George MacDonald. There was once a giant who lived on the borders of Giantland where it touched on the country of common people. Everything in Giantland was so big that the common people saw only a mass of awful mountains and clouds; and no living man had ever come from it, as far Somewhere near these borders, on the other side, by the edge of a great forest, lived a labourer with his wife and a great many children. One day Tricksey-Wee, as they called her, teased her brother, Buffy-Bob, till he could not bear it any longer, and gave her a box on the ear. Tricksey-Wee cried; and 10 Buffy-Bob was so sorry and so ashamed of himself that he cried too and ran off into the wood. He was so long gone that Tricksey-Wee began to be frightened, for she was very fond of her brother; and she was so distressed that she had first teased him and then cried, that at last she ran into the wood to look for him, though there was more chance of losing herself than of finding him. And, 15 indeed, so it seemed likely to turn out; for, running on without looking, she at length found herself in a valley she knew nothing about. And no wonder; for what she thought was a valley with round, rocky sides, was no other than the space between two of the roots of a great tree that grew on the borders of Giantland. She climbed over the side of it, and went towards what she took for 20 a black, round-topped mountain, far away; but which she soon discovered to be close to her, and to be a hollow place so great that she could not tell what it was hollowed out of. Staring at it, she found that it was a doorway; and going nearer and staring harder, she saw the door, far in, with a knocker of iron upon it, a great many yards above her head, and as large as the anchor of a 25 big ship. Now, nobody had ever been unkind to Tricksey-Wee, and therefore she was not afraid of anybody. For Buffy-Bob's box on the ear she did not think worth considering. So, spying a little hole at the bottom of the door which had been nibbled by some giant mouse, she crept through it, and found herself in an enormous hall. She could not have seen the other end of it at all, 30 except for the great fire that was burning there, diminished to a spark in the distance. Towards this fire she ran as fast as she could and was not far from it when something fell before her with a great clatter, over which she tumbled, and went rolling on the floor. She was not much hurt however and got up in a moment. Then she saw that what she had fallen over was not unlike a great 35 iron bucket. When she examined it more closely, she discovered that it was a thimble; and looking up to see who had dropped it, beheld a huge face, with spectacles as big as the round windows in a church, bending over her, and looking everywhere for the thimble. Tricksey-Wee immediately laid hold of it in both her arms and lifted it about an inch nearer to the nose of the peering 40 giantess. This movement made the old lady see where it was, and, her finger popping into it, it vanished from the eyes of Tricksey-Wee, buried in the folds of a white stocking.

In the drowsy heat of the summer afternoon the Red House was taking its siesta. There was a lazy murmur of bees in the flower-borders, a gentle cooing of pigeons in the tops of the elms. From distant lawns came the whir of a mowing-machine, that most restful of all country sounds; making ease the It was the hour when even those whose business it is to attend to the wants of others have a moment or two for themselves. In the housekeeper’s room, Audrey Stevens, the pretty parlour-maid, re-trimmed her best hat, and talked idly to her aunt, the cook-housekeeper of Mr. Mark Ablett’s bachelor home. 10 “For Joe?” said Mrs. Stevens placidly, her eye on the hat. Audrey nodded. She took a pin from her mouth, found a place in the hat for it, and said, “He likes a bit of pink.” “I dare say I mind a bit of pink myself,” said her aunt. “Joe Turner isn’t the only one.” 15 “It isn’t everybody’s colour,” said Audrey, holding the hat out at arm’s length, and regarding it thoughtfully. “Stylish, isn’t it?” “Oh, it’ll suit you all right, and it would have suited me at your age. A bit too dressy for me now, though wearing better than some other people, I daresay. I was never the one to pretend to be what I wasn’t. If I’m fifty-five, I’m fifty- 20 five—that’s what I say.” “Fifty-eight, isn’t it, auntie?” “I was just giving that as an example,” said Mrs. Stevens with great dignity. Audrey threaded a needle, held her hand out and looked at her nails critically for a moment, and then began to sew. 25 “Funny thing that about Mr. Mark’s brother. Fancy not seeing your brother for fifteen years.” She gave a self-conscious laugh and went on, “Wonder what I should do if I didn’t see Joe for fifteen years.” “As I told you all this morning,” said her aunt, “I’ve been here five years, and never heard of a brother. I could say that before everybody if I was going to 30 die tomorrow. There’s been no brother here while I’ve been here.” “You could have knocked me down with a feather when he spoke about him at breakfast this morning. I didn’t hear what went before, naturally, but they was all talking about the brother when I went in—now what was it I went in for—hot milk, was it, or toast?—well, they was all talking, and Mr. Mark turns 35 to me, and says—you know his way—‘Stevens,’ he says, ‘my brother is coming to see me this afternoon; I’m expecting him about three,’ he says. ‘Show him into the office,’ he says, just like that. ‘Yes, sir,’ I says quite quietly, but I was never so surprised in my life, not knowing he had a brother. ‘My brother from Australia,’ he says—there, I’d forgotten that. From Australia.”

Nathaniel Hawthorne. Grandfather had been sitting in his old armchair all that pleasant afternoon, while the children were pursuing their various sports, far off or near at hand. Sometimes you would have said, "Grandfather is asleep!" but still, even when his eyes were closed, his thoughts were with the young people, playing among He heard the voice of Laurence, who had taken possession of a heap of decayed branches which the gardener had lopped from the fruit trees, and was building a little hut for his cousin Clara and himself. He heard Clara's gladsome voice, too, as she weeded and watered the flowerbed which had been given 10 her for her own. He could have counted every footstep that Charley took, as he trundled his wheelbarrow along the gravel walk. And though Grandfather was old and grey-haired, yet his heart leaped with joy whenever little Alice came fluttering, like a butterfly, into the room. She had made each of the children her playmate in turn, and now made Grandfather her playmate too, and 15 thought him the merriest of them all. At last the children grew weary of their sports; because a summer afternoon is like a long lifetime to the young. So they came into the room together, and clustered round Grandfather's great chair. Little Alice, who was hardly five years old, took the privilege of the youngest, and climbed his knee. It was a 20 pleasant thing to behold that fair and golden-haired child in the lap of the old man, and to think that, different as they were, the hearts of both could be gladdened with the same joys. "Grandfather," said little Alice, laying her head back upon his arm, "I am very tired now. You must tell me a story to make me go to sleep." 25 "That is not what story-tellers like," answered Grandfather, smiling. "They are better satisfied when they can keep their auditors awake." "But here are Laurence, and Charley, and I," cried cousin Clara, who was twice as old as little Alice. "We will all three keep wide awake. And pray, Grandfather, tell us a story about this strange-looking old chair." 30 Now, the chair in which Grandfather sat was made of oak, which had grown dark with age, but had been rubbed and polished till it shone as bright as mahogany. It was very large and heavy and had a back that rose high above Grandfather's white head. This back was curiously carved in open work, so as to represent flowers and foliage and other devices, which the children had 35 often gazed at but could never understand what they meant. On the very tiptop of the chair, over the head of Grandfather himself, was a likeness of a lion's head, which had such a savage grin that you would almost expect to hear it growl and snarl.

Moulton. It was very strange, thought old Job Golding, that he couldn't be master of his own mind. He had lived a great many years, and neither remorse nor memory had ever been in the habit of disturbing him; but now it seemed to him as if the very foundations of his life were breaking up. He was through with his room whose crimson hangings shut out the still cold of the December afternoon—for the 24th of December it was. He was all ready to enjoy himself. How singular that this state of things should remind him of a coming time when his life work would be all done, even as his day's work was all done now, 10 when he would be ready to sit down in the afternoon and look over the balance sheet of his deeds. How curiously the old days came trooping in slow procession before him. His dead wife; he had not loved her much when she was with him, but how vivid was his memory of her now! He could see her moving round the house, 15 noiseless as a shadow, never intruding on him, after he had once or twice answered her gruffly, but going on her own meek, still ways, with her face growing whiter every day. He began to understand, as he looked back, why her strength had failed and she had been ready, when her baby came, to float out on the tide and let it drift her into God's haven. She had had enough to eat 20 and to drink, but he saw now that he had left her heart to starve. He seemed to see her white, still face, as he looked at it the last time before they screwed down the coffin lid, with the dumb reproach frozen on it, the eyes, that would never again plead vainly, closed for ever. He recalled how passionately the three-day-old baby cried in another room, 25 just at that moment, moving all the people gathered at the funeral with a thrill of pity for the poor little motherless morsel. She was a passionate, wilful baby, all through her babyhood, he remembered. She wanted—missed without knowing what the lack was—the love which her mother would have given her and protested against fate with all the might of her lungs. But, as soon as she 30 grew old enough to understand how useless it was, she had grown quiet, too; just like her mother. He recalled her, all through her girlhood, a shy, still girl, always obedient and submissive, but never drawing very near him. Did she have tastes, he wondered—wants, longings? She never told him. But suddenly, when she was eighteen, the old, passionate spirit that had made 35 her cry so when she was a baby must have awakened again, he thought; for she fell in love then, and married in defiance of his wishes. He remembered her standing proudly before him, and asking: "Father, do you know anything against Harry Church?" "Yes," he had answered wrathfully; "I know that he is as poor as Job was when 40 he sat among the ashes; he can't keep a wife." "Anything else, father?" looking him steadily in the eye. "No, that's enough," he had thundered; "and I'll tell you, besides, that if you marry him you must lie in the bed you will make. My doors will never open to you again, never."

Fred Hallowell was sitting at his desk in the Gazette office, looking listlessly out into the City Hall Park, where the biting wind was making the snowflakes dance madly around the leafless trees and in the empty fountain, and he was almost wishing that there would be so few assignments to cover as to allow him an and as this was the last day of December, it looked as if the old year was going out with a tumultuous train of sleet and snow. But if he had seriously entertained any hopes of enjoying a quiet day, these were dispelled by an office-boy who summoned him to the city desk. 10 “Good-morning, Mr. Hallowell,” said the city editor, cheerfully. “Here is a clipping from an afternoon paper which says that a French family in Houston Street has been dispossessed and is in want. Mr. Wilson called my attention to it because he thinks, from the number given, the house belongs to old Q. C. Baggold. We don’t like Baggold, you know, and if you find he is treating his 15 tenants unfairly we can let you have all the space you want to show him up. At any rate, go over there and see what the trouble is; there is not much going on today.” Fred took the clipping and read it as he walked back to his desk. It was very short—five or six lines only—and the facts stated were about as the city editor 20 had said. The young man got into his overcoat and wrapped himself up warmly, and in a few moments was himself battling against the little blizzard with the other pedestrians whom he had been watching in the City Hall Park from the office windows. When he reached Houston Street he travelled westward for several blocks, 25 until he came into a very poor district crowded with dingy tenement-houses that leaned against one another in an uneven sort of way, as if they were tired of the sad kind of life they had been witnessing for so many years. The snow that had piled up on the window-sills and over the copings seemed to brighten up the general aspect of the quarter, because it filled in the cracks and chinks 30 of material misery, and made the buildings look at least temporarily picturesque, just as paint and powder for a time may hide the traces of old age and sorrow. Fred found the number 179 painted on a piece of tin that had become bent and rusty from long service over a narrow doorway, and as he stood there comparing it with the number given in his clipping, a little girl with 35 a shawl drawn tightly over her head and around her thin little shoulders came out of the dark entrance and stopped on the door-step for a moment, surprised, no doubt, at the sight of the tall rosy-cheeked young man so warmly clad in a big woollen overcoat that you could have wrapped her up in several times, with goods left over to spare. 40 “Hello! little girl,” said Fred, quickly. “Does Mr. Cressy live here?” The child stared for a few seconds at the stranger, and then she answered, bashfully: “Yes, sir. But he has got to go away.” “But he hasn’t gone yet?” continued Fred; and then noticing that the child, in her short calico skirt, was shivering from the cold, and that her feet were 45 getting wet with the snow, he added, “Come inside a minute and tell me where I can find Mr. Cressy.”

by Daniel Defoe. September 30, 1659.—I, poor miserable Robinson Crusoe, being shipwrecked during a dreadful storm in the offing, came on shore on this dismal, unfortunate island, which I called “The Island of Despair”; all the rest of the ship’s company being drowned, and myself almost dead. was brought to—viz. I had neither food, house, clothes, weapon, nor place to fly to; and in despair of any relief, saw nothing but death before me—either that I should be devoured by wild beasts or starved to death for want of food. At the approach of night, I slept in a tree, for fear of wild creatures; but 10 slept soundly, though it rained all night. October 1.—In the morning I saw, to my great surprise, the ship had floated with the high tide, and was driven on shore again much nearer the island; which, as it was some comfort, on one hand—for, seeing her set upright, and not broken to pieces, I hoped, if the wind abated, I might get on board, and 15 get some food and necessaries out of her for my relief—so, on the other hand, it renewed my grief at the loss of my comrades, who, I imagined, if we had all stayed on board, might have saved the ship, or, at least, that they would not have been all drowned as they were; and that, had the men been saved, we might perhaps have built us a boat out of the ruins of the ship to have carried 20 us to some other part of the world. I spent great part of this day in perplexing myself on these things; but at length, seeing the ship almost dry, I went upon the sand as near as I could, and then swam on board. This day also it continued raining, though with no wind at all. From the 1st of October to the 24th.—All these days entirely spent in many 25 several voyages to get all I could out of the ship, which I brought on shore every tide of flood upon rafts. Much rain also in the days, though with some intervals of fair weather; but it seems this was the rainy season. Oct. 20.—I overset my raft, and all the goods I had got upon it; but, being in shoal water, and the things being chiefly heavy, I recovered many of them 30 when the tide was out. Oct. 25.—It rained all night and all day, with some gusts of wind; during which time the ship broke in pieces, the wind blowing a little harder than before, and was no more to be seen, except the wreck of her, and that only at low water. I spent this day in covering and securing the goods which I had saved, 35 that the rain might not spoil them. Oct. 26.—I walked about the shore almost all day, to find out a place to fix my habitation, greatly concerned to secure myself from any attack in the night, either from wild beasts or men. Towards night, I fixed upon a proper place, under a rock, and marked out a semicircle for my encampment; which I 40 resolved to strengthen with a work, wall, or fortification, made of double piles, lined within with cables, and without with turf. From the 26th to the 30th I worked very hard in carrying all my goods to my new habitation, though some part of the time it rained exceedingly hard. The 31st, in the morning, I went out into the island with my gun, to seek for 45 some food, and discover the country; when I killed a she-goat, and her kid followed me home, which I afterwards killed also, because it would not feed.

When I was a boy, I lived in one of those rustic neighbourhoods on the outskirts of the great "Maine Woods". Foxes were plenty, for about all those sunny pioneer clearings birch-partridges breed by thousands, as also field-mice and squirrels, making plenty of game for Reynard. reported. These animals were the pests of the farmyards, and made havoc with the geese, cats, turkeys, and chickens. In the fall of the year, particularly after the frosts, the clearings were overrun by them night and morning. Their sharp, cur-like barks used often to rouse us, and of a dark evening we would 10 hear them out in the fields, "mousing" around the stone-heaps, making a queer, squeaking sound like a mouse, to call the real mice out of their grass nests inside the stone-heaps. This, indeed, is a favourite trick of Reynard. At the time of my story, my friend Tom Edwards (ten years of age) and myself were in the turkey business, equal partners. We owned a flock of thirty-one 15 turkeys. These roosted by night in a large butternut tree in front of Tom's house—in the very top of it, and by day they wandered about the edges of the clearings in quest of beech-nuts, which were very plentiful that fall. All went well till the last week in October, when, on taking the census one morning, a turkey was found to be missing; the thirty-one had become thirty 20 since nightfall the previous evening. It was the first one we had lost. We proceeded to look for traces. Our suspicions were divided. Tom thought it was "the Twombly boys", nefarious Sam in particular. I thought it might have been an owl. But under the tree, in the soft dirt, where the potatoes had recently been dug, we found fox-tracks, and two or three ominous little wads 25 of feathers, with one long tail feather adrift. Thereupon we concluded that the turkey had accidentally fallen down out of the butternut—had a fit, perhaps— and that its flutterings had attracted the attention of some passing fox, which had, forthwith, taken it in charge. It was, as we regarded it, one of those unfortunate occurrences which no care on our part could have well foreseen, 30 and a casualty such as turkey-raisers are unavoidably heirs to, and we bore our loss with resignation. We were glad to remember that turkeys did not often fall off their roosts. This theory received something of a check when our flock counted only twenty- nine the next morning. There were more fox-tracks, and a great many more 35 feathers under the tree. This put a new and altogether ugly aspect on the matter. No algebra was needed to figure the outcome of the turkey business at this rate, together with our prospective profits, in the light of this new fact. It was clear that something must be done, and at once, too, or ruin would swallow up the poultry firm. 40 Rightly or wrongly, we attributed the mischief to a certain "silver-grey" that had several times been seen in the neighbourhood that autumn.

The subject of ants is a wide one, for there are at least a thousand species of ants, no two of which have the same habits. In this country (England) we have rather more than thirty, most of which I have kept in confinement. Their life is comparatively long: I have had working ants which were seven years old, and in addition to the young, of males, which do no work, of wingless workers, and one or more queen mothers, who have at first wings, which, however, after one marriage flight, they throw off, as they never leave the nest again, and in it wings would of course be useless. The workers do not, except occasionally, 10 lay eggs, but carry on all the affairs of the community. Some of them, and especially the younger ones, remain in the nest, excavate chambers and tunnels, and tend the young, which are sorted out according to age, so that my nests often had the appearance of a school, with the children arranged in classes. In our English ants, the workers in each species are all similar except 15 in size, but among foreign species there are some in which there are two or even more classes of workers, differing greatly not only in size, but also in form. The differences are not the result of age nor of race, but are adaptations to different functions, the nature of which, however, is not yet well understood. Among the Termites, those of one class certainly seem to act as soldiers, and 20 among the true ants also some have comparatively immense heads and powerful jaws. It is doubtful, however, whether they form a real army. Bates observed that on a foraging expedition, the large-headed individuals did not walk in the regular ranks, nor on the return did they carry any of the booty, but marched along at the side, and at tolerably regular intervals, "like 25 subaltern officers in a marching regiment." Solomon was, so far as we yet know, quite correct in describing ants as having "neither guide, overseer, nor ruler." The so-called queens are really mothers. Nevertheless, it is true, and it is curious, that the working ants and bees always turn their heads towards the queen. It seems as if the sight of her gives them 30 pleasure. On one occasion, while moving some ants from one nest into another for exhibition at the Royal Institution, I unfortunately crushed the queen and killed her. The others, however, did not desert her, or draw her out as they do dead workers, but on the contrary carried her into the new nest, and subsequently into a larger one with which I supplied them, congregating round 35 her for weeks just as if she had been alive. One could hardly help fancying that they were mourning her loss or hoping anxiously for her recovery. The communities of ants are sometimes very large, numbering even up to 500,000 individuals; and it is a lesson to us, that no one has ever yet seen a quarrel between any two ants belonging to the same community. On the other 40 hand, it must be admitted that they are in hostility, not only with most other insects, including ants of different species, but even with those of the same species if belonging to different communities. I have over and over again introduced ants from one of my nests into another nest of the same species, and they were invariably attacked, seized by a leg or an antenna, and dragged out.

In Kensington Gardens, that February day, it was very still. Trees, stripped of every leaf, raised their bare clean twigs towards a sky so grey and so unstirring that there might never have been wind or sun. And on those branches, pigeons sat, silent, as though they understood that there was no should miss the coming of the spring. Down in the grass, the tiniest green flames were burning, a sign of the fire flowers that would leap up if the sun would feed them. And on a seat, there sat a child. 10 He sat between his father and his mother, looking straight before him. It was plain that the reason why he looked so straight before him was that he really had not strength to care to look to right or left—so white his face was, so puny were his limbs. His clothes had evidently been designed for others, and this was fortunate, for they prevented the actual size of him from being seen. He 15 was not, however, what is called neglected; his face was clean, and the utmost of protection that Fate and the condition of his parents had vouchsafed was evidently lavished on him, for round his neck there was a little bit of draggled fur which should have been round the neck of her against whose thin, shabby side he leaned. This mother of his was looking at the ground; and from the 20 expression of her face, she seemed to think that looking at the ground was all life had to offer. The father sat with his eyes shut. He had shabby clothes, a grey face, and a grey collar that had once been white. Above the collar his thin cheeks had evidently just been shaved—for it was Saturday, and by the colour of those 25 cheeks, and by his boots, whose soles, hardly thicker than a paper sheet, still intervened between him and the ground, he was seen not to be a tramp or outdoor person, but an indoor worker of some sort, and very likely out of work, who had come out to rest in the company of his wife and family. His eyes being shut, he sat without the pain of looking at a single thing, moving his jaw 30 at intervals from side to side. And between the man and the woman, the child sat, very still, evidently on good terms with them, not realising that they had brought him out of a warm darkness where he had been happy, out of a sweet nothingness, into which, and soon perhaps, he would pass again—not realising that they had so neglected to 35 keep pace with things, or that things had so omitted to keep pace with them, that he himself had eaten in his time about one half the food he should have eaten, and that of the wrong sort. By the expression of his face, that pale small ghost had evidently grasped the truth that things were as they had to be. He seemed to sit there reviewing his own life and taking for granted that it must be 40 what it was, from hour to hour, and day to day, and year to year.

F. E. L. Beal. The robin, in many parts of the country one of the most cherished of our birds, is found throughout the States east of the Great Plains and is represented farther west and south by slightly different subspecies. It breeds far north through Canada and is found even in Alaska. Although the great bulk sheltered swamps, where wild berries furnish abundant food. The robin is an omnivorous feeder and its food habits have sometimes caused apprehension to the fruit grower, for it is fond of cherries and other small fruits, particularly the earlier varieties. For this reason, many complaints have been lodged against 10 robins, and it has been necessary to permit the killing of the birds in some fruit-growing regions. Examinations of 1236 stomachs show that 42 per cent of its food is animal matter, principally insects, while the remainder is made up largely of small fruits or berries. Over 16 per cent consists of beetles, about one-third of which 15 are useful ground beetles, taken mostly in spring and fall when other insects are scarce. Grasshoppers make up about 5 per cent of the whole food, but in August they comprise 17 per cent. Caterpillars form about 9 per cent, while the rest of the animal food, about 11 per cent, is made up of various insects, with a few spiders, snails, and angleworms. All the grasshoppers, caterpillars, 20 and bugs, with a large portion of the beetles, are injurious, and it is safe to say that noxious insects comprise more than one-third of the robin’s food. Vegetable food forms 58 per cent of the stomach contents, over 42 per cent being wild fruits and only a little more than 8 per cent being possibly cultivated varieties. Cultivated fruit amounting to about 25 per cent was found in the 25 stomachs in June and July, but only a trifle in August. Wild fruit, on the contrary, is eaten every month and constitutes a staple food during half the year. No less than 65 species of fruit were identified in the stomachs; of these, the most important were 4 species of dogwood, 3 of wild cherries, 3 of wild grapes, 4 of greenbrier, 2 of holly, 2 of elder; and cranberries, huckleberries, 30 blueberries, barberries, service berries, hackberries, and persimmons; together with 4 species of sumac and various other seeds not strictly fruit. The depredations of the robin seem to be confined to the smaller and earlier fruits, few, if any, complaints being made that it eats apples, peaches, pears, grapes, or even late cherries. By the time these are ripe the forests and 35 hedges are teeming with wild fruits which the bird evidently finds more to its taste. The cherry, unfortunately for man, ripens so early that it is almost the only fruit accessible at a time when the bird’s appetite has been sharpened by a long-continued diet of insects, earthworms, and dried berries, and it is no wonder that at first the rich juicy morsels are greedily eaten. 40 While the robin takes some cultivated fruits, it must be remembered that, being a natural enemy of the insect world, it has been working during the whole season to make that crop a possibility, and when the fruit ripens the robin already has a standing account with the farmer for services rendered, with the credits up to this time entirely on his side.

by George Horace Lorimer. June 25th Dear Pierrepont, Your letter of the seventh twists around the point a good deal like a setter pup chasing his tail. But I gather from it that you want to spend a couple of months in Europe before coming on here and getting your nose in the bullring. Of than anyone else how much time you have to waste, but it seems to me, on general principles, that a young man of twenty-two, who is physically and mentally sound, and who hasn’t got a dollar and has never earned one, can’t be getting on somebody’s pay-roll too quick. And in this connection, it is only 10 fair to tell you that I have instructed the cashier to discontinue your allowance after July 15. That gives you two weeks for a vacation—enough to make a sick boy well, or a lazy one lazier. I hear a good deal about men who won’t take vacations, and who kill themselves by overwork, but it’s usually worry or whiskey. It’s not what a man 15 does during working-hours, but after them, that breaks down his health. A fellow and his business should be bosom friends in the office and sworn enemies out of it. A clear mind is one that is swept clean of business at six o’clock every night and isn’t opened up for it again until after the shutters are taken down next morning. 20 Some fellows leave the office at night and start out to whoop it up with the boys, and some go home to sit up with their troubles—they’re both in bad company. They’re the men who are always needing vacations, and never getting any good out of them. What every man does need once a year is a change of work—that is, if he has been curved up over a desk for fifty weeks 25 and subsisting on birds and burgundy, he ought to take to fishing for a living and try bacon and eggs, with a little spring water, for dinner. But coming from Harvard to the packing house will give you change enough this year to keep you in good trim, even if you didn’t have a fortnight’s leeway to run loose. You will always find it a safe rule to take a thing just as quick as it is offered— 30 especially a job. It is never easy to get one except when you don’t want it; but when you have to get work, and go after it with a gun, you’ll find it as shy as an old crow that every farmer in the county has had a shot at. When I was a young fellow and out of a place, I always made it a rule to take the first job that offered, and to use it for bait. You can catch a minnow with a 35 worm, and a bass will take your minnow. A good fat bass will tempt an otter, and then you’ve got something worth skinning. Of course, there’s no danger of your not being able to get a job with the house—in fact, there is no real way in which you can escape getting one; but I don’t like to see you shy off every time the old man gets close to you with the halter. 40 I want you to learn right at the outset not to play with the spoon before you take the medicine. Putting off an easy thing makes it hard and putting off a hard one makes it impossible. Procrastination is the longest word in the language, but there’s only one letter between its ends when they occupy their proper places in the alphabet.

George H. Devol. My Dear Reader: I first saw the light of day in a little town called Marietta, at the mouth of the Muskingum River in the State of Ohio, on the first day of August 1829. I was the youngest of six children and was the pet of the family. My father was a ship carpenter and worked at boatbuilding in the beginning of we had good schools in the West at that time. I had very little liking for books, and much less for school. When my parents thought me at school, I was playing "hookey" with other boys, running about the river, kicking football, playing "shinny on your own side", and having a fight nearly every day. I 10 hardly ever went home that I did not have my face all scratched up from having been in a fight, which innocent amusement I loved much better than school. When I was hardly ten years of age, I would carry stones in my pocket and tackle the schoolteachers if they attempted to whip me. My father was away from home at his work most of the time, and my mother (God bless her 15 dear old soul) could not manage me. She has often called in some passer-by to help her punish me. I can now see I richly deserved all the punishment I ever received, and more too. When there was company at our house, and my mother would be busy preparing a meal, I would get my bow and arrows and shoot the cups off from the table, and then run away. I guess I was about the 20 worst boy of my age west of the Allegheny Mountains that was born of good Christian parents. I have often heard the good old church members say: "That boy will be hung if he lives to be twenty years old." But I have fooled them, and am still on the turf, although I have had some pretty close calls, as you will see by reading this book. 25 In the year 1839, while at the river one day, I saw a steamer lying at the wharf-boat by the name of Wacousta. The first steward said I could ship as a cabin boy at $4 per month. I thought this a great opportunity, so when the boat backed out, I was on board without saying anything to my parents or anyone else. My first duty was to scour knives. I knew they would stand no 30 foolishness, so at it I went, and worked like a little trooper, and by so doing I gained the good will of the steward. At night I was told to get a mattress and sleep on the floor of the cabin; this I was very glad to do, as I was tired. About four o'clock in the morning, the second steward came up to me and gave me a pretty hard kick in the side that hurt me, and called out: "Get up 35 here, and put your mattress away." I did get up and put away my bed, and then I went to the steward who kicked me and said: "Look here! Don't kick me that way again, for you hurt me." He let go and hit me a slap in the face that made my ears ring; so, into him I pitched. I was a big boy for only ten years old; but I struck the wrong man that time, for he hit me another lick in the 40 nose that came very near sending me to grass, but I rallied and came again. This time I had a piece of stone coal that I grabbed out of a bucket; I let it fly, and it caught him on the side of the head and brought him to his knees. By this time the passengers were getting up to see what the matter was; the pilot and first steward soon put a stop to the fight. I told my story to the boss, and 45 he took sides with me. He told the officers of the boat that I was the best boy to work that he had; so, they discharged the second steward at Cincinnati, and you can bet I was glad. I remained on the Wacousta for some time and thought myself a good steamboat man. I knew it all, for I had been there.

Lauren Bravo. Wising up to the reality of fast fashion has been both a slow dawning of realisation and a series of short, sharp shocks. When the Rana Plaza building in Dhaka, Bangladesh collapsed on 24 April 2013, killing 1138 garment workers and injuring some 2500 more, it marked the darkest day the industry has ever pence, but human life and suffering. It wasn’t that we had no idea the workers making our clothes were badly paid − in Bangladesh it’s as little as $37 a month, some of the lowest legal wages in the world − but, truthfully, before that day and the conversations it generated, 10 most of us had been able to avoid thinking about them. Those people. Those women, because it is mostly women. Without putting faces, voices or stories to the things that we wore, it was easier to pretend our clothes were merely picked off trees or born fully-formed and folded on the display table. As Rana Plaza crumbled, so did a little part of the opacity that had shielded our 15 conscience for so long. Now ‘transparency’ is the buzzword and visible supply chains are the goal. The tragedy inspired action, such as the formation of Fashion Revolution, a global not-for-profit organisation that campaigns for massive reform across the industry. They designated 24 April as Fashion Revolution Day, and over the 20 past six years they and other groups have united in acts of ‘pro-fashion’ protest − not telling us to quit shopping altogether, but encouraging us all to ask #whomademyclothes: what were they paid and how were they treated? It was a watershed moment, though it wasn’t enough to turn the tide. Yet. For the global fashion industry, the year following the Rana Plaza disaster was 25 the most profitable of all time. Even as the rubble was cleared and the death toll rose, the world carried on shopping. We shopped and shopped, and when our wardrobes overflowed and our floordrobes became unbearable, we threw stuff away to make room for more. Every year in the UK, an estimated 300,000 tonnes of used clothing now ends 30 up in landfill − although the word ‘used’ is disputable seeing as garments are reportedly worn on average just seven times before they’re thrown, more often than not, in the bin. In 2019, Brits spent an estimated £2.7 billion on clothes worn only once − including £700 million on 11 million summer outfits that didn’t make it beyond the duration of a single holiday. 35 Fashion is widely reported as one of the most polluting industries in the world. Some say second only to oil; some say more like third, fifth or sixth − it’s hard to know for sure. But we do know that Boohoo and Missguided sell dresses for less than the cost of a Pret sandwich. And in an economy where so many basic requirements seem to be escalating wildly out of reach − homes, transport, 40 education, lunch − it’s hardly surprising that we’re snapping up the bargains where we find them. It’s even less surprising when they unravel from the hems a week later.

Hetty had five brothers and sisters, and Champion, the dog, felt that he had too much to do. There were plenty of people in the cottage at Lenox, where they lived in the summer, to take care of the children, but there is a certain sort of responsibility which dogs of good, sound character are not willing to Champion found it easy to take care of the other little ones, for they were not allowed to venture outside of the garden gate, and if that were carelessly left open, he had only to station himself in front of it, and to gently tumble them over on the grass if they attempted to pass through it. He had never hurt 10 them, and their mother thought that they could not be under any better protection than that of good old faithful "Cham". But Hetty, who was seven years old, and Rudolph, who was nine, worried the dog terribly, and caused him to wear almost a perpetual scowl of anxiety upon his face. He evidently looked upon them as not old enough to be trusted by 15 themselves, and it was a serious annoyance to him that they were too big to be rolled over on the grass and so kept within the limits of the garden. One lovely summer morning, Hetty was missing. She had run away with a beautiful ripe plum, which her cousin Francis had picked in order to show her that the bloom upon it was exactly the colour of old "Greylock" in the distance. 20 So, she climbed the nearest hill, to compare the colours of the mountain and the plum. Looking away over the valley, the child saw too much beauty all at once. Clasping her hands behind her, she took in a long sweet breath of morning air and did not know what it was that filled her whole soul with joy. She laughed aloud up at the clear sky and spreading her arms as if they were 25 the wings of a bird, she ran down the hillside. Oh, there were so many robins! And butterflies flew around her in little clouds. The fields were like fairyland, they were so full of flowers. She picked baby daisies and put them inside of the wild-carrot heads, not in blossom yet, which grew in the shape of nests. When she climbed over a stone wall to the road, a squirrel ran across her path, into 30 the woods on the opposite side. "There!" she whispered, softly, "maybe I can find his hole." And she ran after him. It was a great pity that Champion had so much to do that morning. When lunch was ready, and no Hetty appeared, Rudy called the dog, and asked, "Cham, where's Hetty?" 35 Champion whined piteously, and looked first down the road, then up at Rudy, and then down the road again. "Come and eat some dinner, Rudy," said his mother, shading her eyes, and looking anxiously toward the woods. "Hetty will feel hungry and come home soon now." But she looked proudly after Rudy when he clapped his hat on with 40 a thump, and said, "Never you mind about me, mother; I'll eat more if I find Het first," and went racing after Champion, who bounded over the ground as if he meant to run all the way to the mountain.

various authors. The dull season just ended has been extremely interesting from the fact that a large number of stamps have been advancing in value by leaps and bounds. So many new collectors have come into the field that the supply of scarce and rare stamps has been much smaller than the demand. This has been the case sell, calculating that they would make more money by holding off. The Department stamps have scored the greatest advance. The Executives, sold a few years ago for $4 or $5 per set, command $25 to $30 today. The Justice set, which could be bought for $8 or $10 a set, are difficult to find at $80 or 10 $90. Even the despised Interior, worth formerly 75c. to $1 per set, now bring $5 to $6. A fine set of State formerly owned by the writer, and sold for $40 in 1891, changed hands the other day at $250. In a word, collectors with money—bankers, merchants, noblemen, and even royalties—have greatly increased in numbers during the past three years, 15 whereas there are no more unused U.S. stamps today than formerly. Indeed, there are fewer stamps on the market, as there is a constant destruction of old albums and collections, through fire, water, and carelessness. Used stamps are not appreciated to as great an extent as unused, as the great demand has led to the looking over of every lot of old letters within the reach 20 and knowledge of collectors. Consequently, the common varieties of U.S. stamps and envelopes are somewhat of a drug in the market and are bought by dealers today chiefly on the chance of finding one or more of the scarcer kinds in the lot of "cheap trash". I was mistaken in my opinion that the recent find of a big lot of St. Louis 25 stamps would bring down their price. The exact contrary has been the effect. Two or three of our largest collectors are ready to buy these stamps at an increased valuation, as they are now "plating". That is, they are making up sheets of these stamps as originally issued. As there were two papers and three plates, and each plate contained six stamps, to make up a complete set 30 would require thirty-six stamps in all. The cost of such a set of six plates of six stamps each would probably be at least $15,000, possibly $20,000. The new catalogues are appearing. The first in the field was Seuf's, then Stanley Gibbon's; the next to appear will probably be Scott's. Meanwhile J. W. Scott has issued a circular of the new prices of the U. S. issues, and probably 35 will soon issue a new edition of "Our Catalogue", which was the first ever made in the handy pocket form. MISS C. A.—The New Jersey cents are worth from 25c. to $3 each, according to condition, etc.

various authors. The great goshawk, a bird in a coat of blackish-brown covered with blotches of black and reddish-white, is a terrible enemy to wild rabbits, hares, and squirrels, and to all the small feathered inhabitants of field and forest. It is about two feet long, and although it is not a bird of very rapid flight, its hare hide itself in some thicket, the goshawk patiently perches on an elevated branch near at hand, where it will wait hours, motionless, until the poor hare, thinking its enemy departed, ventures from its retreat, when in an instant it is swooped down upon, and struck dying to the ground. 10 Goshawks are found in the Middle and Western States during the autumn and winter. In the summer, they go far to the northward to rear their young. They build a large nest of twigs and coarse grasses on some lofty branch of a tree and lay three or four eggs of dull bluish-white, slightly spotted with reddish-brown. These savage birds are very common in Maine, where they make great havoc 15 among the flocks of wild-ducks and Canada grouse, and will even, when driven by hunger, venture an attack on the fowls of the farmyard. Its sharp eye always gleaming, and, on the alert, the goshawk sweeps over fields and woods, changing its course in an instant by a slight movement of its rudder- like tail whenever any desired prey is sighted. It is the most restless of birds, 20 and is almost constantly on the wing, seldom alighting except for breakfast and dinner. Audubon relates a curious instance of sagacity in a goshawk, which he himself witnessed. A large flock of blackbirds flying over a pond were pursued by one of these birds, which, dashing into the flock, seized one after the other of the 25 poor little victims, apparently squeezing each one with its powerful talons, and then allowing it to drop on the surface of the water. Five or six had been captured before the fleeing blackbirds gained the shelter of a thick forest. The goshawk then swept leisurely back, and with graceful curves descended to the pond and collected its victims, taking the dead birds one by one and carrying 30 them away as if laying up a store for its evening meal. Instances have been known where this bird has itself fallen a victim to its own designs. Dead goshawks have been found with their talons hopelessly entangled in thorn and furze bushes, upon which they had pounced with the object of seizing some little rabbit or squirrel which had sought shelter beneath 35 the undergrowth. A hunter once witnessed such an occurrence, the rabbit scampering away in safety across the field, while the great bird remained entangled in the bush. The hunter forbore to shoot at the little rabbit which had made so fortunate an escape and killed the wicked bird of prey instead. Goshawks are found in nearly every portion of Europe and have sometimes 40 been trained to assist in hunting; but as they are more ferocious than the falcon, they are less easily controlled, and are always on the watch to regain their liberty. A smaller variety of the great hawk family, but one spreading equal terror among small birds, is the sparrow-hawk—a bold, provoking bird, with dark 45 brown back and wings, and breast of rusty brown or greyish-white crossed by narrow bars of a darker tint. The sparrow-hawk feeds mostly upon small birds, but it will also catch moles, field-mice, and even grasshoppers. It flies low, skimming along but a few feet from the ground, its sharp little eyes always on the watch for prey.

various authors. A gentle hermit, one day, proceeding on his way through a vast forest, chanced to discover a large cave nearly hidden under-ground. Being much fatigued, he entered to repose himself awhile; and observing something shining in the distance, he approached, and found it was a heap of gold. At the possible, had the misfortune to fall into the hands of three fierce robbers. They asked from whom he fled, and he answered, "I am flying from Death, who is urging me sorely behind." The robbers, not perceiving anyone, cried out, "Show us where he is." The 10 hermit replied, "Follow me," and proceeded toward the grotto. He there pointed out to them the fatal place, beseeching them at the same time to abstain from looking at it. But the thieves, seizing upon the treasure, began to rejoice exceedingly. They afterward permitted the good man to proceed on his way, amusing themselves by ridiculing his strange conduct. At length they 15 began to consider what they should do with the gold. One of them observed, "We ought not to leave the place without taking this treasure with us." "No," replied another, "we had better not do so; but let one of us take a small portion, and set out to buy wine and meat in the city, besides many other things we are in need of;" and to this the other two consented. 20 Now the evil spirit, which is always busy on these occasions, directly began to tempt the robber who was to go into the city. "As soon," whispered the bad spirit to him, "as I shall have reached the city, I will eat and drink of the best of everything as much as I please, and then purchase what I want. Afterward, I will mix with the food intended for my companions something which I trust 25 will settle their account, thus becoming sole master of the whole of the treasure, which will make me one of the richest men in this part of the world;" and as he purposed to do, so he did. He carried the poisoned food to his companions, who, on their part, while he had been away, had come to the conclusion of killing him on his return, in 30 order that they might divide the money among themselves, saying, "Let us fall upon him the moment he comes, and afterward eat what he has brought, and divide the money between us in much larger shares than before." The robber who had been into the city now returned with the articles he had bought and was immediately killed. The others then began to feast upon the 35 provisions prepared for them, and were seized with violent pains, and soon died. In this manner, all three fell victims to each other's avarice and cruelty, without obtaining their ill-gotten wealth.

Dombey sat in the corner of the darkened room in the great armchair by the bedside, and Son lay tucked up warm in a little basket bedstead, carefully disposed on a low settee immediately in front of the fire and close to it, as if his constitution were analogous to that of a muffin and it was essential to toast Dombey was about eight-and-forty years of age. Son about eight-and-forty minutes. Dombey was rather bald, rather red, and though a handsome well- made man, too stern and pompous in appearance, to be prepossessing. Son was very bald, and very red, and though (of course) an undeniably fine infant, 10 somewhat crushed and spotty in his general effect, as yet. On the brow of Dombey, Time and his brother Care had set some marks, as on a tree that was to come down in good time—remorseless twins they are for striding through their human forests, notching as they go—while the countenance of Son was crossed with a thousand little creases, which the same deceitful Time would 15 take delight in smoothing out and wearing away with the flat part of his scythe, as a preparation of the surface for his deeper operations. Dombey, exulting in the long-looked-for event, jingled and jingled the heavy gold watch-chain that depended from below his trim blue coat, whereof the buttons sparkled phosphorescently in the feeble rays of the distant fire. Son, 20 with his little fists curled up and clenched, seemed, in his feeble way, to be squaring at existence for having come upon him so unexpectedly. ‘The House will once again, Mrs Dombey,’ said Mr Dombey, ‘be not only in name but in fact Dombey and Son;’ and he added, in a tone of luxurious satisfaction, with his eyes half closed as if he were reading the name in a device 25 of flowers, and inhaling their fragrance at the same time; ‘Dom-bey and Son!’ The words had such a softening influence, that he appended a term of endearment to Mrs Dombey’s name (though not without some hesitation, as being a man but little used to that form of address): and said, ‘Mrs Dombey, my—my dear.’ 30 A transient flush of faint surprise overspread the sick lady’s face as she raised her eyes towards him. ‘He will be christened Paul, my—Mrs Dombey—of course.’ She feebly echoed, ‘Of course,’ or rather expressed it by the motion of her lips and closed her eyes again. 35 ‘His father’s name, Mrs Dombey, and his grandfather’s! I wish his grandfather were alive this day! There is some inconvenience in the necessity of writing Junior,’ said Mr Dombey, making a fictitious autograph on his knee; ‘but it is merely of a private and personal complexion. It doesn’t enter into the correspondence of the House. Its signature remains the same.’ And again, he 40 said ‘Dombey and Son,’ in exactly the same tone as before. Those three words conveyed the one idea of Mr Dombey’s life. The earth was made for Dombey and Son to trade in, and the sun and moon were made to give them light. Rivers and seas were formed to float their ships; rainbows gave them promise of fair weather; winds blew for or against their enterprises; 45 stars and planets circled in their orbits, to preserve inviolate a system of which they were the centre.

Rush C. Hawkins. The chief subject of this truthful history is a jet-black, middle-aged bird, commonly known in England as a rook, but nevertheless a notable specimen of the crow family. In his babyhood he was, in the language of the ancient chroniclers, grievously badly disabled that he had to forego the pleasure of flying through the air and was obliged to content himself as best he could with trudging about on the rough surface of mother earth. In his sad plight, with the maimed wing dragging painfully along, he chanced 10 to pass the window of a library belonging to and occupied by a charming old English gentleman, a perfect example of the old school, learned, benevolent, and very fond of animals and feathered pets. No one can tell what chance it was that brought the unhappy and wounded young rook to the window of this good man. But possibly it was a real inspiration on the part of the bird. Toby 15 was wet, weary, wounded and hungry, and as he looked in upon the cheerful wood fire and the kindly face of the master of the house, his longing expression was met by a raising of the window and an invitation to walk in to a breakfast of corn and meal that had been hastily prepared for him. He gazed and thought, and thought and gazed, upon the joys within and still he 20 doubted; but, finally, appetite and curiosity got the better of his discretion, and, as he walked cautiously in, the window was closed behind him. So, the wounded bird entered upon a new life. At first, he was a little shy and cautious and it took considerable time for him to convince himself that his protector was his friend. After a few weeks, 25 however, he realised the value of his new position, and consented to the establishment of intimate relations. In fact, Toby became so attached to his master, that he was not happy out of his presence. During the first month of his captivity, his wounded wing was bound close to his body for the purpose of giving the fractured bone an opportunity to unite, 30 and during most of that time he would walk by his master's side, cawing and looking up into his face as if asking for recognition. When the wing got well, and his ability to fly was re-established, he would anticipate the direction of the promenades by flying in advance from shrub to bush, alighting and awaiting the arrival of his master. 35 The most singular part of Toby's domestication was his exclusive loyalty to a single person. He had but one intimate friend, and to him his loyalty was intense. He would tolerate the presence of other members of the household, but when strangers appeared, he was decidedly offish, and scolded until they disappeared.

Scrap-Bag, Volume 4, by Louisa May Alcott. It was a cold November storm, and everything looked forlorn. Even the pert sparrows were draggle-tailed and too much out of spirits to fight for crumbs with the fat pigeons who tripped through the mud with their little red boots as if in haste to get back to their cosy home in the dovecot. bonnet-box on each arm, and both hands struggling to hold a big broken umbrella. A pair of worn-out boots let in the wet upon her tired feet; a thin cotton dress and an old shawl poorly protected her from the storm; and a faded hood covered her head. 10 The face that looked out from this hood was too pale and anxious for one so young; and when a sudden gust turned the old umbrella inside out with a crash, despair fell upon poor Lizzie, and she was so miserable she could have sat down in the rain and cried. But there was no time for tears; so, dragging the dilapidated umbrella along, 15 she spread her shawl over the bonnet-boxes and hurried down the broad street, eager to hide her misfortunes from a pretty young girl who stood at a window laughing at her. She could not find the number of the house where one of the fine hats was to be left; and after hunting all down one side of the street, she crossed over, 20 and came at last to the very house where the pretty girl lived. She was no longer to be seen; and, with a sigh of relief, Lizzie rang the bell, and was told to wait in the hall while Miss Belle tried the hat on. Glad to rest, she warmed her feet, righted her umbrella, and then sat looking about her with eyes quick to see the beauty and the comfort that made the 25 place so homelike and delightful. A small waiting-room opened from the hall, and in it stood many blooming plants, whose fragrance attracted Lizzie as irresistibly as if she had been a butterfly or bee. Slipping in, she stood enjoying the lovely colours, sweet odours, and delicate shapes of these household spirits; for Lizzie loved flowers passionately; and 30 just then they possessed a peculiar charm for her. One particularly captivating little rose won her heart and made her long for it with a longing that became a temptation too strong to resist. It was so perfect; so like a rosy face smiling out from the green leaves, that Lizzie could NOT keep her hands off it, and having smelt, touched, and kissed it, she suddenly broke 35 the stem and hid it in her pocket. Then, frightened at what she had done, she crept back to her place in the hall, and sat there, burdened with remorse. A servant came just then to lead her upstairs; for Miss Belle wished the hat altered and must give directions. With her heart in a flutter, and pinker roses in her cheeks than the one in her pocket, Lizzie followed to a handsome room, 40 where a pretty girl stood before a long mirror with the hat in her hand. “Tell Madame Tiffany that I don't like it at all, for she hasn't put in the blue plume mamma ordered; and I won't have rose-buds, they are so common,” said the young lady, in a dissatisfied tone, as she twirled the hat about. “Yes, miss,” was all Lizzie could say; for SHE considered that hat the 45 loveliest thing a girl could possibly own.

Nadina, the Russian dancer who had taken Paris by storm, swayed to the sound of the applause, bowed and bowed again. Her narrow black eyes narrowed themselves still more, the long line of her scarlet mouth curved faintly upwards. Enthusiastic Frenchmen continued to beat the ground magentas of the bizarre décors. In a swirl of blue and orange draperies the dancer left the stage. A bearded gentleman received her enthusiastically in his arms. It was the manager. “Magnificent, petite, magnificent,” he cried. “Tonight, you have surpassed 10 yourself.” He kissed her gallantly on both cheeks in a somewhat matter-of- fact manner. Madame Nadina accepted the tribute with the ease of long habit and passed on to her dressing-room, where bouquets were heaped carelessly everywhere, marvellous garments of futuristic design hung on pegs, and the air was hot 15 and sweet with the scent of the massed blossoms and with more sophisticated perfumes and essences. Jeanne, the dresser, ministered to her mistress, talking incessantly and pouring out a stream of fulsome compliment. A knock at the door interrupted the flow. Jeanne went to answer it and returned with a card in her hand. 20 “Madame will receive?” “Let me see.” The dancer stretched out a languid hand, but at the sight of the name on the card, “Count Sergius Paulovitch,” a sudden flicker of interest came into her eyes. 25 “I will see him. The maize peignoir, Jeanne, and quickly. And when the Count comes you may go.” “Bien, Madame.” Jeanne brought the peignoir, an exquisite wisp of corn-coloured chiffon and ermine. Nadina slipped into it, and sat smiling to herself, whilst one long white 30 hand beat a slow tattoo on the glass of the dressing-table. The Count was prompt to avail himself of the privilege accorded to him—a man of medium height, very slim, very elegant, very pale, extraordinarily weary. In feature, little to take hold of, a man difficult to recognise again if one left his mannerisms out of account. He bowed over the dancer’s hand with 35 exaggerated courtliness. “Madame, this is a pleasure indeed.” So much Jeanne heard before she went out closing the door behind her. Alone with her visitor, a subtle change came over Nadina’s smile.

Conan Doyle. I had called upon my friend, Mr. Sherlock Holmes, one day in the autumn of last year, and found him in deep conversation with a very stout, florid-faced, elderly gentleman, with fiery red hair. With an apology for my intrusion, I was about to withdraw, when Holmes pulled me abruptly into the room, and closed "You could not possibly have come at a better time, my dear Watson," he said, cordially. "I was afraid that you were engaged." "So I am. Very much so." 10 "Then I can wait in the next room." "Not at all. This gentleman, Mr. Wilson, has been my partner and helper in many of my most successful cases, and I have no doubt that he will be of the utmost use to me in yours also." The stout gentleman half rose from his chair and gave a bob of greeting, 15 with a quick, little, questioning glance from his small, fat-encircled eyes. "Try the settee," said Holmes, relapsing into his armchair and putting his fingertips together, as was his custom when in judicial moods. "I know, my dear Watson, that you share my love of all that is bizarre and outside the conventions and humdrum routine of everyday life. You have shown your relish for it by the 20 enthusiasm which has prompted you to chronicle, and, if you will excuse my saying so, somewhat to embellish so many of my own little adventures." "Your cases have indeed been of the greatest interest to me," I observed. "You will remember that I remarked the other day, just before we went into the very simple problem presented by Miss Mary Sutherland, that for strange 25 effects and extraordinary combinations we must go to life itself, which is always far more daring than any effort of the imagination." "A proposition which I took the liberty of doubting." "You did, doctor, but none the less you must come round to my view, for otherwise I shall keep on piling fact upon fact on you, until your reason breaks 30 down under them and acknowledges me to be right. Now, Mr. Jabez Wilson here has been good enough to call upon me this morning, and to begin a narrative which promises to be one of the most singular which I have listened to for some time. You have heard me remark that the strangest and most unique things are very often connected not with the larger but with the smaller 35 crimes, and occasionally, indeed, where there is room for doubt whether any positive crime has been committed. As far as I have heard, it is impossible for me to say whether the present case is an instance of crime or not, but the course of events is certainly among the most singular that I have ever listened to. Perhaps, Mr. Wilson, you would have the great kindness to recommence 40 your narrative. I ask you, not merely because my friend, Dr. Watson, has not heard the opening part, but also because the peculiar nature of the story makes me anxious to have every possible detail from your lips. As a rule, when I have heard some slight indication of the course of events, I am able to guide myself by the thousands of other similar cases which occur to my memory. In 45 the present instance I am forced to admit that the facts are, to the best of my belief, unique."

Rice Burroughs. Sabor, the lioness, suckled her young—a single fuzzy ball, spotted like Sheeta, the leopard. She lay in the warm sunshine before the rocky cavern that was her lair, stretched out upon her side with half-closed eyes, yet Sabor was alert. There had been three of these little, fuzzy balls at first—two daughters and a happy. But kills had not been plentiful, and Sabor, undernourished, had been unable to produce sufficient milk to nourish properly three lusty cubs, and then a cold rain had come, and the little ones had sickened. Only the strongest survived—the two daughters had died. Sabor had mourned, pacing to and fro 10 beside the pitiful bits of bedraggled fur, whining and moaning. Now and again she would nose them with her muzzle as though she would awaken them from the long sleep that knows no waking. At last, however, she abandoned her efforts, and now her whole savage heart was filled with concern for the little male cub that remained to her. That was why Sabor was more alert than usual. 15 Numa, the lion, was away. Two nights before he had made a kill and dragged it to their lair and last night, he had fared forth again, but he had not returned. Sabor was thinking, as she half dozed, of Wappi, the plump antelope, that her splendid mate might this very minute be dragging through the tangled jungle to her. Or perhaps it would be Pacco, the zebra, whose flesh was the 20 best beloved of her kind — juicy, succulent Pacco. Sabor’s mouth watered. Ah, what was that? The shadow of a sound had come to those keen ears. She raised her head, cocking it first upon one side and then the other, as with up-pricked ears she sought to catch the faintest repetition of that which had disturbed her. Her nose sniffed the air. There was but the suggestion of a 25 breeze, but what there was moved toward her from the direction of the sound she had heard, and which she still heard in a slightly increasing volume that told her that whatever was making it was approaching her. As it drew closer the beast’s nervousness increased and she rolled over on her belly, shutting off the milk supply from the cub, which vented its disapproval in miniature growls 30 until a low, querulous whine from the lioness silenced him, then he stood at her side, looking first at her and then in the direction toward which she looked, cocking his little head first on one side and then on the other. Evidently there was a disturbing quality in the sound that Sabor heard— something that inspired a certain restlessness, if not actual apprehension— 35 though she could not be sure as yet that it boded ill. It might be her great lord returning, but it did not sound like the movement of a lion, certainly not like a lion dragging a heavy kill. She glanced at her cub, breathing as she did so a plaintive whine. There was always the fear that some danger menaced him—this last of her little family—but she, Sabor the lioness, was there to defend him. 40 Presently the breeze brought to her nostrils the scent spoor of the thing that moved toward her through the jungle. Instantly, the troubled mother-face was metamorphosed into a bare-fanged, glittering-eyed mask of savage rage, for the scent that had come up to her through the jungle was the hated man- scent. She rose to her feet, her head flattened, her sinuous tail twitching 45 nervously. Through that strange medium by which animals communicate with one another she cautioned her cub to lie down and remain where he was until she returned, then she moved rapidly and silently to meet the intruder.

by P. G. Wodehouse. "Sylvia!" "Yes, Papa." "That infernal dog of yours—" "Oh, Papa!" Colonel Reynolds, V.C., glared sternly across the table at Miss Sylvia Reynolds, and Miss Sylvia Reynolds looked in a deprecatory manner back at Colonel Reynolds, V.C.; while the dog in question—a foppish pug—happening to meet the colonel's eye in transit, crawled unostentatiously under the 10 sideboard, and began to wrestle with a bad conscience. "Oh, naughty Tommy!" said Miss Reynolds mildly, in the direction of the sideboard. "Yes, my dear," assented the colonel; "and if you could convey to him the information that if he does it once more—yes, just once more!—I shall shoot 15 him on the spot, you would be doing him a kindness." And the colonel bit a large crescent out of his toast, with all the energy and conviction of a man who has thoroughly made up his mind. "At six o'clock this morning," continued he, in a voice of gentle melancholy, "I happened to look out of my bedroom window and saw him. He had then destroyed two of my best plants, and was 20 commencing on a third, with every appearance of self-satisfaction. I threw two large brushes and a boot at him." "Oh, Papa! They didn't hit him?" "No, my dear, they did not. The brushes missed him by several yards, and the boot smashed a fourth carnation. However, I was so fortunate as to attract 25 his attention, and he left off." "I can't think what makes him do it. I suppose it's bones. He's got bones buried all over the garden." "Well, if he does it again, you'll find that there will be a few more bones buried in the garden!" said the colonel grimly; and he subsided into his paper. 30 Sylvia loved the dog partly for its own sake, but principally for that of the giver, one Reginald Dallas, whom it had struck at an early period of their acquaintance that he and Miss Sylvia Reynolds were made for one another. On communicating this discovery to Sylvia, he had found that her views upon the subject were identical with his own; and all would have gone well had it not 35 been for a melancholy accident. One day while out shooting with the colonel, with whom he was doing his best to ingratiate himself, with a view to obtaining his consent to the match, he had allowed his sporting instincts to carry him away to such a degree that, in sporting parlance, he wiped his eye badly. Now, the colonel prided himself 40 with justice on his powers as a shot; but on this particular day he had a touch of liver, which resulted in his shooting over the birds, and under the birds, and on each side of the birds, but very rarely at the birds. Dallas being in especially good form, it was found, when the bag came to be counted, that, while he had shot seventy brace, the colonel had only managed to secure five and a half! 45 His bad marksmanship destroyed the last remnant of his temper. He swore for half an hour. After that, he felt better. And when, at the end of dinner, Sylvia came to him with the absurd request that she might marry Mr. Reginald Dallas he did not have a fit, but merely signified in fairly moderate terms his entire and absolute refusal to think of such a thing.