better take him in my place. Willie, what do you say? Now, sir, don't be contrary."

Willie began to cry.

"You see," said Slimson, "how much he needs it. It may be the making of him."

"Perhaps you are right," said Mrs. Slimson, doubtfully. "Come, Willie," said Slimson, "brace up. It will be a great education to you. Make up your mind to it."

Willie stuck his knuckle in his eye.

"Pop," he said solemnly, "I didn't think you'd be so mean as that. But you can't fool me. I know it must be something awful when you want me to go in your place."

WORK AND PLAY.

RISING from his crib at such an early age, Peter Goahead's parents were amazed at his unusual precocity.

"We must lose no time," they cried with one voice, "in sending him to the kindergarten. With a mind like that what may he not become?"

At the kindergarten Peter acquired the proper nervous tension in a year to put him into the first grade at school, and from thence he rose rapidly.

And thus, eating, sleeping and studying for twenty years more, Peter became an adept at knowing things. It became easy for him thereafter, by working fourteen hours a day, to earn a respectable living.

One day, at the age of eighty-seven, it occurred to Peter that he had never learned to play.

Merely for the sake of completing the cycle of his cerebral development this seemed necessary.

So, in an odd hour, when he thought no one was looking, he

stole out into the backyard and gamboled on the green. danced and laughed and turned somersaults.

He

The authorities, however, who at that time were extremely vigilant, were watching him.

An ambulance was called and Peter promptly taken to a sanitarium.

His parents, who had died long before, naturally had nothing to say. But those who knew remarked sagely: "What a pity, after a life of such extreme rectitude, that he should go astray!"

THE REFUSAL.

IN N the small room at the top of the house sat the great poet. The walls were bare, the furniture poor and scanty; an air of neglect was about the place. For, in spite of the fact that the poet's name was known the world over, that millions of human beings carried his message in their hearts, he lived in comparative poverty.

A knock came at the door.

"Come in," called the poet.

No ceremony was here no retinue of servants, no line of custom to break through. Because his words were for all, few came to see the poet.

A man entered. He was well clad and careworn.

"I am," said he, "the greatest financier of the age-the master mind. I control railroads, governments, men and measures. I hear you are writing an epic."

"Yes."

"I wish to buy a controlling interest in it. I will pay you a million dollars.”

"What would you do with it if you had it?"

"I would link my name to it, so that when I am gone I shall not be forgotten; as I shall be now."

"I cannot accept your price."

"It is a large sum."

"That is nothing to me. I cannot accept money for something that is immortal."

"What would you have?"

"Yourself."

"Myself?"

"Yes. Give up your wealth, your power-everything, without stint. Come and live as I live-in obscurity, poverty, alone, unsought, unknown."

"Your price is high."

"Your demand is high. The value of your achievements is nothing. You have directed the energies of others into your own enclosure, but you have created naught. For that which is a part of myself I ask but a fair return."

"Is the payment in advance?"

"Yes. Come back in five years with proofs that you have kept your bargain, and I will give you the epic."

Five years passed. The poet still sat in his room, writing.
A knock sounded at the door.

"Come in."

A man, clad in the humble garb of the common people, entered. His brows were furrowed with thought; in his eyes was the gleam of the ages.

"Ah! you have kept your bargain."

"Yes."

"And you have come for the epic? Here it is!"

The visitor took it and read. Having finished it, he arose.

"Poet, here is your epic."

"What? You refuse it after it is paid for?"

"Yes."

"Why?"

"Because I have written a better one."

THE WOMAN IN THE CASE.

SCENE: The Bluebottle Links.

LEVERTON—Want to go around, old man?

CLEV

DASHAWAY-Thanks, but I expect some friends. Whittler

and his wife.

CLEVERTON-Oh, yes. He plays, doesn't he?

DASHAWAY-Yes, a fair game. But she doesn't, thank

heaven.

CLEVERTON-I was wondering about that.

DASHAWAY-No, sir. I am too old a bird to ask a man and his wife when they both play. No woman in it for me! I'll introduce her to some people, and she can sit on the club piazza until luncheon.

CLEVERTON Good. Here comes some one now. Well, I'm going to drive off.

DASHAWAY-Good luck. Here they are. Good morning, Mrs. Whittler. Delighted to see you. How are you, old man? So glad you could come.

WHITTLER—And I'm mighty glad to get here. Fine place

you have.

MRS. WHITTLER (shaking hands cordially)—So good of you to ask us, you know.

DASHAWAY-My pleasure, I assure you. Hallo, old man, what you got so many clubs for? Why, half of them are new. MRS. WHITTLER-That's my secret. Mr. Dashaway, will you believe it, I'm learning to play.

DASHAWAY (heartsick)-You don't say so?

MRS. WHITTLER-Yes, indeed. I went around last week with a set of borrowed sticks-excuse me, clubs—and I have been playing more or less ever since. I am just crazy over the game.

WHITTLER-I told my wife I thought it was an imposition on you for both of us to play to-day, but