business and Lasselle forever at my heels with our affair of the mine not to speak of H. Nevil which waileth continually over how he was caught short in the month of June. Beshrew me if I repent not of June on mine own behalf but am determined to live properly and so have despatched a messenger to my cousin Sarah Badminton asking that she come to keep mine house.

August twentieth

Comes Sarah Badminton this day and Lord but a plain woman, being flat like unto a board from her heels up unto her head, but curiously shaped in and out in front. Still she do seem a worthy jade and good at heart and ever attentive when I will to converse and sitteth with me of a breakfast my wife being ever asleep till ten.

Last night to the Play where comes Lasselle and makes very merry and telleth jokes the which of great amusement to my wife while I find no mirth therein. Later to supper at the coffee house and my wife exceedingly witty and me all of a wonder at the change in her in public and on reflection do find it passing strange that one ugly like Mistress Badminton will effort her to be gracious at home while one so handsome as my wife sleeps ever.

To my office where did buy and sell as usual.

September sixteenth

My wife not well and strangely indisposed towards me yawning unduly and complaining that life is dull, yet gay enough for others and of a great joy over riding horseback with Lasselle. Last night did chide her in bed for upwards of an hour and misliked me greatly when I had done to find that she slept for some while before. Will have the doctor to her for there be surely something amiss in a woman who is not happy with me.

To my office and H. Nevil all excitement over his margins.

October twenty-ninth

Returned this day from a trip to the Coast and find my wife no better although the doctor hath been with her each day. She saith the doctor adviseth quiet until spring. Comes Mrs. Badminton her face all awry and will that I go with her to Carlsbad and my affairs so many as never was and never any lover of the sea. That which causeth me great vexation that I have a wife and say flatly to Mrs. Badminton to ask the doctor if he can not take her to Carlsbad any money being wiser than to travel with oats where they be now and chicken feed going up to beat the band, at which the good woman raiseth her hands aloft and maketh such demonstration that I clean out of patience and basted her with the fire shovel the same being not courteous but sadly necessary to all appearance.

November sixth

My wife most nervous and there being no peace with Her did discuss the same with Lasselle to-day and although unmarried yet did sympathize much and advise for me with a right good will telling me of a place in southern France where he hath been and the same beyond all else for the nerves only lonely but that not so bad since he proposeth going there this winter himself and can see after my wife somewhat the which greatly to my relief and so home and did discourse thereon with Mistress Badminton the which drew a long face and plain to see was dead against the plan the which putting me in a fine temper with what a woman hath for brains.

Wheat rising and A. B. & C. going down comes H. Nevil short to borrow the which crowneth my fury his niece being so far from making me happy and he being the cause of all. But did indorse two notes for him and so home and to bed with a bad grace and glad that my wife has betaken herself to another room.

December ninth

From the dock and my wife do be gone and now we may look for some peace the which sad enough needed.

December tenth

Comes H. Nevil all distraught to say that it is about at the clubs that my wife will have a divorce and marry the doctor, on the which hearing I much annoyed and summon Mrs. Badminton who denyeth the doctor but asserteth Lasselle whereupon we in a great taking and much brandy and soda but at last reflection and do decide not to sue but to pity Lasselle for of a verity she be forever out of temper and flounceth when questioned.

To mine office and D. & E. going up comes H. Nevil to borrow again the gall of which doth take me greatly.

January seventeenth

Am all of a taking for that the papers in my wife's divorce do be filed into me this day and great to do when I learn that the cause she declareth is Sarah Badminton a woman as little comely as never was and mine own cousin. Verily the ways of a wife be past understanding.

April eleventh

Free this day and being free comes Mrs. Badminton weeping and declareth she be ruined if I marry her not next the which doth so overcome me that ere I have time to rally she hath kissed me and called me hers.

To my office with a heavy heart having no assurance of how this second marriage will turn out and little hope but seeing H. Nevil with a long face did refuse to give him any inside information the which led to his going under about noon to my great joy for it was he who did get me in this marrying habit.

February first

My birthday and Lord what eating and drinking the which being good beyond compare my wife staying in the pantry to keep the whole in trim and all my friends discoursing on my joy the which is truly great she being so plain that a man will never look at her and so loving that she adoreth me come smiles come frowns.

But that which doth astonish me much is that H. Nevil telleth me that she that was once my wife is of exceeding content with Lasselle a piece of news which I can scarce credit comparing him with myself.

But so wags the world.



THE PAINTERMINE[3]

BY KENYON COX

Its innocence deserves no jibe— Pity the creature, do not mock it. 'Tis type of all the artist tribe; Its trousers haven't any pocket!

[Footnote 3: From "Mixed Beasts," by Kenyon Cox. Copyright 1904, by Fox, Duffield & Co.]



THE ADVERTISER

BY EUGENE FIELD

I am an advertiser great! In letters bold The praises of my wares I sound, Prosperity is my estate; The people come, The people go In one continuous, Surging flow. They buy my goods and come again And I'm the happiest of men; And this the reason I relate, I'm an advertiser great!

There is a shop across the way Where ne'er is heard a human tread, Where trade is paralyzed and dead, With ne'er a customer a day. The people come, The people go, But never there. They do not know There's such a shop beneath the skies, Because he does not advertise! While I with pleasure contemplate That I'm an advertiser great.

The secret of my fortune lies In one small fact, which I may state, Too many tradesmen learn too late, If I have goods, I advertise. Then people come And people go In constant streams, For people know That he who has good wares to sell Will surely advertise them well; And proudly I reiterate, I am an advertiser great!



THE FAMOUS MULLIGAN BALL

BY FRANK L. STANTON

Did ever you hear of the Mulligan ball—the Mulligan ball so fine, Where we formed in ranks, and danced on planks, and swung 'em along the line? Where the first Four Hundred of the town moved at the music's call? There was never a ball in the world at all—like the famous Mulligan ball!

Town was a bit of a village then, and never a house or shed From street to street and beat to beat was higher than Mulligan's head! And never a theater troup came round to 'liven us, spring or fall, And so Mulligan's wife she says, says she: "Plaze God, I'll give a ball!"

And she did—God rest her, and save her, too! (I'm liftin' to her my hat!) And never a ball at all, at all, was half as fine as that! Never no invitations sent—nothin' like that at all; But the whole Four Hundred combed their hair and went to the Mulligan ball.

And "Take yer places!" says Mulligan, "an' dance till you shake the wall!" And I led Mrs. Mulligan off as the lady that gave the ball; And we whirled around till we shook the ground, with never a stop at all; And I kicked the heels from my boots—please God—at the famous Mulligan ball.

Mulligan jumped till he hit the roof, and the head of him went clean through it! The shingles fell on the floor pell-mell! Says Mulligan: "Faith, I knew it!" But we kept right on when the roof was gone, with never a break at all; We danced away till the break o' day at the famous Mulligan ball.

But the best of things must pass away like the flowers that fade and fall, And it's fifty years, as the records say, since we danced at Mulligan's ball; And the new Four Hundred never dance like the Mulligans danced—at all, And I'm longing still, though my hair is gray, for a ball like Mulligan's ball!

And I drift in dreams to the old-time town, and I hear the fiddle sing; And Mulligan sashays up and down till the rafters rock and ring! Suppose, if I had a woman's eye, maybe a tear would fall For the old-time fellows who took the prize at the famous Mulligan ball!



THE GENIAL IDIOT DISCUSSES THE MUSIC CURE

BY JOHN KENDRICK BANGS

"Good morning, Doctor," said the Idiot as Capsule, M.D., entered the dining-room. "I am mighty glad you've come. I've wanted for a long time to ask you about this music cure that everybody is talking about and get you if possible to write me out a list of musical nostrums for every day use. I noticed last night before going to bed that my medicine chest was about run out. There's nothing but one quinine pill and a soda-mint drop in it, and if there's anything in the music cure I don't think I'll have it filled again. I prefer Wagner to squills, and compared to the delights of Mozart, Hayden and Offenbach those of paregoric are nit."

"Still rambling, eh?" vouchsafed the Doctor. "You ought to submit your tongue to some scientific student of dynamics. I am inclined to think, from my own observation of its ways, that it contains the germ of perpetual motion."

"I will consider your suggestion," replied the Idiot. "Meanwhile, let us consult harmoniously together on the original point. Is there anything in this music cure, and is it true that our Medical Schools are hereafter to have conservatories attached to them in which aspiring young M.D.'s are to be taught the materia musica in addition to the materia medica?"

"I had heard of no such idiotic proposition," returned the Doctor. "And as for the music cure I don't know anything about it. Haven't heard everybody talking about it, and doubt the existence of any such thing outside of that mysterious realm which is bounded by the four corners of your own bright particular cerebellum. What do you mean by the music cure?"

"Why, the papers have been full of it lately," explained the Idiot. "The claim is made that in music lies the panacea for all human ills. It may not be able to perform a surgical operation like that which is required for the removal of a leg, and I don't believe even Wagner ever composed a measure that could be counted on successfully to eliminate one's vermiform appendix from its chief sphere of usefulness, but for other things, like measles, mumps, the snuffles, or indigestion, it is said to be wonderfully efficacious; What I wanted to find out from you was just what composers were best for which specific troubles."

"You'll have to go to somebody else for the information," said the Doctor. "I never heard of the theory and, as I said before, I don't believe anybody else has, barring your own sweet self."

"I have seen a reference to it somewhere," put in Mr. Whitechoker, coming to the Idiot's rescue. "As I recall the matter, some lady had been cured of a nervous affection by a scientific application of some musical poultice or other, and the general expectation seems to be that some day we shall find in music a cure for all our human ills, as the Idiot suggests."

"Thank you, Mr. Whitechoker," said the Idiot gratefully. "I saw that same item and several others besides, and I have only told the truth when I say that a large number of people are considering the possibilities of music as a substitute for drugs. I am surprised that Doctor Capsule has neither heard nor thought about it, for I should think it would prove to be a pleasant and profitable field for speculation. Even I who am only a dabbler in medicine, and know no more about it than the effects of certain remedies upon my own symptoms, have noticed that music of a certain sort is a sure emollient for nervous conditions."

"For example?" said the Doctor. "Of course we don't doubt your word, but when a man makes a statement based upon personal observation it is profitable to ask him what his precise experience has been merely for the purpose of adding to our own knowledge."

"Well," said the Idiot, "the first instance that I can recall is that of a Wagner Opera and its effects upon me. For a number of years I suffered a great deal from insomnia. I could not get two hours of consecutive sleep and the effect of my sufferings was to make me nervous and irritable. Suddenly somebody presented me with a couple of tickets for a performance of Parsifal and I went. It began at five o'clock in the afternoon. For twenty minutes all went serenely and then the music began to work. I fell into a deep and refreshing slumber. The intermission came, and still I slept on. Everybody else went home, dressed for the evening part of the performance, had their dinner, and returned. Still I slept and continued so to do until midnight when one of the gentlemanly ushers came and waked me up and told me that the performance was over. I rubbed my eyes and looked about me. It was true, the great auditorium was empty, and was gradually darkening. I put on my hat and walked out refreshed, having slept from five twenty until twelve, or six hours and forty minutes, straight. That was one instance. Two weeks later I went again, this time to hear Die Goetherdammerung. The results were the same, only the effect was instantaneous. The curtain had hardly risen before I retired to the little ante-room of the box our party occupied and dozed off into a fathomless sleep. I didn't wake up this time until nine o'clock the next day, the rest of the party having gone off without awakening me, as a sort of joke. Clearly Wagner, according to my way of thinking, then deserves to rank among the most effective narcotics known to modern science. I have tried all sorts of other things—sulfonal, trionel, bromide powders, and all the rest and not one of them produced anything like the soporific results that two doses of Wagner brought about in one instant, and best of all there was no reaction. No splitting headache or shaky hand the next day, but just the calm, quiet, contented feeling that goes with the sense of having got completely rested up."