the tranquility of this queen of the sands, golden like them, white like them, solitary and burning like them.

But this passion of the desert ended as all great passions do end, with a misunderstanding. One suspects the other of treason; there is no explanation, because of pride; and they fall out through stubbornness.

"I don't know if I hurt her," said the soldier, "but she turned round as if enraged, and with her sharp teeth seized me by the leg―gently, I dare say; but I, thinking she was about to devour me, plunged my dagger into her throat. She rolled over, uttering a cry that froze my heart. I saw her struggling in death, still watching me without anger. I would have given all the world to bring her back to life again. It was as though I had murdered a real person. The soldiers who finally came to my assistance, found me in tears. Since then I have been in war in Germany, in Spain, in Russia, in France; but never have I seen anything like the desert. It is very beautiful and what you feel there cannot be described. In the desert, you see, there is everything, and nothing. It is God without mankind."

A NIGHT AMONG THE PINES

From TRAVELS WITH A DONKEY. BY ROBERT LOUIS STEVENSON Night is a dead monotonous period under a roof; but in the open world it passes lightly, with its stars and dews and perfumes, and the hours are marked by changes in the face of Nature. What seems a kind of temporal death to people choked between walls and curtains, is only a light and living slumber to the man who sleeps a-field.

All night long he can hear nature breathing deeply and freely; even as she takes her rest, she turns and smiles; and there is one stirring hour unknown to those who dwell in houses, when a wakeful influence goes abroad over the sleeping hemisphere, and all the outdoor world are on their feet. It is then that the cock first crows, not this time to announce the dawn, but like a cheerful watchman speeding the course of the night. Cattle awake on the meadows; sheep break their fast on dewy hillsides, and change to a new lair among the ferns; and houseless men, who have lain down with the fowls, open their dim eyes and behold the beauty of the night.

At what inaudible summons, at what gentle touch of Nature, are all these sleepers thus recalled in the same hour to life? Do the stars rain down an influence, or do we share some thrill of mother earth below our resting bodies? Even shepherds and old country-folk, who are the deepest read in these arcana, have not a guess as to the means or purpose of this nightly resurrection.

Towards two in the morning they declare the thing takes place; and neither know nor inquire further. And at least it is a pleasant incident. We are disturbed in our slumber only, like the luxurious Montaigne, "that we may the better and more sensibly relish it." We have a moment to look upon the stars. And there is a special pleasure for some minds in the reflection that we share the impulse with all outdoor creatures in our neighborhood, that we have escaped out of the Bastille of civilization, and are become, for the time being, a mere kindly animal and a sheep of Nature's flock.

When that hour came to me among the pines, I wakened thirsty. My tin was standing by me half full of water. I emptied it at a draught; and feeling broad awake after this internal cold aspersion, sat upright to make a cigarette. The stars were clear, colored, and jewel-like, but not frosty. A faint silvery vapor stood for the Milky Way. All around me the black fir-points stood upright and stock-still.

By the whiteness of the pack-saddle, I could see Modestine walking round and round at the length of her tether; I could hear her steadily munching at the sward; but there was not another sound save the indescribable quiet talk of the runnel over the stones. I lay studying the color of the sky, as we call the void of space, from where it showed a reddish gray behind the pines to where it showed a glossy blue-black between the stars.

A faint wind, more like a moving coolness than a stream of air, passed down the glade from time to time; so that even in my great chamber the air was being renewed all night long. I thought with horror of the inn at Chasseradès and the congregated nightcaps; with horror of the nocturnal prowesses of clerks and students, of hot theatres and pass-keys and close rooms. I have not often enjoyed a more serene possession of myself, nor felt more independent of material aids.

The outer world, from which we cower into our houses, seemed after

all a gentle habitable place; and night after night a man's bed, it seemed, was laid and waiting for him in the fields, where God keeps an open house. I thought I had rediscovered one of those truths which are revealed to savages and hid from political economists: at the least, I had discovered a new pleasure for myself.

When I awoke again (Sunday, 29th September), many of the stars had disappeared; only the stronger companions of the night still burned visibly overhead; and away towards the east I saw a faint haze of light upon the horizon, such as had been the Milky Way when I was last awake. Day was at hand. I lit my lantern, and by its glowworm light put on my boots and gaiters; then I broke up some bread for Modestine, filled my can at the water-tap, and lit my spirit-lamp to boil myself some chocolate.

The blue darkness lay long in the glade where I had so sweetly slumbered; but soon there was a broad streak of orange melting into gold along the mountain-tops of Vivarais. A solemn glee possessed my mind at this gradual and lovely coming in of day. I heard the runnel with delight; I looked round me for something beautiful and unexpected; but the still black pine-trees, the hollow glade, the munching ass, remained unchanged in figure. Nothing had altered but the light, and that, indeed, shed over all a spirit of life and of breathing peace, and moved me to a strange exhilaration.

I drank my water chocolate, which was hot if it was not rich, and strolled here and there, and up and down about the glade. While I was thus delaying, a gush of steady wind, as long as a heavy sigh, poured direct out of the quarters of the morning. It was cold, and set me sneezing. The trees near at hand tossed their black plumes in its passage; and I could see the thin distant spires of pine along the edge of the hill rock slightly to and fro against the golden east. Ten minutes after, the sunlight spread at a gallop along the hillside, scattering shadows and sparkles, and the day had come completely.

TALL-STOY 1

BY GEORGE ADE

Characters

Mr. Robert Latimer, a man absorbed in business.

A Solicitor, representing "The Interplanetary Publishing Co."
Scene; Mr. Latimer's office

Mr. Latimer is seated in a revolving chair at his desk. The solicitor enters.

SOLICITOR: This is Mr. Latimer?

LATIMER (turning in chair): It is.

S.: Your name has been given to us, Mr. Latimer, as one who is fond of good books.

L.: Who is "us"?

S.: The Interplanetary Publishing Company is the house I have the honor to represent. Our manager was very anxious that I should call on you. Even if you do not care to place an order, I know that as a lover of beautiful prints and bindings, you will take some pleasure in examining the sample volume I have here.

L.: Your manager is mixed in his dates. You have hunted up the wrong Latimer.

S.: I hardly think so. You have placed several orders with us already, haven't you? Didn't you take a set of the Balzac?

L.: I guess I did-four dollars per Balzac. I've got 'em out home there now, just as good as new.

S.: That was an excellent edition.

L.: I wouldn't dare to contradict you, because I've never looked into one of them.

S.: I had understood that you were something of a collector.

L.: That isn't what I call myself. I call myself an easy mark. I've got about as much use for a lot of them books as a Methodist preacher'd have for a dark lantern an' a pair of loaded dice. I don't know how I happened to let myself be worked on that first lot. I guess I had orders

1 Copyright 1903 by Doubleday Page and Company, and reprinted by special arrangement with these publishers.

from home to fill up the shelves. You fellows didn't do a thing to me. Bing! Four dollars a throw. They may be swell books all right but I don't have any time to get at 'em. Say, I don't even have time to read the newspapers.

S.: You have no objection, however, to my showing you some of our new things?

L.: Show it, if you want to, but you're simply usin' up your own time, I can tell you that.

S.: I have something here that I fancy will please you. (takes book from under coat)

L.: What is it?

S.: Tolstoi.

L.: Come again.

S.: Tolstoi.

L.: Tall-stoy?

S.: Yes. I suppose you are more or less familiar with his work? L.: Chicago man?

S.: I don't think you caught the name—Tolstoi, the eminent Russian. L.: Russian?

S.: Yes. He is accorded first place among the great literary workers of the czar's domain, his writings being characterized by simplicity, immense strength, and a sympathy for all mankind, particularly the poor and downtrodden.

L.: That's all right, too, but if your house wants to get out books and sell them to people, why don't you plug for somebody here at home? There's lots of good fellows in this country you might help to a little money if you wanted to. Instead of that, you have to hunt up some fellow over in Russia. You can bet that any coin he gets out of these books he spends over there. He don't come to Chicago to blow it in, does he?

S.: Our house is always ready to give encouragement to American authors, but in this line of work you must admit that Tolstoi is preeminent.

L.: Let me tell you something. You come in here and you want me to buy some books written by this-whatever his name is. and you say to me that he is the best ever?