Genre Fiction. Page - 196

tel isn't much; but the piano is better thanthat fearful old thing at the Sebago House. Sometimes I godownstairs and talk to the lady who keeps the books--a French lady,who is remarkably polite. She is very pretty, and always wears ablack dress, with the most beautiful fit; she speaks a littleEnglish; she tells me she had to learn it in order to converse withthe Americans who come in such numbers to this hotel. She has givenme a great deal of information about the position of woman in

hile life as a whole, history, character, and destiny are objects unfit for imagination to dwell on, and repellent to poetic art? I cannot think so. If it be a fact, as it often is, that we find little things pleasing and great things arid and formless, and if we are better poets in a line than in an epic, that is simply due to lack of faculty on our part, lack of imagination and memory, and above all to lack of discipline.This might be shown, I think, by psychological analysis, if we cared to

climate of more abundant moisture, the ivywould have mantled it from head to foot in a garment that might, bythis time, have been centuries old, though ever new. In the dryItalian air, however, Nature had only so far adopted this old pile ofstonework as to cover almost every hand's-breadth of it withclose-clinging lichens and yellow moss; and the immemorial growth ofthese kindly productions rendered the general hue of the tower softand venerable, and took away the aspect of nakedness which

r a moment Bill stood over him, nostrils flaring, his whole body tense and waiting. But Tom was too groggy to get up."Oh, Bill, how could you!" Christy cried out, dropping to her knees beside Tom. Bill strode with measured step to the door. There he turned, and looking back with a sneer, said, "Sweet dreams, Dream Boy!" * * * * * In a luxurious office of Asteroid Mining Corporation on the twenty-third floor of a Manhattan skyscraper a furious official of the corporation

bunch grass in the miles of red shaggy prairie that stretched before his cabin. He knew it in all the deceitful loveliness of its early summer, in all the bitter barrenness of its autumn. He had seen it smitten by all the plagues of Egypt. He had seen it parched by drought, and sogged by rain, beaten by hail, and swept by fire, and in the grasshopper years he had seen it eaten as bare and clean as bones that the vultures have left. After the great fires he had seen it stretch for miles and

hink of Prometheus chained to the rock. His flesh that came from the earth was the prey of the vulture, but the seed of the gods which was hidden in every mortal, gave him strength to resist what he believed to be wrong and bear suffering.A strange old story, is it not? But it is also a story of to-day. Ours is the same earth with its fertile fields and wide forests, its rich mines and its wealth of flocks and herds. They are all given to us, just as the gods gave them to the first men, for the

[Turning apologetically to VERA] I beg your pardon, Miss Andrews, I mean Miss--er----VERA Revendal. MENDEL [Slightly more interested] Revendal? Then you must be the Miss Revendal David told me about! VERA [Blushing] Why, he has only seen me once--the time he played at our Roof-Garden Concert. MENDEL Yes, but he was so impressed by the way you handled those new immigrants--the Spirit of the Settlement, he called you. VERA [Modestly] Ah, no--Miss Andrews is that. And you will tell him to answer

z, as he walked in, throwing his umbrella in Gluck's face."Aye! what for, indeed, you little vagabond?" said Hans, administering an educational box on the ear as he followed his brother into the kitchen. "Bless my soul!" said Schwartz when he opened the door. "Amen," said the little gentleman, who had taken his cap off and was standing in the middle of the kitchen, bowing with the utmost possible velocity. "Who's that?" said Schwartz, catching up a

r. It came to me suddenly that I had the kind of feeling one has in the aisle of a large cathedral. There was a sort of echo in the night--an incredibly faint reduplicating of the noise of our oars."Hark!" I said, audibly; not realizing at first that I was speaking aloud. "There's an echo--" "That's it!" the Captain cut in, sharply. "I thought I heard something rummy!" . . . "I thought I heard something rummy," said a thin ghostly echo, out of

uestion is put in the forefront. The politicians of Ireland and Wales have realized the importance of language in asserting nationality, but such engineered language-agitation offers but a feeble reflex of the vitality of the question in lands where the native language is as much in use for all purposes as is English in England. These lands will fight harder and harder against the claims to supremacy of a handful of Western intruders. A famous foreign philologist,[1] in a report on the subject