EL SENOR DON SANTOS URIQUE,

LA CASA BLANCA.

My Dear Sir: I beg permission to inform you that there is in my house as a temporary guest a young man who arrived in Buenas Tierras from the United States some days ago. Without wishing to excite any hopes that may not be realized, I think there is a possibility of his being your long-absent son. It might be well for you to call and see him. If he is, it is my opinion that his intention was to return to his home, but upon arriving here, his courage failed him from doubts as to how he would be received.

Your true servant,

THOMPSON THACKER.

Half an hour afterward—quick time for Buenas Tierras—Senor Urique's ancient landau drove to the consul's door, with the barefooted coachman beating and shouting at the team of fat, awkward horses.

A tall man with a white mustache alighted, and assisted to the ground a lady who was dressed and veiled in unrelieved black.

The two hastened inside, and were met by Thacker with his best diplomatic bow. By his desk stood a slender young man with clear-cut, sun-browned features and smoothly brushed black hair.

Senora Urique threw back her heavy veil with a quick gesture. She was past middle age, and her hair was beginning to silver, but her full, proud figure and clear olive skin retained traces of the beauty peculiar to the Basque province. But, once you had seen her eyes, and comprehended the great sadness that was revealed in their deep shadows and hopeless expression, you saw that the woman lived only in some memory.

She bent upon the young man a long look of the most agonized questioning. Then her great black eyes turned, and her gaze rested upon his left hand. And then with a sob, not loud, but seeming to shake the room, she cried "Hijo mio!" and caught the Llano Kid to her heart.

III

A month afterward the Kid came to the consulate in response to a message sent by Thacker.

He looked the young Spanish caballero. His clothes were imported, and the wiles of the jewelers had not been spent upon him in vain. A more than respectable diamond shone on his finger as he rolled a shuck cigarette.

"What's doing?" asked Thacker.

"Nothing much," said the Kid calmly. "I eat my first iguana steak to-day. They're them big lizards, you sabe? I reckon, though, that frijoles and side bacon would do me about as well. Do you care for iguanas, Thacker?"

"No, nor for some other kinds of reptiles," said Thacker.

It was three in the afternoon, and in another hour he would be in his state of beatitude.

"It's time you were making good, sonny," he went on, with an ugly look on his reddened face. "You're not playing up to me square. You've been the prodigal son for four weeks now, and you could have had veal for every meal on a gold dish if you'd wanted it. Now, Mr. Kid, do you think it's right to leave me out so long on a husk diet? What's the trouble? Don't you get your filial eyes on anything that looks like cash in the Casa Blanca? Don't tell me you don't. Everybody knows where old Urique keeps his stuff. It's U. S. currency, too; he don't accept anything else. What's doing? Don't say 'nothing' this time."

"Why, sure," said the Kid, admiring his diamond, "there's plenty of money up there. I'm no judge of collateral in bunches, but I will undertake for to say that I've seen the rise of $50,000 at a time in that tin grub box that my adopted father calls his safe. And he lets me carry the key sometimes just to show me that he knows I'm the real little Francisco that strayed from the herd a long time ago."

"Well, what are you waiting for?" asked Thacker angrily. "Don't you forget that I can upset your apple cart any day I want to. If old Urique knew you were an impostor, what sort of things would happen to you? Oh, you don't know this country, Mr. Texas Kid. The laws here have got mustard spread between 'em. These people here'd stretch you out like a frog that had been stepped on, and give you about fifty sticks at every corner of the plaza. And they'd wear every stick out, too. What was left of you they'd feed to alligators."

"I might as well tell you now, pardner," said the Kid, sliding down low on his steamer chair, "that things are going to stay just as they are. They're about right now."

"What do you mean?" asked Thacker, rattling the bottom of his glass on his desk.

"The scheme's off," said the Kid. "And whenever you have the pleasure of speaking to me address me as Don Francisco Urique. I'll guarantee I'll answer to it. We'll let Colonel Urique keep his money. His little tin safe is as good as the time-locker in the First National Bank of Laredo as far as you and me are concerned."

"You're going to throw me down, then, are you?" said the consul.

"Sure," said the Kid cheerfully. "Throw you down. That's it. And now I'll tell you why. The first night I was up at the colonel's house they introduced me to a bedroom. No blankets on the floor—a real room, with a bed and things in it. And before I was asleep, in comes this artificial mother of mine and tucks in the covers. 'Panchito,' she says, 'my little lost one, God has brought you back to me. I bless his name forever.' It was that, or some truck like that, she said. And down comes a drop or two of rain and hits me on the nose. And all that stuck by me, Mr. Thacker. And it's been that way ever since. And it's got to stay that way. Don't you think that it's for what's in it for me, either, that I say so. If you have any such ideas, keep 'em to yourself. I haven't had much truck with women in my life, and no mothers to speak of, but here's a lady that we've got to keep fooled. Once she stood it; twice she won't. I'm a low-down wolf, and the devil may have sent me on this trail instead of God, but I'll travel it to the end. And now, don't forget that I'm Don Francisco Urique whenever you happen to mention my name."

"I'll expose you to-day, you—you double-dyed traitor," stammered Thacker.

The Kid arose and, without violence, took Thacker by the throat with a hand of steel, and shoved him slowly into a corner. Then he drew from under his left arm his pearl-handled .45 and poked the cold muzzle of it against the consul's mouth.

"I told you why I come here," he said, with his old freezing smile. "If I leave here, you'll be the reason. Never forget it, pardner. Now, what is my name?"

"Er—Don Francisco Urique," gasped Thacker.

From outside came a sound of wheels, and the shouting of some one, and the sharp thwacks of a wooden whipstock upon the backs of fat horses.

The Kid put up his gun, and walked toward the door. But he turned again and came back to the trembling Thacker, and held up his left hand with its back toward the consul.

"There's one more reason," he said slowly, "why things have got to stand as they are. The fellow I killed in Laredo had one of them same pictures on his left hand."

Outside, the ancient landau of Don Santos Urique rattled to the door. The coachman ceased his bellowing. Senora Urique, in a voluminous gay gown of white lace and flying ribbons, leaned forward with a happy look in her great soft eyes.

"Are you within, dear son?" she called, in the rippling Castilian.

"Madre mio, yo vengo [mother, I come]," answered the young Don Francisco Urique.



AN OLD-TIME SINGER

BY FRANK L. STANTON

I don't want any hymnbook when the Methodists is nigh, A-linin' out the ol' ones that went thrillin' to the sky In the ol' campmeetin' seasons, when 'twuz "Glory hallelu!" An' "Brother, rise an' tell us what the Lord has done fer you!"

Fer I know them songs so perfect that when I git the swing O' the tune they want to go to I kin shet my eyes an' sing! "On Jordan's stormy banks," an' ol' "Amazin' Grace"—they seem So nat'ral, I'm like some one that's singin' in a dream!

Oh, when it comes to them ol' songs I allus does my part; An' I've got the ol'-time Bible down, as you might say, "by heart!" When the preacher says the fust word in the givin' of his text I smile with satisfaction, kaze I know what's comin' next!

The wife says: "That's amazin'!" an' the preacher says—says he, With lots o' meanin' in his voice, an' lookin' queer at me "Sence you know more o' the Bible than the best o' us kin teach, Don't you think you orter practice what you're payin' us to preach?"

Well, that gits me in a corner—an' I sorter raise my eyes An' the tune about them titles to the "mansions in the skies"! I want the benediction then—I'm ready to depart! But when it comes to singin'—well, I've got the hymns by heart!



BREITMANN IN POLITICS

SHOWING HOW MR. HIRAM TWINE "PLAYED OFF" ON SMITH

BY CHARLES GODFREY LELAND

VIDE LICET: Dere vas a fillage Whose vode alone vouldt pe Apout enoof to elegdt a man, Und gife a mayority; So de von who couldt scoop dis seddlement Vould make a pully hit; Boot dough dey vere Deutschers, von und all, Dey all go von on Schmit.

Now it happenet to gome to bass Dat in dis liddle town De Deutsch vas all exshpegdin Dat Mishder Schmit coom down, His brinciples to fore-setzen Und his idees to deach, (Dat is, fix oop de brifate pargains) Und telifer a pooblic sbeech.

Now Twine vas a gyrotwistive cuss, Ash blainly ish peen shown, Und vas alfays an out-findin Votefer might pe known; Und mit some of his circumswindles He fix de matter so Dat he'd pe himself at dis meetin And see how dings vas go.

Oh shtrangely in dis leben De dings kits vorked apout! Oh voonderly Fortuna Makes toorn us insite out! Oh sinkular de luck-wheel rolls! Dis liddle meeding dere Fixt Twine ad perpendiculum— Shoost suit him to a hair!

Now it hoppenit on dis efenin De Deutschers, von und all, Vere avaitin mit impatience De openin of de ball; Und de shates of nite vere fallin Und de shdars begin to plink, Und dey vish dat Schmit vouldt hoorry, For 'dvas dime to dake a trink.

Dey hear some hoofs a-dramplin, Und dey saw, und dinked dey knowed, Der bretty greature coomin, On his horse along de road; Und ash he ride town in-ward De likeness vas so plain Dey donnered out, "Hooray for Schmit!" Enough to make it rain.

Der Twine vas shtart like plazes; Boot oopshtarted too his wit, Und he dinks, "Great Turnips! what if I Could bass for Colonel Schmit? Gaul dern my heels! I'll do it, Und go the total swine! Oh, Soap-balls! what a chance!" said dis Dissembulatin Twine.

Den 'twas "Willkomm! willkomm, Mishder Schmit!" Ringsroom on efery site; Und "First-rate! How dy-do yourself?" Der Hiram Twine replied. Dey ashk him, "Come und dake a trink?" But dey find it mighdy queer Ven Twine informs dem none boot hogs Vould trink dat shtinkin bier;

Dat all lager vas nodings boot boison; Und ash for Sherman wein, He dinks it vas erfounden Exshbressly for Sherman schwein; Dat he himself vas a demperanceler— Dat he gloria in de name; Und atfise dem all, for tecency's sake, To go und do de same.

Dese bemarks among de Deutschers Vere apout ash vell receife Ash a cats in a game of den-bins, Ash you may of coorse peliefe: De heat of de reception Vent down a dootzen tegrees, Und in place of hurraws dere vas only heardt De rooslin of de drees.

Und so in solemn stille Dey scorched him to de hall, Vhere he maket de oradion Vitch vas so moosh to blease dem all; Und dis vay he pegin it: "Pefore I furder go, I vish dat my obinions You puddin-het Dootch should know.

"Und ere I norate to you, I think it only fair We should oonderstand each other Prezactly, chunk and square. Dere are boints on vhich ve tisagree, And I will plank de facts— I don't go round slanganderin My friendts pehind deir packs.

"So I beg you dake it easy If on de raw I touch, Vhen I say I can't apide de sound Of your groontin, shi-shing Dutch. Should I in the Legisladure As your slumgullion shtand, I'll have a bill forbidding Dutch Troo all dis 'versal land.

"Should a husband talk it to his frau, To deat' he should pe led; If a mutter breat' it to her shild, I'd bunch her in de head; Und I'm sure dat none vill atfocate Ids use in public schools, Oonless dey're peastly, nashdy, prutal, Sauerkraut-eaten vools."

Here Mishder Twine, to gadder breat, Shoost make a liddle pause, Und see sechs hundert gapin eyes, Sechs hundert shdarin chaws, Dey shtanden erstarrt like frozen; Von faindly dried to hiss; Und von set: "Ish it shleeps I'm treamin? Gottausend! vat ish dis?"

Twine keptet von eye on de vindow, Boot poldly went ahet: "Of your oder shtinkin hobits No vordt needt hier pe set. Shtop goozlin bier—shtop shmokin bipes— Shtop rootin in de mire; Und shoost un-Dutchify yourselfs: Dat's all dat I require."

Und denn dere coomed a shindy, Ash if de shky hat trop: "Trow him mit ecks, py doonder! Go shlog him on de kop! Hei! Shoot him mit a powie-knifes; Go for him, ganz and gar! Shoost tar him mit some fedders! Led's fedder him mit tar!"

Sooch a teufel's row of furie Vas nefer oop-kickt before: Soom roosh to on-climb de blatform— Soom hoory to fasten te toor: Von veller vired his refolfer, Boot de pullet missed her mark: She coot de cort of de shandelier: It vell, und de hall vas tark!

Oh, vell was it for Hiram Twine Dat nimply he couldt shoomp; Und vell dat he light on a misthauf, Und nefer feel de boomp; Und vell for him dat his goot cray horse Shtood sattled shoost outside; Und vell dat in an augenblick He vas off on a teufel's ride.

Bang! bang! de sharp pistolen shots Vent pipin py his ear, Boot he tortled oop de barrick road Like any mountain deer: Dey trowed der Hiram Twine mit shteins, But dey only could be-mark Von climpse of his vhite obercoadt, Und a clotterin in de tark.

So dey all versembled togeder, Ein ander to sprechen mit, Und allow dat sooch a rede Dey nefer exshpegd from Schmit— Dat he vas a foorst-glass plackguard, And so pig a Lump ash ran; So, nemine contradicente, Dey vented for Breitmann.

Und 'twas annerthalb yar dereafter Before der Schmit vas know Vot maket dis rural fillage Go pack oopon him so; Und he schvored at de Dootch more schlimmer Ash Hiram Twine had tone. Nota bene: He tid it in earnesht, Vhile der Hiram's vas pusiness fun.

Boot vhen Breitmann heard de shdory, How de fillage hat peen dricked, He shvore bei Leib und Leben He'd rader hafe been licked Dan be helped bei sooch shumgoozlin; Und 'twas petter to pe a schwein Dan a schwindlin honeyfooglin shnake, Like dat lyin Yankee Twine.

Und pegot so heafy disgoosted Mit de boledicks of dis land, Dat his friendts couldn't barely keep him From trowin oop his hand, Vhen he helt shtraidt flush, mit an ace in his poot; Vich phrase ish all de same, In de science of de pokerology, Ash if he got de game.

So Breitmann cot elegtet, Py vollowin de vay Dey manage de elegdions Unto dis fery day; Vitch shows de Deutsch Dummehrlichkeit, Also de Yankee "wit": Das ist Abenteuer How Breitmann lick der Schmit.



LOVE SONG

BY CHARLES GODFREY LELAND

Overe mine lofe a sugar-powl, De fery shmallest loomp Vouldt shveet de seas from bole to bole, Und make de shildren shoomp. Und if she vere a clofer-fieldt, I'd bet mine only pence, It vouldn't pe no dime at all Pefore I'd shoomp de fence.

Her heafenly foice it drill me so, It really seems to hoort; She ish de holiest anamile Dat roons oopon de dirt. De re'nbow rises ven she sings, De sonn shine ven she dalk, De angels crow und flop deir vings Ven she goes out to valk.

So livin vhite—so carnadine— Mine lofe's gomblexion glow; It's shoost like abendcarmosine Rich gleamin on de shnow. Her soul makes plooshes in her sheek, As sommer reds de wein, Or sonlight sends a fire-life troo An blank karfunkelstein.

De ueberschwengliche idees Dis lofe put in my mind, Vould make a foostrate philosoph Of any human kind. 'Tis shuderned sweet on eart' to meet An himmlisch-hoellisch qual, Und treat mit whiles to kuemmel schnapps De Shoenheitsideal.



CONTENTMENT

"Man wants but little here below"

BY OLIVER WENDELL HOLMES

Little I ask; my wants are few; I only wish a hut of stone, (A very plain brownstone will do,) That I may call my own;— And close at hand is such a one, In yonder street that fronts the sun.

Plain food is quite enough for me; Three courses are as good as ten;— If Nature can subsist on three, Thank Heaven for three. Amen! I always thought cold victual nice;— My choice would be vanilla-ice.

I care not much for gold or land;— Give me a mortgage here and there,— Some good bank-stock, some note of hand, Or trifling railroad share,— I only ask that Fortune send A little more than I shall spend.

Honors are silly toys, I know, And titles are but empty names; I would, perhaps, be Plenipo,— But only near St. James; I'm very sure I should not care To fill our Gubernator's chair.

Jewels are bawbles; 'tis a sin To care for such unfruitful things;— One good-sized diamond in a pin,— Some, not so large, in rings,— A ruby, and a pearl, or so, Will do for me;—I laugh at show.

My dame should dress in cheap attire; (Good, heavy silks are never dear;)— I own perhaps I might desire Some shawls of true Cashmere,— Some marrowy crapes of China silk, Like wrinkled skins on scalded milk.

I would not have the horse I drive So fast that folks must stop and stare; An easy gait—two, forty-five— Suits me; I do not care;— Perhaps, for just a single spurt, Some seconds less would do no hurt.

Of pictures, I should like to own Titians and Raphaels three or four,— I love so much their style and tone,— One Turner, and no more, (A landscape,—foreground golden dirt,— The sunshine painted with a squirt.)

Of books but few,—some fifty score For daily use, and bound for wear; The rest upon an upper floor;— Some little luxury there Of red morocco's gilded gleam, And vellum rich as country cream.

Busts, cameos, gems,—such things as these, Which others often show for pride, I value for their power to please, And selfish churls deride;— One Stradivarius, I confess, Two Meerschaums, I would fain possess.

Wealth's wasteful tricks I will not learn Nor ape the glittering upstart fool;— Shall not carved tables serve my turn, But all must be of buhl? Give grasping pomp its double share,— I ask but one recumbent chair.

Thus humble let me live and die, Nor long for Midas' golden touch; If Heaven more generous gifts deny, I shall not miss them much,— Too grateful for the blessing lent Of simple tastes and mind content!



TOM'S MONEY

BY HARRIET PRESCOTT SPOFFORD

Mrs. Laughton had found what she had been looking for all her life—the man under her bed.

Every night of her nearly thirty years of existence this pretty little person had stooped on her knees, before saying her prayers, and had investigated the space beneath her bed, a light brass affair, hung with a chintz valance; had then peered beneath the dark recess of the dressing-case, and having looked in the deep drawer of the bureau and into the closet, she fastened her door and felt as secure as a snail in a shell. As she never, in this particular business, seemed to have any confidence in Mr. Laughton, in spite of the fact that she admired him and adored him, neither his presence nor his absence ever made any variation in the performance. She had gone through the motions, however, for so long a time that they had come to be in a manner perfunctory, and the start she received on this night of which I speak made her prayers quite impossible.

What was she to do? She, a coward par eminence, known to be the most timorous of the whole family; her tremors at all sorts of imagined dangers affording laughter to the flock of sisters and brothers. Should she stay on her knees after having seen that dark shape, as if going on with her prayers, while revolving some plan of procedure? That was out of the question. Scream? She couldn't have screamed to save her life. Run? She could no more have set one foot before the other, than if her body had melted from the waist down. She was deadly faint and cold and shaking, and all in a second, in the fraction of a second, before she had risen from her stooping posture.

Oh, why wasn't it Virginia instead? Virginia had always had such heroic plans of making the man come out of his hiding-place at the point of her pistol; and Virginia could cock a pistol and wasn't covered with cold shivers at the sight of one, as she was. If it had only been Francie, whose shrill voice could have been heard over the side of the earth, or Juliet, whose long legs would have left burglar, and house, too, in the background between the opening and slamming of a door. Either of them was so much more fit than she, the chicken-hearted one of the family, to cope with this creature. And they were all gone to the wedding with Fred, and would not be at home till to-morrow; and Tom had just returned from the town and handed her his roll of bills, and told her to take care of it till he came back from galloping down to the works with Jules; and she had tucked it into her belt, and had asked him, a little quakingly, what if any of the men of the Dead Line that they had heard of or Red Dan or an Apache came along; and he had laughed, and said she had better ask them in and reproach them for making such strangers of themselves as not to have called in the two years she had been in this part of the country; and she had the two maids with her, and he should be back directly. And she had looked out after him a moment over the wide prairie to the hills, all bathed in moonlight, and felt as if she were a spirit alone in a dead world. And here she was now, the two maids away in the little wing, locked out by the main house, alone with a burglar, and not another being nearer than the works, a half-mile off.

How did this man know that she was without any help here? How did he know that Tom was coming back with the money to pay the men that night? How did he happen to be aware that Tom's money was all in the house? Evidently he was one of the men. No one else could have known anything about it. If that money was taken, nobody would believe the story; Tom would be cashiered; he never could live through the disgrace; he would die of a broken heart, and she of another. They had come out to this remote and lonesome country to build up a home and a fortune; and so many people would be stricken with them! What a mischance for her to be left with the whole thing in her hands, her little, weak, trembling hands—Tom's honor, his good name and his success, their fortune, the welfare of the whole family, the livelihood of all the men, the safety of the enterprise! What made Tom risk things so! How could he put her in such jeopardy? To be sure, he thought the dogs would be safeguard enough, but they had gone scouring after him. And if they hadn't, how could dogs help her with a man under the bed?

It was worse than any loss of money to have such a wretch as this so near one, so shudderingly, so awfully near, to be so close as this to the bottomless pit itself! What was she to do? Escape? The possibility did not cross her mind. Not once did she think of letting Tom's money go. All but annihilated by terror in that heartbeat, she herself was the last thing she thought of.

Light and electricity are swift, but thought is swifter. As I said, this was all in the fraction of a second. Then Mrs. Laughton was on her feet again and before a pendulum could have more than swung backward. The man must know she saw him. She took the light brass bedstead and sent it rolling away from her with all her might and main leaving the creature uncovered. He lay easily on one side, a stout little club like a policeman's billy in his hand, some weapons gleaming in his belt, putting up the other hand to grasp the bedstead as it rolled away.

"You look pretty, don't you?" said she.

Perhaps this was as much of a shock to the man as his appearance had been to her. He was not acquainted with the saying that it is only the unexpected that happens.

"Get up," said she. "I'd be a man if I was a man. Get up. I'm not going to hurt you."

If the intruder had any sense of humor, this might have touched it; the idea of this little fairy-queen of a woman, almost small enough to have stepped out of a rain-lily, hurting him! But it was so different from what he had been awaiting that it startled him; and then, perhaps, he had some of the superstition that usually haunts the evil and ignorant, and felt that such small women were uncanny. He was on his feet now, towering over her.

"No," said he, gruffly; "I don't suppose you're going to hurt me. And I'm not going to hurt you, if you hand over that money."

"What money?" opening her eyes with a wide sort of astonishment.

"Come! None of your lip. I want that money!"

"Why, I haven't any money! Oh, yes, I have, to be sure, but—"

"I thought you'd remember it," said the man, with a grin.

"But I want it!" she exclaimed.

"I want it, too!" said he.

"Oh, it wouldn't do you any good," she reasoned. "Fifteen dollars. And it's all the money I've got in the world!"

"I don't want no fifteen dollars," said the man; "and I don't want none of your chinning. I want the money your husband's going to pay off with—"

"Oh, Tom's money!" in quite a tone of relief. "Oh! I haven't anything to do with Tom's money. If you can get any money out of Tom it's more than I can do. And I wouldn't advise you to try, either; for he always carries a pistol in the same pocket with it, and he's covered all over with knives and derringers and bull-dogs, so that sometimes I don't like to go near him till he's unloaded. You have to, in this country of desperadoes. You see—"

"Yes, I see, you little hen-sparrer," his eyes coming back to her from a survey of the room, "that you've got Tom's money in the house here, and would like to throw me off the scent!"

"If I had," said she, "you'd only get it across my dead body! Hadn't you better look for it, and have me tell you when you're hot and when you're cold?"

"Come!" said he, again; "I've had enough of your slack—"

"You're not very polite," she said, with something like a pout.

"People in my line ain't," he answered, grimly. "I want that money! and I want it now! I've no time to lose. I'd rather come by it peaceable," he growled, "but if—"

"Well, you can take it; of course, you're the stronger. But I told you before, it's all I have, and I've very particular use for it. You just sit down!" she cried, indicating a chair, with the air of really having been alone so long in these desolate regions as to be glad of having some one to talk to, and throwing herself into the big one opposite, because in truth she could not stand up another moment. And perhaps feeling as if a wren were expostulating with him about robbing her nest, the man dropped the angry arm with which he had threatened her, and leaned over the back of the chair.

"There it is," said she, "right under your hand all the time. You won't have to rip up the mattress for it, or rummage the clothes-press, or hunt through the broken crockery on the top shelves of the kitchen cupboard," she ran on, as if she were delighted to hear the sound of her own voice, and couldn't talk fast enough. "I always leave my purse on the dressing-case, though Tom has told me, time and again, it wasn't safe. But out here—"

"Stop!" thundered the man. "If you know enough to stop. Stop! or I'll cut your cursed tongue out and make you stop. And then, I suppose, you'd gurgle. That's not what I want—though I'll take it. I've told you, time and again, that I want the paymaster's money. That isn't right under my hand—and where is it? I'll put daylight through that little false heart of yours if you don't give it to me without five more words—"

"And I've told you just as often that I've nothing to do with the paymaster's money, and I wish you would put daylight anywhere, for then my husband would come home and make an end of you!" And with the great limpid tears overflowing her blue eyes, Rose Laughton knew that the face she turned up at him was enough to melt the sternest heart going.

"Do you mean to tell me—" said he, evidently wavering, and possibly inclining to doubt if, after all, she were not telling the truth, as no man in his senses would leave such a sum of money in the keeping of such a simpleton.

"I don't mean to tell you anything!" she cried. "You won't believe a word I say, and I never had any one doubt my word before. I hate to have you take that fifteen dollars, though. You never would in the world, if you knew how much self-denial it stands for. Every time I think I would like an ice-cream, out in this wilderness, where you might as well ask for an iceberg, I've made Tom give me the price of one. You won't find anything but ribbons there. And when I've felt as if I should go wild if I couldn't have a box of Huyler's candy, I've made Tom give me the price of that. There's only powder and tweezers and frizzes in those boxes," as he went over the top of the dressing-case, still keeping a lookout on her. "And when we were all out of lager and apollinaris, and Tom couldn't—that's my laces, and I wish you wouldn't finger them; I don't believe your hands are clean—and Tom couldn't get anything to drink, I've made him put in the price of a drink, and lots of ten-cent pieces came that way, and—But I don't imagine you care to hear about all that. What makes you look at me so?" For the man had left his search again, and his glance was piercing her through and through. "Oh, your eyes are like augers turning to live coals!" she cried. "Is that the way you look at your wife? Do you look at your children the same way?"

"That lay won't work," said he, with another grin. "I ain't got no feelings to work on. I ain't got no wife or kids."

"I'm sure that's fortunate," said Mrs. Laughton. "A family wouldn't have any peace of their lives with you following such a dangerous business. And they couldn't see much of you either. I must say I think you'd be a great deal happier if you reformed—I mean—well, if you left this business, and took up a quarter-section, and had a wife and—"

"Look here!" cried the man, his patience gone. "Are you a fool, or are you bluffing me? I've half a mind to knock your head in," he cried, "and hunt the house over for myself! I would, if there was time."

"You wouldn't find anything if you did," she returned, leaning back in her chair. "I've looked often enough, when I thought Tom had some money. I never found any. What are you going to do now?" with a cry of alarm at his movement.

"I'm going to tie you hand and foot first—"

"Oh, I wouldn't! I'd rather you wouldn't—really! I promise you I won't leave this chair—"

"I don't mean you shall."

"Oh, how can you treat me so!" she exclaimed, lifting up her streaming face. "You don't look like a person to treat a woman so. I don't like to be tied; it makes me feel so helpless."

"What kind of a dumb fool be you, anyway?" said the man, stopping a moment to stare at her. And he made a step then toward the high chest of drawers, half bureau, half writing-desk, for a ball of tape he saw lying there.

"Oh!" she cried, remembering the tar-baby. "Don't! Don't go there! For mercy's sake, don't go there!" raising her voice till it was like the wind in the chimney. "Oh, please don't go there!" At which, as if feeling morally, or rather immorally, sure that what he had come for was in that spot, he seized the handles of the drawer, and down fell the lid upon his head with a whack that jammed his hat over his eyes and blinded him with pain and fury for an instant. And in that instant she had whipped the roll of money from her belt, and had dropped it underneath her chair. "I knew it!" she cried. "I knew it would! It always does. I told you not to go."

"You shet your mouth quick!" roared the man, with a splutter of oaths between each word.

"That's right," she said, leaning over the arm of the chair, her face like a pitying saint's. "Don't mind me, I always tell Tom to swear, when he jams his thumb. I know how it is myself when I'm driving a nail. It's a great relief. I'd put some cold water on your head, but I promised you I wouldn't stir out of the chair—"

The man went and sat down in the chair on whose back he had been leaning.

"I swear, I don't know what to make of you," said he, rubbing his head ruefully.

"You can make friends with me," said she. "That's what you can do. I'm sure I've shown you that I'm friendly enough. I never believe any harm of any one till I see it myself. I don't blame you for wanting the money. I'm always in want of money. I've told you you might take mine, though I don't want you to. But I shouldn't give you Tom's money, even if I knew where it was. Tom would kill me if I did, and I might as well be killed by you as by Tom—and better. You can make friends with me, and be some protection to me till my husband comes. I'm expecting him and Jules every moment."

The man started to his feet.

"Do you see that?" he cried, holding his revolver under her nose. "Look right into that gun! We'll have no more fooling. It'll be your last look if you don't tell me where that money is before I count three."

She put out her hand and calmly moved it aside.

"I've looked into those things ever since I've lived on the prairie," said she. "And I dare say it won't go off—mine won't. Besides, I know very well you wouldn't shoot a woman, and you can't make bricks without straw; and then I've told you I don't know anything about that money."

"You are a game one," said he.

"No, I'm not," she replied. "I'm the most tremendous coward. I've come out here in this wild country to live, and I'm alone a great deal, and I quake at every sound, every creak of a timber, every rustle of the grass. And you don't know anything about what it is to have your heart stand still with horror of a wild beast or a wild Indian or a deserter—a deserting soldier. There's a great Apache down there now, stretched out in his blanket on the floor, before the fire in the kitchen. And I came up here as quick as I could, to lock the door behind us and sit up till Tom came home, and I declare, I never was so thankful in all my life as I was just now to see a white face when I looked at you!"

"Well, I'll be—! Apache!" cried the visitor. "See here, little one, you've saved your husband's money for him. You're a double-handful of pluck. I haven't any idea but you know where it's hid—but I've got to be making tracks. If it wasn't for waking that Apache I'd leave Red Dan's handwriting on the wall."

And almost while he was speaking he had swung himself out of the window to the roof of the porch and had dropped to the ground and made off.

Mrs. Laughton waited till she thought he must be out of hearing, leaning out as if she were gazing at the moon. Then she softly shut and fastened the sash, and crept with shaking limbs to the door and unlocked it, and fell in a dead faint across the threshold. And there, when he returned some three-quarters of an hour later, Tom found her.

"Oh, Tom!" she sobbed, when she became conscious that she was lying in his arms, his heart beating like a trip-hammer, his voice hoarse with fright as he implored her to open her eyes; "is there an Apache in the kitchen?"



RUBAIYAT OF MATHIEU LETTELLIER

BY WALLACE BRUCE AMSBARY

Dere's six children in our fam'lee, Dey's mos'ly girls an' boys; 'Toinette an' me wos t'ankful sure For all de happy joys; Dere's Pierre, an' little Rosalie, Antoine, Marie an' Jeanne, An' Paul he's com' now soon twelf year, Mos' close to be a man.

I's lof' all of la petite femme, De garcon mak' me proud, I haf gr'ad aspiratione For all dat little crowd; My Pierre shall be wan doctor mans, Rosalie will teach school, Antoine an' Jeanne shall rone de farm, Marie som' man will rule.

An' Paul shall be a cure sure, I'll haf heem educate', I work it all out on my head, Oh, I am moch elate; Dis all of course w'en dey grow op; But I t'ink 'bout it now; So w'en de tam' was com' for ac', I'll know de way an' how.

Long tam' ago, w'en Paul firs' com', He mak' a lot of noise; He's keep me trot, bot' day an' night, He was wan naughty boys; At wan o'clock, at two o'clock, Annee ol' tam' suit heem, He's mak' us geeve de gran' parade Jus' as he tak' de w'im.

Sooding molass' an' peragork, On heem ve pour it down, An' soon he let his music op, An' don' ac' more lak' clown, An' den ma femme an' me lay down To get a little doze, For w'en you are wan fam'lee man You don' gat moch repose.

But w'at's de use to mak' de kick, Dees fellows boss de place; I'd radder hear de healt'y lung An' see de ruddy face Dan run a gr'ad big doctor's bill, An' geeve de ol' sextone De job, for bury all my kids, An' leave me all alone.

An' so our hands is quite ver' full, Will be, for som' tam' long, But ven old age is dreeft our vay An' rest is our belong, It's den ve'll miss de gran' racquette,— May want again de noise Of six more little children An' mos'ly girls and boys.



BIGGS' BAR

BY HOWARD V. SUTHERLAND

'Twas a sultry afternoon, about the middle of July, And the men who loafed in Dawson were feeling very dry. Of liquor there had long been none except a barrel or two, And that was kept by Major Walsh for himself and a lucky few.

Now, the men who loaf in Dawson are loafers to the bone, And take it easy in a way peculiarly their own; They sit upon the sidewalks and smoke and spit and chew, And watch the other loafers, and wonder who is who.

They only work in winter, when the days are short and cold, And then they heat their cabins, and talk and talk of gold; They talk about provisions, and sometimes take a walk, But then they hurry back again and talk, and talk, and talk.

And the men who loaf in Dawson are superior to style, For the man who wears a coat and vest is apt to cause a smile; While he who sports suspenders or a belt would be a butt, And cause ironic comment, and end by being cut.

The afternoon was sultry, as I said some time before; 'Twas fully ninety in the shade (in the sun a darn sight more), And the men who sat on the sidewalks were, one and all, so dry That only one perspired, though every one did try.

Six men were sitting in a line and praying God for air; They were Joaquin Miller and "Lumber" Lynch and "Stogey" Jack Ver Mehr, "Swift-water" Bill and "Caribou" Bill and a sick man from the hills, Who came to town to swap his dust for a box of liver pills.

I said they prayed for air, and yet perhaps I tell a lie, For none of them are holy men, and all of them were dry; And so I guess 'tis best for me to say just what I think— They prayed the Lord to pity them and send them all a drink.

Then up spoke Joaquin Miller, as he shook his golden locks, And picked the Dawson splinters from his moccasins and socks (The others paid attention, for when times are out of joint What Joaquin Miller utters is always to the point):

"A foot-sore, weary traveler," the Poet then began, "Did tell me many moons ago,—and oh! I loved the man,— That Biggs who owns the claim next mine had started up a bar. Let's wander there and quench our thirst." All answered, "Right you are."

Now, Biggs is on Bonanza Creek, claim ninety-six, below; There may be millions in it, and there may not; none will know Until he gets to bedrock or till bedrock comes to him— For Arthur takes it easy and is strictly in the swim.

It is true, behind his cabin he has sunk a mighty shaft (When the husky miners saw it they turned aside and laughed); But Biggs enjoys his bacon, and smokes his pipe and sings, Content to be enrolled among the great Bonanza Kings.

'Tis full three miles from Dawson town to Biggs' little claim; The miners' curses on the trail would make you blush with shame The while they slip, or stub their toes against the roots, or sink Twelve inches in the mud and slime before their eyes can wink.

But little cared our gallant six for roots, or slime, or mud, For they were out for liquor as a soldier is for blood; They hustled through the forest, nor stopped until they saw Biggs, wrapt in contemplation, beside his cabin door.

He rose to greet his visitors, and ask them for the news, And said he was so lonesome that he always had the blues; He hadn't seen a paper for eighteen months, he said, And that had been in Japanese—a language worse than dead.

They satisfied his thirst for news, then thought they of their own, And Miller looked him in the eye and gave a little groan, And all six men across their mouths did pass a sun-burnt hand In a manner most deliberate, which all can understand.

"We heard you keep a bar, good Biggs," the gentle Poet said! "And so we thought we'd hold you up, and we are almost dead!" He said no more. Biggs understood, and thusly spoke to them In accents somewhat British and prefixed with a "Hem!"

"The bar you'll find a few yards hence as up that trail you go; I never keep my liquor in the blooming 'ouse, you know. Just mush along and take a drink, and when you are content Come back and tell me, if you can, who now is President."

They mushed along, those weary men, nor looked to left or right, But thought of how each cooling drink would trickle out of sight; And very soon they found the goal they came for from afar— A keg, half full of water, in a good old gravel bar!



THE BACKSLIDING BROTHER

BY FRANK L. STANTON

De screech owl screech f'um de ol' barn lof'; "You drinked yo' dram sence you done swear off; En you gwine de way Whar' de sinners stay, En Satan gwine ter roas' you at de Jedgmint Day!"

Den de ol' ha'nt say, f'um de ol' chu'ch wall: "You des so triflin' dat you had ter fall! En you gwine de way Whar' de brimstone stay, En Satan gwine ter roas' you at de Jedgmint Day!"

Den I shake en shiver, En I hunt fer kiver, En I cry ter de good Lawd, "Please deliver!" I tell 'im plain Dat my hopes is vain, En I drinked my dram fer ter ease my pain!

Den de screech owl screech f'um de north ter south "You drinked yo' dram, en you smacked yo' mouth! En you gwine de way Whar' de brimstone stay, En Satan gwine ter roas' you at de Jedgmint Day!"



YE LEGEND OF SIR YRONCLADDE

BY WILBUR D. NESBIT

Now, whenne ye goode knyghte Yroncladde Hadde dwelte in Paradyse A matter of a thousand yeares, He syghed some grievous syghes, And went unto the entrance gate To speake hym in thys wyse:

"Beholde, I do not wysh to make A rackette, nor a fuss, And yet I fayne wolde hie awaye And cease from livyng thus; For it is moste too peaceful here, And sore monotonous."

"Oh, verie welle," ye keeper sayde, "You shall have your desyre: Go downe uponne ye earth agayne To see whatte you admyre— But take goode heede that you shall keepe Your trolley on ye wyre."

Ryghte gladde was goode Sir Yroncladde To see ye gates unsealed. He toke a jumpe strayghte through ye cloudes To what was there revealed, And strayghtwaye lit uponne ye grounde Whych was a footeball field!

"Gadzookes!" he sayde; "now, here is sporte! Thys is a goodlie syghte. For joustynges soche as here abound I have an appetyte; So I will amble to ye scrappe, For that is my delyghte."

He strode into ye hurtlynge mass, Whence rose a thrillynge sounde Of class yelles, sygnalles, breakynge bones, And moanynges all arounde; And thenne ye footeballe menne tooke hym And pushed hym in ye grounde!

They brake hys breastplayte into bits, And shattered all hys greaves; They fractured bothe hys myghtie armes Withynne hys chaynemayle sleeves, And wounde hys massyve legges ynto Some oryentalle weaves.

Uppe rose ye brave Sir Yroncladde And groaned, "I hadde no wrong! I'll hustle back to Paradyse, And ryng ye entraunce gong; For thys new croppe of earthlie knyghtes At joustynge is too strong; And henceforth thys is my resolve: To staye where I belong!"



WINTER DUSK

BY R. K. MUNKITTRICK

The prospect is bare and white, And the air is crisp and chill; While the ebon wings of night Are spread on the distant hill.

The roar of the stormy sea Seem the dirges shrill and sharp That winter plays on the tree— His wild AEolian harp.

In the pool that darkly creeps In ripples before the gale, A star like a lily sleeps And wiggles its silver tail.



A MOTHER OF FOUR

BY JULIET WILBOR TOMPKINS

"You are fortunate to find us alone, Mrs. Merritt. With four girls, it is simply terrible—callers underfoot wherever you stir. You must know something about it, with two daughters; so you can fancy it multiplied by two. Really, sometimes I get out of all patience—I haven't a corner of my house to myself on Sundays! But I realize it is the penalty for having four lively daughters, and I have to put up with it."

Mrs. Merritt, the visitor, had a gently worried air as she glanced from the twins, thin and big-boned, reading by the fire, to pretty, affected Amelie at the tea-table, and the apathetic Enid furtively watching the front steps from the bay window. Something in her expression seemed to imply a humble wonder as to what might constitute the elements of high popularity, since her two dear girls—

"Of course, mine have their friends," she asserted; it was an admission that perhaps the door-bell was not overworked. "I enjoy young life," she added.

"Oh, yes, in moderation!" Mrs. Baldwin laughed from the depths of the complacent prosperity that irradiated her handsome white hair and active brown eyes, her pleasant rosiness, and even her compact stoutness, suggesting strength rather than weight. "But since Enid became engaged, that means Harry all the time—there's my library gone; and with the other three filling both drawing-rooms and the reception-room, I have to take to the dining-room, myself! There they begin," she added, as Enid left the window and slipped out into the hall, closing the door after her. "Now we shall have no peace until Monday morning. You know how it is!"

Mrs. Merritt seemed depressed, and soon took her leave.

The twins, when they were left alone in the drawing-room, lifted their heads and exchanged long and solemn looks; then returned to their reading in silence. When it grew too dark by the fire, they carried their books to the bay window, but drew back as they saw a pale and puny youth with a retreating chin coming up the front steps.

"The rush has begun," murmured Cora.

"Amelie can have him," Dora returned. "Let's fly."

They retreated up-stairs and read peacefully until tea-time. The bell did not ring again. When they came down, Mrs. Baldwin eyed them irritably.

"Why don't you ask the Carryl boys in to Sunday tea some time? They will think you have forgotten them. And Mr. White and that nice Mr. Morton who lives with him—I am afraid you have offended them in some way. They used to be here all the time."

"They only came twice, and those were party calls," said Dora bluntly.

"My dear, you have forgotten," was the firm answer. "They were here constantly. I shall send them a line; I don't like to have them think we have gone back on them."

"Oh, I—I wouldn't," began Cora, but was put down with decision:

"When I need your advice, Cora, I will ask for it. Amelie, dear, you look tired; I am afraid you have had too much gaiety this afternoon."

"Oh, I love it! It's the breath of life to me," said Amelie rapturously. The twins again exchanged solemn looks and sat down to their tea in silence. Mrs. Baldwin attacked them peevishly at intervals; she was cross at Enid also, who had not kept Harry to supper, and preserved an indifferent silence under questioning. "When I was your age—!" was the burden of her speech.

"I must give a dance for you young people," she decided. "You need livening up."

"Oh, lovely!" exclaimed Amelie.

"We have not had one this winter—I don't know what I have been thinking about," Mrs. Baldwin went on with returning cheerfulness. "We won't ask more than a hundred. You must have a new frock, Amelie. Enid, how is your blue one?"

"Oh, all right," said Enid indifferently. Mrs. Baldwin turned to the twins, and found them looking frankly dismayed.

"Well, what is it now?" she exclaimed. "I am sure I try to give you as good times as any girls in town; not many mothers on my income would do half so much. And you sit looking as if you were going to execution!"

"We—we do appreciate it, mother," urged Cora, unhappily.

"But we aren't howling successes at parties," Dora added.

"Nonsense! You have partners to spare." Mrs. Baldwin was plainly angry. "No child of mine was ever a wallflower, nor ever will be. Never let me hear you say such a thing again. You would have twice the attention if you weren't always poking off by yourselves; and as it is, you have more than most girls. You frighten the men—they think you are proud. Show a little interest in them and see how pleased they will be!"

The twins looked dubious, and seized the first chance to escape. In their own room they confronted each other dismally.

"Of course they will ask us, in our own house; we won't have to sit and sit," said Cora with a sigh.

"But it's almost worse when they ask you for that reason," objected Dora.

"I know! I feel so sorry for them, and so apologetic. If mother would only let us go and teach at Miss Browne's; then we could show we were really good for something. We shouldn't have to shine at parties."

"We shouldn't have to go to them! Come on, let's do some Latin. I want to forget the hateful thing."

Cora got down the books and drew their chairs up to the student-lamp. "I know I shouldn't be such a stick if I didn't have to wear low neck," she said. "I am always thinking about those awful collar-bones, and trying to hold my shoulders so as not to make them worse."

"Oh, don't I know!" Dora had slipped on a soft red wrapper, and threw a blue one to her sister. When they were curled up in their big, cushioned chairs, they smiled appreciatively at each other.

"Isn't this nicer than any party ever invented?" they exclaimed. Dora opened her books with energy, but Cora sat musing.

"I dare say that somewhere there are parties for our kind," she said, finally. "Not with silly little chinless boys or popular men who are always trying to get away, but men who study and care about things—who go to Greece and dig ruins, for instance, or study sociology, and think more about one's mind than one's collar-bones."

Dora shook her head. "But they don't go to parties!"

"Both Mr. Morton and Mr. White do, sometimes," Cora suggested. "They aren't like the rest. I thought that tenement-house work they told us about was most interesting. But they would call if they wanted to," she added.

The twins in wrappers, bending over their books, had a certain comeliness. There was even an austere beauty in their wide, high foreheads, their fine, straight dark hair, their serious gray eyes and sensitive mouths, pensive but not without humor and sweetness. But the twins in evening dress, their unwilling hair flower-crowned and bolstered into pompadours, their big-boned thinness contrasted with Amelie's plump curves, their elbows betraying the red disks of serious application, were quite another matter, and they knew it. The night of the dance they came down-stairs with solemn, dutiful faces, and lifted submissive eyes to their mother for judgment. She was looking charmingly pretty herself, carrying her thick white hair with a humorous boldness, and her smiling brown eyes were younger than their gray ones.

"Very well, twinnies! Now you look something like human girls," she said gaily. "Run and have a beautiful time. Ah, Amelie, you little fairy! They will all be on their knees to you to-night. Where is Enid?"

"Nowhere near dressed, and she won't hurry," Amelie explained. "Oh, I am so excited, I shall die! What if no one asks me to dance!"

"Silly!" Mrs. Baldwin laughed. "I am only afraid of your dancing yourself to death. Ah, Mrs. Merritt, how good of you to come with your dear girls! And Mr. Merritt—this is better than I dared hope."

The rooms filled rapidly. Enid, after one languid waltz, disappeared with Harry and was not seen again till supper. Amelie flew from partner to partner, pouring streams of vivacious talk into patient masculine ears. The twins were dutifully taken out in turn and unfailingly brought back. Both Mr. White and Mr. Morton came, serious young men who danced little, and looked on more as if the affair were a problem in sociology than an entertainment. There were plenty of men, for Mrs. Baldwin's entertainments had a reputation in the matter of supper, music, and floors.

"After you've worked through the family, you can have a ripping old time," Cora heard one youth explain to another; a moment later he stood in front of her, begging the honor of a waltz. She felt no resentment; her sympathies were all with him. She looked up with gentle seriousness.

"You needn't, you know," she said. "Dora and I don't really expect it—we understand." He looked so puzzled that she added: "I overheard you just now, about 'working through the family.'"

He grew distressfully red and stammered wildly. Cora came at once to his rescue.

"Really, it's all right. We don't like parties, ourselves; only it is hard on mother to have such sticks of daughters, so we do our best. But we never mind when people don't ask us. Sometimes we almost wish they wouldn't."

The youth was trying desperately to collect himself. "What do you like, then?" he managed to ask.

"Oh, books, and the country, and not having to be introduced to people." She was trying to put him at his ease. "We really do like dancing: we do it better than you'd think, for mother made us keep at it. If only we didn't have to have partners and think of things to say to them!" She held out her hand, "Thank you ever so much for asking me, but I'd truly rather not." He wrung her hand, muttered something about "later, then," and fled, still red about the ears. Cora returned to her mother.

"Well, my dear, you seemed to be having a tremendous flirtation with that youth," laughed Mrs. Baldwin. "Such a hand-clasp at parting! Don't dance too hard, child." She turned to the half-dozen parents supporting her. "These crazy girls of mine will dance themselves to death if I don't keep an eye on them," she explained. "Amelie says, 'Mother, how can I help splitting my dances, when they beg me to?' I am always relieved when the dance is over and they are safe in bed—then I know they aren't killing themselves. The men have no mercy—they never let them rest an instant."

"I don't see Miss Enid about," suggested Mr. Merritt. "I suppose she and her Harry—!"

"Oh, I suppose so!" Mrs. Baldwin shook her head resignedly. "The bad child insists on being married in the spring, but I simply can not face the idea. What can I do to prevent it, Mrs. Merritt?"

"I am afraid you can't," smiled Mrs. Merritt. "We mothers all have to face that."

"Ah, but not so soon! It is dreadful to have one's girls taken away. I watch the others like a hawk; the instant a man looks too serious—pouf!—I whisk him away!"

Cora stood looking down, with set lips; a flush had risen in her usually pale cheeks. Dora, setting free an impatient partner, joined her and they drew aside.

"It does make me so ashamed!" said Cora, impulsively.

"I think mother really makes herself believe it," said Dora, with instant understanding.

They watched Amelie flutter up to their mother to have a bow retied, and stand radiant under the raillery, though she made a decent pretense of pouting. Her partner vanished, and Mrs. Baldwin insisted on her resting "for one minute," which ended when another partner appeared.

"Amelie is asked much more than we are, always," Cora suggested. Dora nodded at the implication.

"I know. I wonder why it never seems quite real. Perhaps because the devoted ones are such silly little men."

"Or seem to us so," Cora amended conscientiously. "Don't you wish we might creep up-stairs? Oh, me, here comes a man, just hating it! Which do you suppose he will—Oh, thank you, with pleasure, Mr. Dorr!" Cora was led away, and Dora slipped into the next room, that her mother might not be vexed at her partnerless state.

Mrs. Baldwin saw to it that the twins had partners for supper, and seated them at a table with half a dozen lively spirits, where they ate in submissive silence while the talk flowed over and about them. No one seemed to remember that they were there, yet they felt big and awkward, conspicuous with neglect, thoroughly forlorn. When they rose, the others moved off in a group, leaving them stranded. Mrs. Baldwin beckoned them to her table with her fan.

"Well, twinnies, yours was the noisiest table in the room," she laughed. "I was quite ashamed of you! When these quiet girls get going—!" she added expressively to her group. The twins flushed, standing with shamed eyes averted. In the rooms above the music had started, and the bright procession moved up the stairs with laughter and the shine of lights on white shoulders; they all seemed to belong together, to be glad of one another. "Well, run along and dance your little feet off," said Mrs. Baldwin gaily.

They hurried away, and without a word mounted by the back stairs to their own room. When their eyes met, a flash of anger kindled, grew to a blaze.

"Oh, I won't stand it, I won't!" exclaimed Dora, jerking the wreath of forget-me-nots out of her hair and throwing it on the dressing-table. "We have been humiliated long enough. Cora, we're twenty-four; it is time we had our own way."

Cora was breathing hard. "Dora, I will never go to another party as long as I live," she said.

"Nor I," declared Dora.

They sat down side by side on the couch to discuss ways and means. A weight seemed to be lifted off their lives. In the midst of their eager planning the door opened and Mrs. Baldwin looked in at them with a displeased frown.

"Girls, what does this mean?" she exclaimed. "Come down at once. What are you thinking of, to leave your guests like this!"

The twins felt that the moment had come, and instinctively clasped hands as they rose to meet it.

"Mother," said Dora firmly, "we have done with parties forever and ever. No one likes us nor wants to dance with us, and we can't stand it any more."

"Miss Browne still wants us to come there and teach," Cora added, her voice husky but her eyes bright. "So we can be self-supporting, if—if you don't approve. We are twenty-four, and we have to live our own lives."

They stood bravely for annihilation. Mrs. Baldwin laughed.

"You foolish twinnies! I know—some one has been hurting your feelings. Believe me, my dears, even I did not always get just the partner my heart was set on! And I cried over it in secret, just like any other little girl. That is life, you know—we can't give up before it. Now smooth yourselves and come down, for some of them are leaving."

She blew them a kiss and went off smiling. After a dejected silence Dora took up the forget-me-not wreath and replaced it.

"I suppose we might as well finish out this evening," she said. "But the revolution has begun, Cora!"

"The revolution has begun," Cora echoed.

In the drawing-room they found Mrs. Baldwin talking with Mr. Morton and Mr. White. They were evidently trying to say good night, but she was holding them as inexorably as if she had laid hands on their coats; or so it seemed to the troubled twins. She summoned her daughters with her bright, amused glance.

"My dears," she said, "these two good friends were going to run away just because they do not dance the cotillion. We can't allow that. Suppose you take them to the library and make them wholly comfortable. Indeed, they have danced enough, Mr. White; I am thankful to have them stop. I will take the blame if their partners are angry."

She nodded a smiling dismissal. Disconcerted, wholly ill at ease, the four went obediently to the library, deserted now that the cotillion was beginning. The two men struggled valiantly with the conversation, but the twins sat stricken to shamed dumbness: no topic could thrive in the face of their mute rigidity. Silences stalked the failing efforts. Mr. White's eyes clung to the clock while his throat dilated with secret yawns; Mr. Morton twisted restlessly and finally let a nervous sigh escape. Dora suddenly clasped her hands tightly together.

"We hate it just as much as you do," she said distinctly.

They turned startled faces toward her. Cora paled, but flew to her sister's aid.

"We knew you didn't want to come," she added with tremulous frankness. "We would have let you off if we could. If you want to go now, we won't be—hurt."

They rose, and so did the bewildered visitors.

"I am afraid you have—misunderstood," began Mr. White.

"No; we have always understood—everybody," said Dora, "but we pretended not to, because mother—But now we have done with society. It is a revolution, and this is our last party. Good night." She held out her hand.

"Good night," repeated Cora, offering hers. The guests took them with the air of culprits; relief was evidently drowned in astonishment.

"Well, good night—if we must," they said awkwardly.

Mrs. Baldwin, looking into the library half an hour later, found the twins sitting there alone.

"Where are your cavaliers?" she demanded.

"They left long ago," Dora explained sleepily. "Mayn't we go to bed?"

"Oh, for pity's sake—go!" was the exasperated answer.

In the morning the twins appeared braced for revolution. When a reception for that afternoon was mentioned, they announced firmly that they were not going.

"I think you are wise," said Mrs. Baldwin amiably. "You both look tired."

They were conscious of disappointment as well as relief; it was the establishment of a principle they wanted, not coddling. Three weeks went by in the same debilitating peace. The twins were smiled on and left wholly free. They had almost come to believe in a bloodless victory, when Mrs. Baldwin struck—a masterly attack where they were weakest. Her weapon was—not welcome temper, but restrained pathos.

"A mere fourteen at dinner and a few coming in to dance afterward, and I do want you twinnies to be there. Now I have not asked one thing of you for three weeks; don't you think you owe Mother some little return?"

"But—!" began the twins, with a rush of the well-known arguments. Mrs. Baldwin would not combat.

"I ask it as a favor, dear girls," she said gently. They clung to their refusal, but were obviously weakening when she rose to her climax: "Mr. White and Mr. Morton have accepted!" She left them with that, confident and humming to herself.

The twins stared at each other in open misery. Reappear now, after the solemn declaration they had made to those two! Their cheeks burned at the thought. They mounted to their room to formulate their resistance, and found two exquisite new gowns, suitable for fairy princesses, spread out like snares. "To please Mother" seemed to be written on every artful fold. And Mrs. Baldwin was not a rich woman, for her way of life; such gowns meant self-denial somewhere. The twins had tears in their eyes.

"But if we give in now, we're lost!" they cried.

Nothing more was said about the dinner, Mrs. Baldwin gaily assuming success, but avoiding the topic. The twins wore a depressed and furtive air. On the fatal day they had a long interview with Miss Browne, of the Browne School, and came away solemn with excitement, to shut themselves in their room for the rest of the afternoon.

A few minutes before the dinner-hour Mrs. Baldwin, triumphant in satin and lace, paused at their door.

"Ready, twinnies?" she began, then stared as though disbelieving her eyes. In the glow of the student-lamp sat the twins, books in their hands and piled high on the table beside them; their smooth, dark hair was unpompadoured, their shoulders were lost in the dark blouses of every day.

"What does this mean?" Mrs. Baldwin asked shortly, fire in her eyes.

"Mother, we told you we could not go to any more parties, and why," Cora answered, a note of pleading in her voice.

"We begin teaching on Monday in Miss Browne's school," added Dora more stoutly. "We have tried your way for years and years, mother. Now we have to try ours."

Mrs. Baldwin's lace bertha rose and fell sharply.

"Indeed. I am sorry to disappoint you, but so long as you live under my roof, you will have to conform to the ways of my household."

"Then, mother, we can not stay under your roof."

"As you please! I leave the choice entirely to you." She swept out, leaving them breathless but resolute.

"I am glad of it!" said Dora with trembling lips.

In explaining their absence at dinner, Mrs. Baldwin was lightly humorous about the twins' devotion: one could not weather a headache without the other. Mr. White and Mr. Morton exchanged glances, and showed interest in the topic, as if they were on the track of some new sociological fact.

Later in the evening, the twins, their spirits restored, stole to the top of the stairs and peered down at the whirling couples, exultant not to be among them. Mr. White was standing just below, and he glanced up, as if he might have been listening. His face brightened.

"May I come up?" he signaled, and mounted two steps at a time, keen interest in his thin, intellectual face.

"Is it really headache, or is it revolution?" he asked without preface. "Morton and I have been longing to know, all the evening."

"Revolution," said the twins.

"How very interesting! Do you know, we came to-night just to see if you would be there. You—you staggered us, the other evening. We were glad when you didn't appear—if you won't misunderstand. It is so unexpected, in this environment. I shall be curious to see how far you can carry it out." He was leaning against the banister, looking at them as if they were abstract propositions rather than young girls, and they felt unwontedly at ease.

"To the very end," Dora asserted. "We begin teaching Monday, and—and we have to find a place to board." Her color rose a little, but she smiled.

"That is plucky," he commented. "We can help you there; I know a number of places. When do you want to move?"

"To-morrow," they answered in unison.

He consulted an engagement-book, reflected a few moments, then made a note.

"Morton or I will call for you to-morrow at three," he announced with business-like brevity. "I think I know just the place, but we will give you a choice. If you really wish to move in at once, you could have your things packed, ready to be sent for."

"Oh, we do!" said Cora. He glanced meditatively at their fine and glowing faces.

"Of course you won't be comfortable, luxurious, as you are here," he warned them, with a nod toward the great paneled hall. Mrs. Baldwin passed the drawing-room door below with the stately tread of a reviewing officer.

"Oh, we don't care!" they exclaimed eagerly.

The next day their mother treated the twins as if they were not. She spoke no word to them and did not seem to hear their husky little efforts at reconciliation. They found it hard to remember persistently that they were revolutionists rather than children in disgrace. She was unapproachable in her own room when Mr. White and Mr. Morton came for them.

"Well, we can't help it," they said sadly as they locked their two trunks and went down the stairs.

Three hours later the twins had entered a new world and were rapturously making an omelet in a kitchen that had begun life as a closet, while Mr. Morton put up shelves and hooks and Mr. White tacked green burlap over gloomy wall-paper. Groceries and kitchen utensils and amusing make-shift furniture kept arriving in exciting profusion. They had not dreamed that there was such happiness in the world.

"If only mother will forgive us, it will be simply perfect!" they told each other when they settled down for the night in their hard little cots. They said that many times in the days that followed. The utter joy of work and freedom and simplicity had no other blemish.

For five weeks Mrs. Baldwin remained obdurate. Then, one Sunday afternoon, she appeared, cold, critical, resentful still; lifted her eyebrows at the devices of their light housekeeping; looked disgusted when they pointed out from the window the little cafe where they sometimes dined; and offered to consent to their social retirement if they would give up the teaching and come home. The twins were troubled and apologetic, but inflexible. They had found the life they were meant for; they could not give it up. If she knew how happy they were!

"How, with your bringing up, you can enjoy this!" she marveled. "It isn't respectable—eating in nasty little holes alone at night!"

"But it is a nice, clean place, and Mr. White and Mr. Morton are nearly always with us," Dora began, then broke off at an expression of pleased enlightenment that flashed across her mother's face. "They are just very good friends," she explained gravely; "they don't take us as girls at all—that is why we have such nice times with them. We are simply comrades, and interested in the same books and problems."

"And they bother about us chiefly because we are a sort of sociological demonstration to them," Cora added. "They like experiments of every kind."

"Ah, yes, I understand," assented Mrs. Baldwin. "Well, you certainly are fixed up very nicely here. If you want anything from home, let me know. After all, it is a piquant little adventure. If you are happy in it, I suppose I ought not to complain."

She was all complacence and compliment the rest of her visit. When she went away, the girls glanced uneasily at each other.

"She took a wrong idea in her head," said Dora. "I do hope we undeceived her. It would be hard for her to understand how wholly mental and impersonal our friendship is with those two."

"Well, she will see in time, when nothing comes of it," said Cora confidently. "That's their ring, now. Oh, Dora, isn't our life nice!"

Mrs. Baldwin, passing down the shabby front steps, might have seen the two men approaching, one with an armful of books and the other with a potted plant; but she apparently did not recognize them, for she stepped into her carriage without a sign. The visit seemed to have left a pleasant memory with her, however; her bland serenity, as she drove away, was not unlike that of the cat which has just swallowed the canary.



FALL STYLES IN FACES[5]

BY WALLACE IRWIN

Faces this Fall will lead the styles More than in former years With something very neat in smiles Well trimmed with eyes and ears. The Gayer Set, so rumor hints, Will have their noses made In all the famous Highball Tints— A bright carnation shade.

For morning wear in club and lobby, The Dark Brown Taste will be the hobby.

In Wall Street they will wear a gaze To match the paving-stones. (This kind, Miss Ida Tarbell says, John Rockefeller owns.) Loud mouths, sharp glances, furtive looks Will be displayed upon The faces of the best-groomed crooks Convened in Washington.

Among the Saints of doubtful morals Some will wear halos, others laurels.

Checkered careers will be displayed On faces neatly lined, And vanity will still parade In smirks—the cheaper kind. Chins will appear in Utah's zone Adorned with lace-like frizzes, And something striking will be shown In union-labor phizzes.

The gentry who have done the races Show something new in Poker Faces.

Cheek will supplant Stiff Upper Lips And take the place of Chin; The waiters will wear ostrich tips When tipping days begin. The Wilhelm Moustache, curled with scorn, Will show the jaw beneath, And the Roosevelt Smile will still be worn Cut wide around the teeth.

If Frenzied Finance waxes stronger Stocks will be "short" and faces longer.

But if you have a well-made face That's durable and firm, Its features you need not replace— 'Twill wear another term. Two eyes, a nose, a pair of ears, A chin that's clean and strong Will serve their owner many years And never go far wrong.

But if your face is shoddy, Brother, Run to the store and buy another!

FOOTNOTES:

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



HAD A SET OF DOUBLE TEETH

BY HOLMAN F. DAY

Oh, listen while I tell you a truthful little tale Of a man whose teeth were double all the solid way around; He could jest as slick as preachin' bite in two a shingle-nail, Or squonch a molded bullet, sah, and ev'ry tooth was sound.

I've seen him lift a keg of pork, a-bitin' on the chine, And he'd clench a rope and hang there like a puppy to a root; And a feller he could pull and twitch and yank up on the line, But he couldn't do no business with that double-toothed galoot.

He was luggin' up some shingles,—bunch, sah, underneath each arm,— The time that he was shinglin' of the Baptist meetin'-house; The ladder cracked and buckled, but he didn't think no harm, When all at once she busted, and he started down kersouse.

His head, sah, when she busted, it was jest abreast the eaves; And he nipped, sah, quicker 'n lightnin', and he gripped there with his teeth, And he never dropped the shingles, but he hung to both the sheaves, Though the solid ground was suttenly more 'n thirty feet beneath.

He held there and he kicked there and he squirmed, but no one come; He was workin' on the roof alone—there war'n't no folks around— He hung like death to niggers till his jaw was set and numb, And he reely thought he'd have to drop them shingles on the ground.

But all at once old Skillins come a-toddlin' down the street; Old Skil is sort of hump-backed, and he allus looks straight down; So he never seed the motions of them number 'leven feet, And he went a-amblin' by him—the goramded blind old clown!

Now this ere part is truthful—ain't a-stretchin' it a mite,— When the feller seed that Skillins was a-walkin' past the place, Let go his teeth and hollered, but he grabbed back quick and tight, 'Fore he had a chance to tumble, and he hung there by the face.

And he never dropped the shingles, and he never missed his grip, And he stepped out on the ladder when they raised it underneath; And up he went a-flukin' with them shingles on his hip, And there's the satisfaction of a havin' double teeth.



PLAIN LANGUAGE FROM TRUTHFUL JAMES

BY BRET HARTE

Which I wish to remark— And my language is plain— That for ways that are dark, And for tricks that are vain, The heathen Chinee is peculiar, Which the same I would rise to explain.

Ah Sin was his name, And I shall not deny In regard to the same What that name might imply; But his smile it was pensive and childlike, As I frequent remarked to Bill Nye.

It was August the third, And quite soft was the skies; Which it might be inferred That Ah Sin was likewise; Yet he played it that day upon William And me in a way I despise.

Which we had a small game, And Ah Sin took a hand; It was euchre—the same He did not understand; But he smiled as he sat at the table With the smile that was childlike and bland.

Yet the cards they were stocked In a way that I grieve, And my feelings were shocked At the state of Nye's sleeve, Which was stuffed full of aces and bowers, And the same with intent to deceive.

But the hands that were played By that heathen Chinee, And the points that he made Were quite frightful to see, Till at last he put down a right bower, Which the same Nye had dealt unto me.

Then I looked up at Nye, And he gazed upon me; And he rose with a sigh, And said, "Can this be? We are ruined by Chinese cheap labor;" And he went for that heathen Chinee.

In the scene that ensued I did not take a hand, But the floor it was strewed Like the leaves on the strand With the cards that Ah Sin had been hiding In the game "he did not understand."

In his sleeves, which were long, He had twenty-four packs, Which was coming it strong, Yet I state but the facts; And we found on his nails, which were taper, What is frequent in tapers—that's wax.

Which is why I remark— And my language is plain— That for ways that are dark, And for tricks that are vain, The heathen Chinee is peculiar, Which the same I am free to maintain.



POSSESSION

BY WILLIAM J. LAMPTON

Oh, give me whatever I do not possess, No matter whatever it be; So long as I haven't it that is enough, I fancy, to satisfy me.

No matter whatever I happen to have, I have it; and what I have not Seems all that is good of the good things of earth To lighten the lack of my lot.

No covetous spirit incites the desire To have what I haven't, I'm sure; Because when I have what I haven't, I want What I haven't, the same as before.

So, give me whatever I do not possess, No matter whatever it be; And yet— To have what I haven't is having, and that Destroys all the pleasure for me.



HER BROTHER: ENFANT TERRIBLE[6]

BY EDWIN L. SABIN

This is Her brother; angel-faced,— Barring freckles and turned-up nose,— Demon-minded—a word well based, As nearer acquaintance will disclose. From outward guise the most sage of men Would never guess what within lies hid! If years we reckon, in age scant ten; If cunning, old as a pyramid.

This is Her brother, who sticks and sticks Tighter than even a brother should; Brimming over with teasing tricks, Hardened to bribe and "please be good"; And who, when at last afar we deem, In some sly recess but lurks in wait To note the progress of love's young dream— And we learn of his presence too late, too late!

This is Her brother, with watchful eyes, Piercing, shameless, and indiscreet, With ears wide open for soft replies And sounds that are sibilant and sweet! With light approach (not a lynx so still), With figure meanly invisible, With threatening voice and iron will, And shrill demands or he'll "go and tell!"

This is Her brother—and I submit To paying out quarters and sundry dimes; This is Her brother—whose urchin wit Moves me to wrath a thousand times; This is Her brother—and hence I smile And jest and cringe at his tyranny, And call him "smart"! But just wait a while Till he's my brother—and then we'll see!

FOOTNOTES:

[6] Lippincott's Magazine.



THE JACKPOT

BY IRONQUILL

I sauntered down through Europe, I wandered up the Nile, I sought the mausoleums where the mummied Pharaohs lay; I found the sculptured tunnel Where quietly in style Imperial sarcophagi concealed the royal clay. Above the vault was graven deep the motto of the crown: "Who openeth a jackpot may not always rake it down."

It's strange what deep impressions Are made by little things. Within the granite tunneling I saw a dingy cleft; It was a cryptic chamber. I drew, and got four kings. But on a brief comparison I laid them down and left, Because upon the granite stood that sentence bold and brown: "Who openeth a jackpot may not always rake it down."

I make this observation: A man with such a hand Has psychologic feelings that perhaps he should not feel, But I was somewhat rattled And in a foreign land, And had some dim suspicions, as I had not watched the deal. And there was that inscription, too, in words that seemed to frown: "Who openeth a jackpot may not always rake it down."

These letters were not graven In Anglo-Saxon tongue; Perhaps if you had seen them you had idly passed them by. I studied erudition When I was somewhat young; I recognized the language when it struck my classic eye; I saw a maxim suitable for monarch or for clown: "Who openeth a jackpot may not always rake it down."

Detesting metaphysics, I can not help but put A philosophic moral where I think it ought to hang; I've seen a "boom" for office Grow feeble at the root, Then change into a boomlet—then to a boomerang. In caucus or convention, in village or in town: "Who openeth a jackpot may not always rake it down."



DUM VIVIMUS VIGILAMUS

BY JOHN PAUL

Turn out more ale, turn up the light; I will not go to bed to-night. Of all the foes that man should dread The first and worst one is a bed. Friends I have had both old and young, And ale we drank and songs we sung: Enough you know when this is said, That, one and all,—they died in bed. In bed they died and I'll not go Where all my friends have perished so. Go you who glad would buried be, But not to-night a bed for me.

For me to-night no bed prepare, But set me out my oaken chair. And bid no other guests beside The ghosts that shall around me glide; In curling smoke-wreaths I shall see A fair and gentle company. Though silent all, rare revelers they, Who leave you not till break of day. Go you who would not daylight see, But not to-night a bed for me: For I've been born and I've been wed— All of man's peril comes of bed.

And I'll not seek—whate'er befall— Him who unbidden comes to all. A grewsome guest, a lean-jawed wight— God send he do not come to-night! But if he do, to claim his own, He shall not find me lying prone; But blithely, bravely, sitting up, And raising high the stirrup-cup. Then if you find a pipe unfilled, An empty chair, the brown ale spilled; Well may you know, though naught be said, That I've been borne away to bed.



AT AUNTY'S HOUSE

BY JAMES WHITCOMB RILEY

One time, when we'z at Aunty's house— 'Way in the country!—where They's ist but woods—an' pigs, an' cows— An' all's out-doors an' air!— An' orchurd-swing; an' churry-trees— An' churries in 'em!—Yes, an' these- Here red-head birds steals all they please, An' tetch 'em ef you dare!— W'y, wunst, one time, when we wuz there, We et out on the porch!

Wite where the cellar-door wuz shut The table wuz; an' I Let Aunty set by me an' cut My vittuls up—an' pie. 'Tuz awful funny!—I could see The red-heads in the churry-tree; An' bee-hives, where you got to be So keerful, goin' by;— An' "Comp'ny" there an' all!—an' we— We et out on the porch!

An' I ist et p'surves an' things 'At Ma don't 'low me to— An' chickun-gizzurds—(don't like wings Like Parunts does! do you?)

An' all the time, the wind blowed there, An' I could feel it in my hair, An' ist smell clover ever'where!— An' a' old red-head flew Purt' nigh wite over my high-chair, When we et on the porch!



WILLY AND THE LADY

BY GELETT BURGESS

Leave the lady, Willy, let the racket rip, She is going to fool you, you have lost your grip, Your brain is in a muddle and your heart is in a whirl, Come along with me, Willy, never mind the girl!

Come and have a man-talk; Come with those who can talk; Light your pipe and listen, and the boys will see you through; Love is only chatter, Friends are all that matter; Come and talk the man-talk; that's the cure for you!

Leave the lady, Willy, let her letter wait, You'll forget your troubles when you get it straight, The world is full of women, and the women full of wile; Come along with me, Willy, we can make you smile!

Come and have a man-talk, A rousing black-and-tan talk, There are plenty there to teach you; there's a lot for you to do; Your head must stop its whirling Before you go a-girling; Come and talk the man-talk; that's the cure for you

Leave the lady, Willy, the night is good and long, Time for beer and 'baccy, time to have a song; Where the smoke is swirling, sorrow if you can— Come along with me, Willy, come and be a man!

Come and have a man-talk, Come with those who can talk, Light your pipe and listen, and the boys will see you through; Love is only chatter, Friends are all that matter; Come and talk the man-talk; that's the cure for you!

Leave the lady, Willy, you are rather young; When the tales are over, when the songs are sung, When the men have made you, try the girl again; Come along with me, Willy, you'll be better then!

Come and have a man-talk, Forget your girl-divan talk; You've got to get acquainted with another point of view! Girls will only fool you; We're the ones to school you; Come and talk the man-talk; that's the cure for you!



A NEW YEAR IDYL

BY EUGENE FIELD

Upon this happy New Year night, A roach crawls up my pot of paste, And begs me for a tiny taste. Aye, eat thy fill, for it is right That while the rest of earth is glad, And bells are ringing wild and free, Thou shouldst not, gentle roachling, be Forlorn and gaunt and weak and sad.

This paste to-night especially For thee and all thy kind I fixed, You'll find some whiskey in it mixed, For which you have to thank but me. So freely of the banquet take, And if you chance to find a drop Of liquor, prithee do not stop But quaff it for thy stomach's sake.

Why dost thou stand upon thy head, All etiquette requirements scorning, And sing "You won't go home till morning" And "Put me in my little bed"? Your tongue, fair roach, is very thick, Your eyes are red, your cheeks are pale, Your underpinning seems to fail, You are, I wot, full as a tick.

ENVOI

I think I see that roach's home, That roach's wife, with broom in hand, That roach come staggering homeward and Then all is glum and gloom and gloam.



A LAY OF ANCIENT ROME

BY THOMAS YBARRA

Oh! the Roman was a rogue, He erat, was, you bettum; He ran his automobilis And smoked his cigarettum; He wore a diamond studibus, An elegant cravattum, A maxima cum laude shirt, And such a stylish hattum!

He loved the luscious hic-haec-hock, And bet on games and equi; At times he won; at others, though, He got it in the nequi; He winked (quo usque tandem?) At puellas on the Forum, And sometimes even made Those goo-goo oculorum!

He frequently was seen At combats gladiatorial, And ate enough to feed Ten boarders at Memorial; He often went on sprees And said, on starting homus, "Hic labor—opus est, Oh, where's my hic—hic—domus?"

Although he lived in Rome— Of all the arts the middle— He was (excuse the phrase) A horrid individ'l; Ah! what a diff'rent thing Was the homo (dative, hominy) Of far-away B. C. From us of Anno Domini.



LITTLE BOPEEP AND LITTLE BOY BLUE

BY SAMUEL MINTURN PECK

It happened one morning that Little Bopeep, While watching her frolicsome, mischievous sheep Out in the meadow, fell fast asleep.

By her wind-blown tresses and rose-leaf pout, And her dimpling smile, you'd have guessed, no doubt, 'Twas love, love, love she was dreaming about.

As she lay there asleep, came little Boy Blue, Right over the stile where the daisies grew; Entranced by the picture, he stopped in the dew.

So wildly bewitching that beautiful morn Was Little Bopeep that he dropped his horn And thought no more of the cows in the corn.

Our sorrows are many, our pleasures are few; O moment propitious! What could a man do? He kissed the wee lassie, that Little Boy Blue!

At the smack the woolies stood all in a row, And whispered each other, "We're clearly de trop; Such conduct is perfectly shocking—let's go!"



"FESTINA LENTE"

BY ROBERT J. BURDETTE

Blessings on thee, little man, Hasten slowly as you can; Loiter nimbly on your tramp With the ten-cent speedy stamp. Thou art "boss"; the business man Postals writes for thee to scan; And the man who writes, "With speed," Gets it—in his mind—indeed.

Lo, the man who penned the note Wasted ten cents when he wrote; And the maid for it will wait At the window, by the gate, In the doorway, down the street, List'ning for thy footsteps fleet. But her cheek will flush and pale, Till it comes next day by mail, With thine own indorsement neat— "No such number on the street." Oh, if words could but destroy, Thou wouldst perish, truthful boy!

Oh, for boyhood's easy way— Messenger who sleeps all day, Or, from rise to set of sun, Reads "The Terror" on the run.

For your sport, the band goes by; For your perch, the lamp post high; For your pleasure, on the street Dogs are fighting, drums are beat; For your sake, the boyish fray, Organ grinder, run-away; Trucks for your convenience are; For your ease, the bob-tail car; Every time and everywhere You're not wanted, you are there. Dawdling, whistling, loit'ring scamp, Seest thou this ten-cent stamp? Stay thou not for book or toy— Vamos! Fly! Skedaddle, boy!



THE GENIAL IDIOT DISCUSSES LEAP YEAR

BY JOHN KENDRICK BANGS

"If I were a woman," said the Idiot, "I think that unless I had an affidavit from the man, sworn to before a notary and duly signed and sealed, stating that he did the proposing, I should decline to marry, or announce my engagement to be married in Leap Year. It is one of the drawbacks which the special privilege of Leap Year confers upon women that it puts them under suspicion of having done the courting if the thing comes out during the year."

"Don't you worry about that," laughed Mrs. Pedagog. "You can go through this country with a fine tooth comb and I'll wager you you won't find a woman anywhere who avails herself of the privilege who wouldn't have done the same thing in any old year if she wanted to. Of all the funny old superstitions, the quaintest of the lot is that Leap Year proposal business."

"How you talk," cried the Idiot. "Such iconoclasm. I had always supposed that Leap Year was a sort of matrimonial safety valve for old maids, and here in a trice you overthrow all the cherished notions of a lifetime. Why, Mrs. Pedagog, I know men who take to the woods every Leap Year just to escape the possibilities."

"Courageous souls," said the landlady. "Facing the unknown perils of the forest, rather than manfully meeting a proposal of marriage."

"It is hard to say no to a woman," said the Idiot. "I'd hate like time to have one of 'em come to me and ask me to be hers. Just imagine it. Some dainty little damsel of a soulful nature, with deep blue eyes, and golden curls, and pearly teeth, and cherry lips, a cheek like the soft and ripening peach and a smile that would bewitch even a Saint Anthony, getting down on her knees and saying, 'O Idiot—dearest Idiot—be mine—I love you, devotedly, tenderly, all through the Roget's Thesaurusly, and have from the moment I first saw you. With you to share it my lot in life will be heaven itself. Without you a Saharan waste of Arctic frigidity. Wilt thou?' I think I'd wilt. I couldn't bring myself to say 'No, Ethelinda, I can not be yours because my heart is set on a strengthful damsel with raven locks and eyes of coal, with lips a shade less cherry than thine, and a cheek more like the apple than the peach, who can go out on the links and play golf with me. But if you ever need a brother in your business I am the floor-walker that will direct you to the bargain-counter where you'll find the latest thing in brothers at cost.' I'd simply cave in on the instant and say, 'All right, Ethelinda, call a cab and we'll trot around to the Little Church Around the Corner and tie the knot; that is, my love, if you think you can support me in the style to which I am accustomed."

Mr. Brief laughed. "I wouldn't bother if I were you, Mr. Idiot," said he. "Women don't tie up very strongly to Idiots."

"Oh don't they," retorted the Idiot. "Well, do you know I had a sort of notion that they did. The men that some of the nice girls I have known in my day have tied up to have somehow or other given me the impression that a woman has a special leaning toward Idiots. There was my old sweetheart, Sallie Wiggins, for instance—that wasn't her real name, of course, but she was one of the finest girls that ever attended a bargain sale. She had a mind far above the ordinary. She could read Schopenhauer at sight; understand Browning in a minute; her soul was as big as her heart and her heart was two and a half sizes larger than the universe. She was so strong-minded that although she could write poetry she wouldn't, and in the last year of her single blessedness she was the Queen-pin among the girls of her set. What she said was law, and emancipation of her sex was her only vice. Well, what do you think happened to Sallie Wiggins? After refusing every fine man in town, including myself,—I must say I only asked her five times; no telling what a sixth would have brought forth—she succumbed to the blandishments of the first sapheaded young Lochinvar that came out of the west, married him, and is now the smiling mother of nine children, does all the family sewing, makes her own parlor bric-a-brac out of the discarded utensils of the kitchen, dresses herself on ninety dollars a decade, and is happy."

"But if she loved him—" began the Lawyer.

"Impossible," said the Idiot. "She pitied him. She knew that if she didn't marry him, and take charge of him, another woman would, and that the chances were ten to one that the other woman wouldn't do the thing right and that Saphead's life would be ruined forever."

"But you say she is happy," persisted the Lawyer.

"Certainly she is," said the Idiot. "Because her life is an eternal sacrifice to Saphead's needs, and if there is a luxury in this mundane sphere that woman essentially craves it is the luxury of sacrifice. There is something fanatic about it. Sallie Wiggins voluntarily turned her back on seven men that I know of, one of whom is a Governor of his state; two of whom are now in Congress; one of whom is a judge of a state court; two of whom have become millionaire merchants; and the seventh of whom is to-day, probably, the most brilliant ornament of the penitentiary. Everyone of 'em turned down for Saphead, a man who parted his hair in the middle, couldn't earn seven dollars a century on his wits, is destined to remain hopelessly nothing, keeps her busy sewing buttons on his clothes, and to save his life couldn't tell the difference between Matthew Arnold and an automobile, and yet you tell me that women don't care for idiots."

"Miss Wiggins—or Mrs. Saphead, to be more precise," said Mr. Brief, "is only one instance."

"Well—there was Margaret Perkins—same town—same experience," said the Idiot. "Lovely girl—sought after by everybody—proposed to her myself five times—President of the Mental Culture Society of Baggville—graduate of Smythe—woman-member of Board of Education—Director of Young Girls' Institute—danced like a dream—had a sense of humor—laughed at my jokes—and married—what?"

"Well, what?" demanded the Lawyer.

"Prof. Omega Nit Zero, teacher of Cingalese in the University of Oklawaha, founded by a millionaire from Geneseo, New Jersey, who owned a hotel on the Oklawaha River that didn't pay, and hoped to brace up a bad investment by the establishment in the vicinity of a centre of culture. Prof. Zero receives ten dollars a week, and with his wife and three pupils constitutes the whole faculty, board of trustees, janitor, and student body of the University," said the Idiot. "Mrs. Zero dresses on nothing a year; cares for her five children on the same basis, and is happy. They are the principal patrons of the Oklawaha Hotel."

"Well—if she is happy?" said the Bibliomaniac. "What business is it of anybody else? I think if Prof. Zero makes her happy he's the right kind of a man."

"You couldn't make Zero the right kind of a man," said the Idiot. "He isn't built that way. He wears men's clothes and he has sweet manners, and a dulcet voice, and the learning of the serpent; but when it comes to manhood he has the initiative of the turtle, lacking the cash value of the terrapin, or the turtle's mock brother; he wears a beard, but it is the beard of the bearded lady who up-to-date appears to be a useless appanage of the strenuous life; and when you try to get at his Americanism, if he has any, he flies off into stilted periods having to do with the superior virtues of the Cingalese. And Margaret Perkins that was hangs on his utterances as though he were a very archangel."