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 ; Waterfall Road :
 * Hokkien, A e̍k tò-lūn 亞逸倒潤 the Chinese pronunciation for Ayer Terjun, which means 'water plunging.'

 * Weld Quay :
 * Hokkien, Haí kiⁿ sin lō͘ 海墘新路 "sea-beach new road," or Sin haí kiⁿ ke 新海墘街 "new sea-beach road."
 * Cantonese, Hoi phe 海皮 "sea-beach."

 * Western Road :
 * Hokkien, An̂g mô͘ sin thióng 紅毛新塚 "red hair new cemetery," so called after the European new cemetery there. Sai hoa hãng 西華巷 the Western grand lane. Pêng an bãng 平安巷 the happy lane.
 * Cantonese, San hung mo fan 新紅毛墳 "new red hair cemetery." Sai wa hong 西華巷 Pheng on hong 平安巷

 * R. C. O.
 * Hokkien, Jī ông koan 二王關 "No. 2 King's office"; the Governor being the No. 1 King.

 * Treasury :
 * Hokkien, Kong-pān-gé khò͘-pâng 公班衙庫房 kong-pān-gê is the Chinese pronunciation for company, i. e., the East India Company, the Government; and khò͘-pâng means treasury.
 * Cantonese, Fu-fong 庫房 "treasury."

 * Stamp Office :
 * Hokkien, Bē ang-á thaû ê koan 賣尩仔頭之關 "Selling doll-head Office."
 * Cantonese, Mai kung chai thau nga mun 賣公仔頭衙門 "selling doll-head yamen.”
 * Hokkien, si-tàn koan 寔担關 si-tàn = stamp, and koan means office.
 * Cantonese, Si tam kun 士担舘
 * Cantonese, Si tam kun 士担舘

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license: Creative Commons - Attribution Share-Alike - https://creativecommons.org/licenses/by-sa/4.0/


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This booklet is written for the farmer who, farms the farm. That is, the actual tiller of the soil. The man who works eight hours in the morning and eight in the afternoon that mankind may be fed and clothed. The Socialist movement is not concerned with the farmer who farms the farmer. There are lawyers, doctors, bankers and merchants who own farms. Then there are the retired farmers who moved to town to die and then forgot why they moved to town. All these people are no farmers but exploiters of labor. They live off the farmer who farms the farm. They are parasites as much as our idle rich, only on a smaller scale.

The author has often been asked, "After a man has worked hard all his life and saved his money and bought a farm to have something to live on in his old age, would you Socialists take it away from him?" To this question we answer: "If that farmer had received the full product of his labor during his producing years he could retire to well-earned rest, on the accumulations of his own labor. As it is, he lives on the fruit of some one else's labor." We also may ask in return, "If a man worked hard all his life on a rented farm and paid one-third or one-half of the crop to the landlord, what are you going to do with him after he becomes too old to work?"

We may add further that we don't expect the beneficiaries of the capitalist system to voluntarily relinquish their soft snap. In fact they would be very foolish in doing this, especially so since the victims of the system are still willing to support it with their votes. So we say to the farmer who farms the farmer, "personally we do not blame you for exploiting the renter any more than we blame the chicken for eating worms or the hawk for devouring the chickens. As long as the landless who even now are in the over-whelming majority are willing to pay you for the use of God's earth, you would be a fool not to take all you can. Only we want to serve notice that some day the majority will wake up and then you'll join the one time highly respected Robber Barons and the Feudal Lords."


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 ; Public Works Department:
 * Hokkien, Niû tē koaⁿ 量地官 "measuring land official."
 * Cantonese, Leung te kun 量地官

 * Land Office:
 * Hokkien, Gâ-lân koan 牙蘭關 gâ-lân=grant.
 * Cantonese, Thiu tho thien 田土廳 field land department."
 * Hokkien, Tē cho͘ koan 地租關 "land rent office."
 * Hokkien, Tē cho͘ koan 地租關 "land rent office."

 * Official Assignee's Office:
 * Hokkien, Pó kiông si 報窮司 "Reporting poverty Official,"
 * Cantonese, Po khung issi [sic] 報窮司

 * Chinese Protectorate:
 * Hokkien, Goā koan 外關 "Outer Office"=the office that transacts business with the general public.
 * Cantonese, Phai kun 牌舘 "Licence house" = house where licences under the C. D. O. were issued.
 * Hokkien, Taī-jîn koan 大人關 A Taī-jîn literally means a great man, but in Chinese official circles it is used as a title applying to any mandarin of and above the rank of a Taotai, equivalent in English to His or Your Excellency.
 * Cantonese, Mau wa kun 問話舘 "asking questions house"=house where female immigrants from China are examined under the Women and Girls' Protection Ordinance.
 * Hokkien, Hō͘-ui si koan 護衛司關 "Protecting Official's Office" office of the Protector (of Chinese).
 * Cantonese, Tai yan nga mun 大人衙門 "Tai-jin's yamen.
 * Hokkien, Chèng bū si koan 政務司關 "the government business official's office."
 * Cantonese, U wai si nga mun 政務
 * Hokkien, Chèng bū si koan 政務司關 "the government business official's office."
 * Cantonese, U wai si nga mun 政務
 * Cantonese, U wai si nga mun 政務

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 司衙門 "Protector's yamen".
 * Cheng mo si nga mun "government business official's yamen."
 * Cheng mo si nga mun "government business official's yamen."

 * Marine Department:
 * Hokkien, Haí koan 海關 "Harbour Office."
 * Cantonese, Hoi kwan 信關海關 [sic]

 * General Post Office:
 * Hokkien, Phe koan 批關 "Letter Office."
 * Cantonese, Shun koan 海關信關 [sic]

 * Supreme Court:
 * Hokkien, Toā ko̍k 大咯 "big court, ko̍k being the Chinese pronunciation for court.
 * Cantonese, Tai kot 大葛 "big court."

 * Solicitor General's Department:
 * Hokkien, Kong-pān-gê chn̄g su 公班衙狀師 kong-pān-gê=company, i.e., the East Indian Company, and chn̄g su means a lawyer.
 * Cantonese, Wong ka chong si 王家狀師 "Government lawyer."

 * Sheriff Department:
 * Hokien [sic], Che-li̍p 奢立 this is the Chinese pronunciation for Sheriff.
 * Cantonese, Fung pho kun 封舖官 "sealing shop official."
 * Hokkien, Hong chhù koaⁿ 封厝官 "Sealing house official."
 * Hokkien, Lê-long koaⁿ 唎朗官 Lelong is a Malay-Portuguese word meaning auction, and koaⁿ means official.
 * Hokkien, Lê-long koaⁿ 唎朗官 Lelong is a Malay-Portuguese word meaning auction, and koaⁿ means official.
 * Hokkien, Lê-long koaⁿ 唎朗官 Lelong is a Malay-Portuguese word meaning auction, and koaⁿ means official.

 * Police Courts:
 * Hokkien, Po-lê 玻璃 "police."
 * Cantonese, Po-le-si 玻璃司 "police."

 * Coroner's Department:
 * Hokkien, Giām si koaⁿ 騐屍官 "examining corpse official."
 * Cantonese, Im si kun 騐屍官

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text: Supplement to the Fourth, Fifth, and Sixth Editions of the Encyclopædia Britannica/Astronomy, Practical


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text: Supplement to the Fourth, Fifth, and Sixth Editions of the Encyclopædia Britannica/Atmometer


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 ; 蘭亭閣 Lan teng kok
 * This is merely a fancy name. (In Church Street.)

 * 三江公所 San chiang kung so,
 * "Three chiang public-house," the three chiangs (also pronounced kiang) being che kiang 浙江 kiang-su 江蘇 and kiang-si 江西 three provinces in North East China.

 * Bakar Bata :
 * Hokkien, Chuiⁿ á iò 罇仔𡩴 "Brick-kiln."

 * Dato Kramat :
 * Hokkien, Sì khám tiàm 四坎店 "four shore."
 * Cantonese, Si kan tin 四間店

 * Dhobi Ghaut :
 * Hokkien, Sé pó͘ kiô 洗布橋 "washing clothes bridge."

 * Jalan Bharu;
 * Hokkien, Tiong-lō͘ 中路 "middle road."
 * Cantonese, Chung lo 中路

 * Kampong Bharu :
 * Hokkien, Toā chhiū kha 大樹腳 "Big tree foot."

 * Kebun Limau;
 * Hokkien, Kam-á huiⁿ 柑仔園 "Orange plantation."
 * Cantonese, Kam chai un 柑仔園

 * Pulau Tikus;
 * Hokkien, Phû lo͘ tī kut 浮羅池滑

 * Rifle Range;
 * Hokkien, Phah chhèng po 打銃埔 "Firing gun field."

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 * 韓江家廟 Hang kang kia bio,
 * "Han river family temple"; so called after the name of a river near Swatow in China.

 * 嘉應會館 Ka in fi kwon;
 * ka in = ka ying chow, and fi kwon means meeting-house. (In King Street.)

 * 惠州會館 Fi chiu fi kwon;
 * fi chiu = Wai chow. (In Prangin Road.)

 * 增龍館 Chen liung kwon;
 * chen stands for chen shang 增城 and liung stands for liung mun 龍門 (In King street.)

 * 仁勝館 Yin shin kwon.
 * This is an old Kong-si house of the Kheh people. The name is simply a fancy one. (In King Street.)

 * 永大館 Yin thai kwon;
 * yin stands for yin thiu 遠定 and thai stands for thai phu 大埔 (In Toa Aka Lane.)

 * 從清會館 Chhung fi kwon;
 * chhung stands for Chhung fa 從化 and chhiang stands for chhiang yieu 清遠 (In Prangin Read.)

 * 瓊州會館 Keng chiu ui koan;
 * keng chiu = kengchow. It is also called thien ho kiong 天后宮 meaning the Temple of the Queen of Heaven. (In Muntri Street.)

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 TRANSLATOR'S PREFACE

A FEW words about Dostoevsky himself may help the English reader to understand his work.

Dostoevsky was the son of a doctor. His parents were very hard-working and deeply religious people, but so poor that they lived with their five children in only two rooms. The father and mother spent their evenings in reading aloud to their children, generally from books of a serious character.

Though always sickly and delicate Dostoevsky came out third in the final examination of the Petersburg school of Engineering. There he had already begun his first work, "Poor Folk".

This story was published by the poet Nekrassov in his review and was received with acclamations. The shy, unknown youth found himself instantly something of a celebrity. A brilliant and successful career seemed to open before him, but those hopes were soon dashed. In 1849 he was arrested.

Though neither by temperament nor conviction a revolutionist, Dostoevsky was one of a little group of young men who met together to read Fourier and Proudhon. He was accused of "taking part in conversations against the censorship, of reading a letter from Byelinsky to Gogol, and of knowing of the intention to set up a printing press". Under Nicholas I (that "stern and just man", as Maurice Baring calls him) this was enough, and he was condemned to death. After eight months' imprisonment he was with twenty-one others taken out to the Semyonovsky Square to be shot. Writing to his brother Mihail, Dostoevsky says: "They snapped words over our heads, and they made us put on the white shirts worn by persons condemned to death. Thereupon we were bound in threes to stakes, to suffer execution. Being the third in the row, I concluded I had only a few minutes of life before me. I thought of you and your dear ones and I contrived to kiss Plestcheiev and Dourov, who were next to me, and to bid them farewell. Suddenly the troops beat a tattoo, we were unbound, brought back upon the scaffold, and informed that his Majesty had spared us our lives." The sentence was commuted to hard labour.

One of the prisoners, Grigoryev, went mad as soon as he was untied and never regained his sanity.

The intense suffering of this experience left a lasting stamp on Dostoevsky's mind. Though his religious temper led him in the end to accept every suffering with resignation and to regard v


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212 wynter in toune. As far as sense-development goes "embroideress" would be a very satisfactory original sense for burde, and is perfectly in keeping with the manner and ideas of the alliterative verse to which the word originally belongs. It is not, perhaps, so easy to show that this was in fact its origin; the following are indications of the possibility:

The required OE. *byrde, weak feminine, "embroideress" has not, unfortunately, been discovered. The word borde embroidery, however, should be noted; it actually occurs in the quotation above. This has been referred to OFr. bord, border, hem (it is not in N.E.D. at all), but the word is of Germanic origin, and the ME. word is direct from OE. OE. has borda, embroidery (act and product); cf. ON. borði. Noteworthy are:

II. Notes on the glossary to the E.E.T.S 1922 edition of Hali Meidenhad—or Meiðhad it should perhaps rather be called, since that is the form used throughout the Bodleian text (B), which offers a purer dialect, a more archaic vocabulary, and often a better text than the Cotton Titus MS. (T).

(a) wori, B 704. This is hidden under weorren, "make war," the word substituted by T. The extremely consisten phonology and spelling of B forbid this, unless wori is emended outright to weorri. T, however, not infrequently has a commoner word instead of an archaic or rarer one preserved in B; while here weorren must


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Rh be taken as transitive,

(b)

(c)

(d)


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 chief groups of Tantras, one Hindu, the other Buddhist. The Hindu Tantra is generally cast in the form of a dialogue between the god Shiva, as the Divine Guru, and his Shakti Pârvati, often in their wrathful forms as Bhairava and Bhairavi. In the Buddhist Tantra, these purely Hindu deities are replaced by Buddhist deities, Buddhas and their Shaktis, or by gods and goddesses. One characteristic of both classes of Tantras is that usually they are based upon the Yoga Philosophy. Which of the two classes is older is a disputed question; but the oldest Tantras are probably far older than European critics (who have placed their origin well within the Christian era) have thought. Some Tantras are indisputably quite modern. According to orthodox Hindus, the Tantras are of Vedic origin, and designed to serve as the chief Scriptures for this age, the Kali Yuga. Some Buddhists claim a purely Buddhist origin for the Tantras. The Hindu view is, however, the commonly accepted view. As encyclopaedias of the knowledge of their times, the Tantras are very numerous. Some are concerned with the nature of the cosmos, its evolution. and dissolution; the classification of sentient beings and of the various heavens, hells, and worlds; the divinely instituted rules governing human relations and conduct; the numerous forms of worship and spiritual training, ceremonial rites, meditation, yoga, duties of kings, law, custom, medicine, astrology, astronomy, magic; and, in short, the whole cycle of the sciences of the East. In so far as the Bardo Thödol is a ritual based upon Yoga, and has for its chief matter the science of birth, death, and rebirth, interwoven with descriptions of the various states of existence and beings peopling the universe, and teaches of the ways of obtaining salvation, it is a Tantric work, although, strictly speaking, not a Tantra. For detailed knowledge concerning the Tantras, the student is referred to Principles of Tantra, Part I, by Arthur Avalon (London, 1914). desirable for all readers of this book. So we record here—in mere outline, and, therefore, more often than not undetailed and incomplete—the following complementary matter concerning Tantricism.

In the preliminary instructions, the Bardo Thödol makes reference to the vital-force or vital-airs, which, following the Tantras, may be described as follows:

The Vital-Force (Skt. Prāṇa).—The human principle of consciousness, the Knower, clothes itself, when incarnate, in five sheaths (Skt. Koṣḥa), which are: (1) the physical-sheath (Anna-maya-koṣḥa); (2) the vital-sheath (Prāṇa-maya-koṣḥa); (3) the sheath in which resides the ordinary human consciousness (Mano-maya-koṣḥa); (4) that of the subconsciousness (Vijñāna-maya-koṣḥa); and (5) that of the all-transcending blissful consciousness of Reality (Ānanda-maya-koṣḥa).

In the vital-sheath resides the vital-force (Skt. prāṇa) divided into ten vital-airs (vāyu, derived from the root va, 'to breathe'


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 or 'to blow', refers to the motive power of prāṇa). As the daemons of Plato's occultism are said to control the operations of the Cosmic Body, so these vāyu, composed of negative prāṇa, control the operations of the human body. Five are fundamental: (1) the prāṇa, controlling inspiration; (2) the udāna, controlling the ascending vital-force (or vital-air); (3) the apāna, controlling the downward vital-force, which expels wind, excrement, urine, and semen; (4) the samāna, as the collective force of the vāyu, kindles the fire of the body whereby food is digested and then distributed by the blood; and (5) the vyāna, controlling division and diffusion in all metabolic processes. The five minor airs are the Nāga, kūrmma, kṛịkara, deva-datta, and dhananjaya, which produce, respectively, hiccuping, opening and closing of the eyes, assistance to digestion, yawning, and distension.

The Psychic Nerves or Channels (Skt. Nāḍī).—There are next mentioned in our text the Psychic Nerves. Sanskrit works on Yoga say that there are fourteen principal nāḍī and hundreds of thousands of minor nāḍī in the human body, just as Western physiologists say that there are so many chief nerves and minor nerves. But the nāḍī of the East and the nerves of the West, although literally the same in name, are not synonymous. The nāḍī are invisible channels for the flow of psychic forces whose conducting agents are the vital-airs (vāyu).

Of the fourteen principal nāḍī, there are three which are of fundamental importance. These are, to follow our text, the median-nerve (Skt. suṣḥumnā-nāḍī), the left nerve (īḍā-nāḍī), and the right nerve (pingalā-nāḍī). The suṣḥumnā-nāḍī is the chief or median-nerve, situated in the hollow of the spinal column (Skt. Brāhma-daṇḍa), the Mt. Meru of the human body, man being regarded as the microcosm of the macrocosm. The īḍā-nāḍī, to the left, and the pingalā-nāḍī, to the right, coil round it as the two serpents coil round the caduceus carried by the messenger-god Hermes. It is believed that this ancient herald's wand symbolizes the suṣḥumnā-nāḍī, and the twining serpents the īḍā-nāḍī and the pingalā-nāḍī. If so, we see again how the esoteric symbol-code of the West corresponds to that of the East.


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310 He bathed himself in the cool refreshing waters of the Saffat river, and after praying to an ancient picture, he looked around him and beheld, beyond the river of Saffat, a white canvas tent, in which lived the wicked Mussulman. Dobrenin saddled his coal-black steed with a costly Circassian saddle; he took his lance and sword, and mounted his charger's back. On rode Dobrenin, his horse neighing and prancing beneath him, until he at last reached the Mussulman's tent; he stopped and called out in a loud voice,—

"Come out of the tent, thou Tartar, thou wicked Mussulman thief! Come forward, and fight with me!"

The Mussulman, as soon as he beard these words, arose; and coming out of his white tent, mounted his noble horse and rode out to meet Dobrenin.

No winds blew, no clouds were seen, nothing but the flash of the bold champions' swords was visible. They fought and fought until their sharp lances broke, and their steel swords snapped asunder.

Then the warriors dismounted from their chargers, and continued the combat with their bare fists. Suddenly Dobrenin's foot slipped, his right hand trembled, and he fell down upon the damp ground. No sooner had he fallen than the Mussulman sprang upon him and killed him.

Up rose Aleyosha Papovitch, and leaving his companions fast asleep, went out to the Saffat river, and bathed himself in the cool, refreshing waters; and after praying to an ancient picture, he looked around him, and beheld Dobrenin's horse standing saddled and ready for riding, but looking


text:
Author:Oscar Ameringer

Works

 * Union Scabs and Others (1910)
 * Dynamite for the Brain (1910)
 * Socialism: What It Is And How To Get It (1911)
 * Socialism for the Farmer Who Farms the Farm (1912)
 * The Life and Deeds of Uncle Sam (1912)
 * Communism, Socialism and the Church (1913)
 * Talks to Farmers: Little Bugs and Big Bugs (1926)
 * If You Don't Weaken (1940)
 * Bread or Lead (1940)

title: Author:Oscar Ameringer


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Rh mournfully at the ground beneath him, he was grieving for his beloved master, Dobrenin the Youthful. Aleyosha Papovitch mounted the good steed, which at once commenced neighing and galloping as of old.

On, on rode Aleyosha Papovitch, until he arrived at the Mussulman's tent, in which lay the brave warrior Dobrenin the Youthful, with his eyes closed, his strong arms hanging lifeless by his sides, and covered with blood.

"Come out of thy tent, thou Tartar!" cried Aleyosha Papovitch, in a loud and angry voice. "Come out, and let us fight!"

Then the Mussulman answered and said,—

"Hail to thee, Aleyosha Papovitch, junior! Take my advice, my friend, and do not attempt to fight with me, for I am more powerful than thou supposest!"

But Aleyosha Papovitch laughed haughtily as he replied,—

"Do not boast! Wait till the fight is over before praising thyself!"

The Mussulman stepped out of his canvas tent, and mounted his splendid steed.

No winds blew, no clouds were seen, nothing but the flash of the warriors' swords was visible. They fought and fought until their sharp lances broke and their steel swords snapped asunder. They then dismounted from their chargers and continued the combat with their fists.

Aleyosha at last succeeded in overthrowing the Tartar, who fell down on the ground. Aleyosha im-


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312 mediately sprang upon him and would have killed him, when down flew a large black crow and said in a man's voice,—

"Hail to thee, Aleyosha Papovitch, junior! Harken unto me, though I am but a big black crow. Do not deprive this Tartar of his life! Behold, I will fly to the dark blue sea, and fetch thee the water of life and the water of death, to sprinkle over the body of thy brother-warrior, Dobrenin. When thou sprinklest him with the water of death, his flesh will become white and whole again; but when thou sprinklest him over with the water of life, he will awake from his sleep of death."

Aleyosha Papovitch consented to this, and the crow flew away, but soon returned, bringing with it the water of life and the water of death. Aleyosha sprinkled Dobrenin's body first with the water of death, and the flesh became white and whole; he then sprinkled it with the water of life, and Dobrenin awoke and got up. They then set the Tartar free, and returned to their brother warriors.

Early next morning, while all the others were fast asleep, Nikita Gregorevitch arose with the sun, and, as his two brothers had done before, bathed himself in the cold waters of the Saffat river; and after praying to his saint, he looked up, and beheld the Tartar giant crossing in a boat—the terrible Mussulman whom no one had yet been able to kill, whom no wolf dared approach, and over whom no bird had the power to fly; there he was quite close at hand! Nikita Gregorevitch cared nought for danger. The moment he saw the Mussulman, he called out in a loud voice to his


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Rh companions, who were sleeping so peacefully in their tents,—

"Wake up, mighty champions!" he cried. "Ye brave chosen warriors, arise, and let us defeat the Tartar giant!"

The warriors arose at their brother's call, and mounting their chargers galloped off with Nikita to the Mussulman's tent. They threw themselves with all their might upon the giant, attacking him with their swords and lances, while their good steeds tried to trample him under foot. Thus they fought for three whole hours and three whole minutes, at the end of which time they succeeded in overthrowing and killing the wicked Tartar giant. After having won the victory, the champions began to say boastfully,—

"We did our work nobly, we did not once shrink in the combat, nor did our good steeds attempt to run away, neither did our steel swords and lances break or bend!"

"Yes!" cried Aleyosha Papovitch, "we are brave and noble heroes; there is no one and nothing that we cannot kill or conquer! Bring even supernatural powers against us, and we will subdue them!"

Hardly had he uttered these foolish words, when two supernatural beings appeared, and cried out in voices which sounded like thunder,—

"Come on, brave champions! We invite the combat, though ye be seven, and we but two; let that not deter you!"

But the champions did not recognize the supernatural beings as such; and Aleyosha Papovitch,


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314 heated by their address, mounted his horse and darting at them hewed them in twain; hardly had he done so, when the parts became suddenly transformed into four mighty champions. Then Dobrenin rushed to the encounter, and felling these four to the ground, cut each in two. Then, to his surprise, up rose eight mighty champions fresh and strong. Nikita Gregorevitch now advanced, and like his brethren, hewed the eight in twain, thereby raising a double front of foes. The champions in a body now charged down, and hewing right and left cut down their enemies with might and main, but only to increase the number. For three whole days and nights, for three whole hours, for three whole minutes, did our seven brave champions continue hewing down the supernatural beings; but without success, their enemies only continued increasing. At last their strength began to fail them, their noble steeds galloped off in all directions, and their steel swords and sharp lances began to break and bend; but the enemy still increased. For some time our heroes would not yield; but when they saw that the more they cut down the supernatural beings the more they increased, they became greatly alarmed and retreated up high rocks and into dark caverns for safety. But hardly had they reached the top of the rocks, then first one brave champion, then the other, was turned into stone.

And these were the last of the Russian warriors.


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Rh

once lived three brothers, two of whom were clever, and the third was stupid. One day they went into the forest to cut wood, when it occurred to them that it would be a pleasant thing to have their meals there; so they put some grouts in a pot and then added some cold water, but when it came to the boiling they did not know whence to get the fire! Now it so happened that not very far from where they were was a hut, in which lived an old man who kept bees. The eldest brother, remembering this, said,—

"I will go and ask that old man for some fire to boil our porridge with."

Away he went to the hut where he found the old man looking after his bees.

"Little father!" said the young fellow, "give me some fire!"

"Sing me a song first," replied the old man.

"I cannot sing, little father."

"Well then, let me see you dance."

"I can't dance!"

"Well then, go and send some one who can, somebody who is not quite such an ass as you."

So the eldest returned to his brothers without the fire.


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Rh they satisfactory. The ME. forms quite clearly indicate an OE. *byrde. Phonology would, then, be satisfied by OE. byrde, highborn; but this adjective, as is pointed out in N.E.D., is only recorded once in se byrdesta in Ælfred's Orosius. More serious, however, is the fact that there is nothing to show how or why this adjective survived as a noun, and became distinctively feminine. The manner in which alliterative verse of all periods developed its synonyms must be considered—especially, for the present purpose, the synonyms for "man" and "woman." One (common or distinctive) function was selected and used, more and more as the full force of the original etymological sense faded, simply as "man" or "woman" in all circumstances. The original meanings were already so far forgotten in the case of most of the OE. "man"- synonyms as to be more apparent to the modern Germanic philologist than to the Old English poet himself.

The following are some of the best known among them: secg, *follower; beorn, *bear (ON. björn, bear);; freca, *wolf (lit. greedy one, ON. freki, wolf—the sense "warrior" is probably from "wolf" rather than direct from frec, greedy); wiga, fighter. All these survived into ME. (segg, burn, freke, wiȝe), grown still more faded and pale and used merely as "one (male being)"; wiȝe (and other synonyms such as haþel) could be used of God. The convention function of "man" that they are all based on ultimately is his duty of being strong and fierce in battle.

The names for "woman" are fewer in number (fǣmne, ides, mēowle) and rarely if ever, curiously enough, survive into ME. The attribution, however, of one specific function to "woman" was common to the poetic conventions of both earlier and later Germanic times and to Romance—sewing, embroidery, weaving. This doubtless prompted the figure contained in OE. freoþowebbe, lady (peace-weaver). The lady at her room, the damsel in her bower at her embroidery, were doing the correct thing no less than the knight at his jousting, or on a mission to bring some other damsel back from the clutches of a giant or false knight to her home and her embroidery.

One could find passages in which either "damsel" or "embroideress" would fit as translations of burde. Notably Gawain and the Green Knight 609 ff.: enbrawden and bounden wyth þe best gemmeȝ on brode sylkyn borde, and bryddeȝ on semeȝ tortors and trulofeȝ entayled so þyk as many burde þeraboute had ben seuen


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 it as a blessing in his own case, he constantly recurs to the subject in his writings. He describes the awful agony of the condemned man and insists on the cruelty of inflicting such torture. Then followed four years of penal servitude, spent in the company of common criminals in Siberia, where he began the "Dead House", and some years of service in a disciplinary battalion.

He had shown signs of some obscure nervous disease before his arrest and this now developed into violent attacks of epilepsy, from which he suffered for the rest of his life. The fits occurred three or four times a year and were more frequent in periods of great strain. In 1859 he was allowed to return to Russia. He started a journal—"Vremya", which was forbidden by the Censorship through a misunderstanding. In 1864 he lost his first wife and his brother Mihail. He was in terrible poverty, yet he took upon himself the payment of his brother's debts. He started another journal— "The Epoch", which within a few months was also prohibited. He was weighed down by debt, his brother's family was dependent on him, he was forced to write at heart-breaking speed, and is said never to have corrected his work. The later years of his life were much softened by the tenderness and devotion of his second wife.

In June 1880 he made his famous speech at the unveiling of the monument to Pushkin in Moscow and he was received with extraordinary demonstrations of love and honour.

A few months later Dostoevsky died. He was followed to the grave by a vast multitude of mourners, who "gave the hapless man the funeral of a king". He is still probably the most widely read writer in Russia.

In the words of a Russian critic, who seeks to explain the feeling inspired by Dostoevsky: "He was one of ourselves, a man of our blood and our bone, but one who has suffered and has seen so much more deeply than we have his insight impresses us as wisdom . . . that wisdom of the heart which we seek that we may learn from it how to live. All his other gifts came to him from nature, this he won for himself and through it he became great." vi


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86 Tom greeted them with a respectful mew. Unaccustomed to such salutations, the priest, instead of returning the welcome with a reciprocal politeness, rushed out of the sanctuary, shouting to his companions, "Here's a monster from the deep! a monster from the deep!"

The whole party of devotees hastened home, collected several hundreds of their brethren, put on their war-caps, brought their spears, clubs, and slings, blackened themselves with charcoal, and, thus equipped, came shouting on to attack the enemy. Tom, affrighted at the formidable array, sprang towards the open door, and, darting through the terror-stricken warriors, sent them scampering in all directions. In the evening, while the brave conspirators were entertaining themselves and a numerous company with a war-dance, to recruit their spirits, poor Tom, wishing to see the sport, and bearing no malice in his heart, stole in amongst them to take a peep. Again the dusky heroes seized their weapons and gave chase to the unfortunate Cat; but "the monster of the deep" was too nimble for them. Some hours afterwards, when all was quiet, Tom unwisely endeavoured to renew his domiciliary relations with man. In the dead of the night he entered a house, crept beneath a

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Rh coverlet, under which a whole native family were lying, and fell asleep. His purring awoke the man, in the hospitality of whose night-cloth he had taken refuge, and who, supposing that some other monster had come to disturb his household, closed the doorways, awoke the inmates, and procured lights to search for the intruder. Poor Tom, fatigued with the two previous engagements of the day, lay quietly asleep, when the warriors, attacking him with their clubs and spears, thought themselves models of bravery in putting an end to him.

But Cats, though thus misunderstood at first, seem in the end to have proved a welcome and valuable introduction to the country. One of Mr. Williams's means of proselytism was, the exercise of a useful handicraft—he turned blacksmith; but he found unusual difficulties in the way of his working a forge. Rarotonga was devastated by a plague of rats, which congregated at night in his blacksmith's shop, and devoured every particle of leather, so that, in the morning, nothing remained of his bellows but the bare boards. The rats, however, were not permitted to have everything their own way. The missionaries imported a singular cargo, consisting of pigs, cocoa-nuts, and Cats. The Cats proved a real blessing to the island, but

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 PART I

CHAPTER I

ON an exceptionally hot evening early in July a young man came out of the garret in which he lodged in S. Place and walked slowly, as though in hesitation, towards K. bridge.

He had successfully avoided meeting his landlady on the staircase. His garret was under the roof of a high, five-storied house, and was more like a cupboard than a room. The landlady, who provided him with garret, dinners, and attendance, lived on the floor below, and every time he went out he was obliged to pass her kitchen, the door of which invariably stood open. And each time he passed, the young man had a sick, frightened feeling, which made him scowl and feel ashamed. He was hopelessly in debt to his landlady, and was afraid of meeting her.

This was not because he was cowardly and abject, quite the contrary; but for some time past he had been in an overstrained, irritable condition, verging on hypochondria. He had become so completely absorbed in himself, and isolated from his fellows that he dreaded meeting, not only his landlady, but any one at all. He was crushed by poverty, but the anxieties of his position had of late ceased to weigh upon him. He had given up attending to matters of practical importance; he had lost all desire to do so. Nothing that any landlady could do had a real terror for him. But to be stopped on the stairs, to be forced to listen to her trivial, irrelevant gossip, to pestering demands for payment, threats and complaints, and to rack his brains for excuses, to prevaricate, to lie—no, rather than that, he would creep down the stairs like a cat and slip out unseen.

This evening, however, on coming out into the street, he became acutely aware of his fears.

"I want to attempt a thing like that and am frightened by these trifles," he thought, with an odd smile. "Hm . . . yes, all is in a man's hands and he lets it all slip from cowardice, that's an axiom. It would be interesting to know what it is men are most afraid of. Taking a new step, uttering a new word is what they fear most. . . . But I am talking too much. It's because I chatter that I do nothing. Or perhaps it is that I chatter because I do nothing. I've learned to chatter this


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 last month, lying for days together in my den thinking ... of Jack the Giant-killer. Why am I going there now? Am I capable of that? Is that serious? It is not serious at all. It's simply a fantasy to amuse myself; a plaything! Yes, maybe it is a plaything."

The heat in the street was terrible: and the airlessness, the bustle and the plaster, scaffolding, bricks, and dust all about him, and that special Petersburg stench, so familiar to all who are unable to get out of town in summer — all worked painfully upon the young man's already overwrought nerves. The insufferable stench from the pot-houses, which are particularly numerous in that part of the town, and the drunken men whom he met continually, although it was a working day, completed the revolting misery of the picture. An expression of the profoundest disgust gleamed for a moment in the young man's refined face. He was, by the way, exceptionally handsome, above the average in height, slim, well-built, with beautiful dark eyes and dark brown hair. Soon he sank into deep thought, or more accurately speaking into a complete blankness of mind; he walked along not observing what was about him and not caring to observe it. From time to time, he would mutter something, from the habit of talking to himself, to which he had just confessed. At these moments he would become conscious that his ideas were sometimes in a tangle and that he was very weak; for two days he had scarcely tasted food.

He was so badly dressed that even a man accustomed to shabbiness would have been ashamed to be seen in the street in such rags. In that quarter of the town, however, scarcely any short-coming in dress would have created surprise. Owing to the proximity of the Hay Market, the number of establishments of bad character, the preponderance of the trading and working class population crowded in these streets and alleys in the heart of Petersburg, types so various were to be seen in the streets that no figure, however queer, would have caused surprise. But there was such accumulated bitterness and contempt in the young man's heart that, in spite of ll the fastidiousness of youth, he minded his rags least of all in the street. It was a different matter when he met with acquaintances or with former fellow students, whom, indeed, he disliked meeting at any time. And yet when a drunken man who, for some unknown reason, was being taken somewhere in a huge waggon dragged by a heavy dray horse, suddenly shouted at him as he drove past: "Hey there, German hatter!" bawling at the top of his voice


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 subject that possesses educational value. In accordance with this scheme Comenius prepared several guides and class-books for the use of the teachers and pupils in the various classes. The first of these, the Informatorium Skoly Materske, or Informatory of the Mother School, was written in Czech, in which language it was not published till 1858. A German translation was issued at Lissa in 1633 for the Palatine of Belz. This work, which appears in the folio of 1657 as Schola Infantia, or The School of Infancy, was primarily intended for parents, and treats at length some of the points touched on in The Great Didactic, and more particularly in chap. xxviii., Sketch of the Mother School. It is written in the voluminous style characteristic of the author, and the chapters treat of the following subjects:—

1. The greatest care should be taken of children, God’s most precious gift.

2. Why God sends so many children into the world.

3. Children stand in great need of a good education.

4. In what subjects children should be instructed.

5. How their safety and health can be attained.

6. How they can be taught to take an intelligent interest in what they see around them.

7. How they should be habituated to the actualities of life.

8. How they should be taught eloquence and the proper use of language.

9. How they can be brought up in the paths of morality.

10. How they can be imbued with piety.

11. How long they are to be detained in the Mother School.

12. How they are to be prepared for the Public Schools.

No mean scheme this for children under six years of age. Here was a great truth that Comenius was the first to enunciate. Education begins on the mother’s knee.


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 The schools for older boys may be as good as possible, but they can never be thoroughly effective unless the children come to them possessed of an elementary grounding in each subject taught, a grounding that can only be given by the patient mother.

In this stage education cannot be organised in any cut-and-dried fashion. What necessary is a suggestive handbook that shall tell parents what is required of them, and how these requirements can be met. It was to meet this need that the Informatory of the Mother School was composed. For the Mother School class-books were unnecessary, as the instruction given was naturally of an informal character. The children who go to the Vernacular School, however, are old enough to be arranged in definite classes, and to meet their wants Comenius wrote six classbooks, one for each class. These books, like the Informatory of the Mother School, were composed with a view to the reorganisation of Evangelist schools in Bohemia. This occasion did not come, and the books were never published. The Czech language, in which they were written, appealed to a very small audience, while the books dealing with the Latin School were of universal interest. Under pressure of other work, therefore, their author never found time to correct them, and no trace remains but their titles translated into Latin and a short description of each given by Comenius himself. The first, intended for boys in their seventh year, is the Violet-bed of the Christian Youth, containing “the pleasantest flowerets of scholastic instruction.”

The second is the Rose-bed of the Christian Youth, containing “nosegays of the most fragrant flowers of knowledge.”

For the third year of attendance a more ambitious work was provided, to be called The Garden of Letters and of Wisdom. This was to embody a pleasantly-written account of “everything necessary to be known in heaven and earth.”


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“ will now begin No. 2,” said the professor, as he tied the strings of his portfolio of prints, and looked towards another which was lying by the table: “this will, I think, afford you still more pleasure; but, Madam, you look so frequently at the clock, that I fear ”

“I only fear,” said the counsellor’s lady, “that it is growing too late to begin another; and it would be really a pity to hurry over such well-selected works. If your engagements will permit some other time?”

“It is not yet very late,” her husband replied, as he was lifting a heavy folio on the table; “we shall have plenty of time to look over this part, leisurely enough; what makes you in such a hurry to-night?”

“I think it best for every one to be at his own home in the evening,” observed the wife of the counsellor; “it is much safer.”

“Safer?” asked the counsellor, laughing, “you pay a fine compliment to our police! in what may the danger consist, which you seem to fear so much, now the military, who are generally the greatest destroyers of safety, have left the town?”

“That is the very cause of my fear,” rejoined the lady; “they would not have left us, if they had not doubted of their own security; the enemy are, I fear, approaching, and disturbances often arise when they are least expected.”

“Oh! if that be your only ground of alarm,” said the professor, laughing, “we may proceed with our prints very safely; it will be long enough before the enemy arrive here, and, I think, we are more likely to, see our protectors (as they term themselves) again, than our foes, for they are no longer our enemies. In the mean time, your apprehensions are not without foundation; for here in the very first leaves, I shall show you some of these Tartarian tribes, at least in effigy.”

“Another time, I beg,” replied the anxious lady; “if you knew my uneasiness, you would yourself be glad to have me at home.”

“But really,” said the counsellor, endeavouring to tranquillize her, “you are needlessly alarmed; according to the latest news, a few days may possibly bring about some military events, or send us some strange guests—but I will answer for to-morrow; and as to this evening, there is not the remotest probability of any thing happening.”

It was in vain they sought to convince the lady of the groundlessness of her alarm; she became obviously more and more anxious, and finally, not to destroy the pleasure of the party, she proposed that the professor should accompany them home, and that he and her husband might there look over some prints and pictures together, on which discussions had formerly arisen between them. The scheme was acceded to; the professor laughed at her earnest exhortation, while he double-locked his doors; and the party proceeded with many jests and much merriment to the house of the counsellor, where the conversation on the latest works of art soon resumed its former vivacity.

“Would one not believe,” observed the counsellor during the absence of his lady, “that my wife had second sight? Her strange solicitude makes me almost anxious myself; it is not customary with her.”

“Let us come to the discussions which are the order of the day,” observed the professor; “you surely cannot believe in such things; we Rh


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 pottery; but nothing grieved him so much as the loss of one vessel of inconceivable rarity, and my friend, who was heartily tired of his endless lamentations, wrote to me to get something antique like it for her directly, which might banish from his mind the recollection of his loss. I knew not where to find such a curiosity; and so, that nothing might be wanting on my part, I went to our potter, or as he chose to call himself, to the master modeller, and ordered, according to a design I gave him, a cup to look as like an antique as was possible. The man was highly flattered by the commission, and must needs put his name and title at length on the vase, which of course rendered it useless for my purpose; he was therefore obliged to begin it over again, and I failed not to enjoin him from putting his name, as the vase was intended to pass for the work of a master who had been dead more than a thousand years. Nevertheless, as I now find, he must have promised himself immortality from his labours, as he could not refrain from inserting his initials at least, under the handle, to hand them down to posterity.”—“The devil!” cried the professor, with rather a clouded brow.

“So it is,” continued the lady. “Look here as I read it, your inscription proves ‘Adam Stephen Graal did it.

The counsellor burst out into a laugh, but the professor would not give up his graal yet. “You jest, Madam! Ay, ay, this is all an invention of your own. Very good, upon my word.”

“It is perfectly true, nevertheless,” replied she, “you may convince yourself by my friend Graal’s first essay, which I fortunately have preserved, and where the inscription is legible at full length. I shall be happy to present you with it as a new curiosity for your museum.”

A general laugh from every one present put an end to the conversation; and they all unanimously agreed neither to be superstitious themselves, nor to blame credulity too hastily in others.


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 For the fourth year’s work the Labyrinth of Wisdom was provided. This consisted largely of questions and answers of a subtle description, and was intended to sharpen the intellect. Next followed the Spiritual Balsam-bed of the Christian Youth, in which the use of all sciences and arts is demonstrated, while the series is terminated by the Paradise of the Soul, which comprised an abstract of Scripture History, together with the principal Church hymns and prayers.

It is much to be regretted that this series of books has not been preserved, but the titles enable us to gather an adequate idea of their contents. The scholar enters the vernacular school, having received a grounding in the elements of knowledge. This groundwork is developed in a definite manner by means of regular class instruction, and thus, by the time he reaches his twelfth year, the boy possesses a fair acquaintance with the realities of the world in which he lives. This acquaintance is the more extensive, because his attention has been exclusively devoted to “real studies,” and Latin has been completely deferred to the next stage.

In particular should be noticed the way in which the principle of gradation is applied. Each class-book is suited to the age of the pupils. The very name of the first, The Violet-bed, is intended to attract the child who comes to school for the first time, and is apprehensive that the process of learning will be dull and distasteful, while the course of instruction for the fifth year is but a more! advanced edition of that for the third.

In spite of the practical tendency of the age, a tendency strongly exemplified by Comenius himself, the study of Latin still remained the chief factor in the school curriculum. Nor was this altogether without reason. Apart from its philological value, Latin was the gate through which alone the world of letters could be entered, and the student who could talk and write in the tongue of Cicero possessed a means of communication with kindred spirits throughout the world, unequalled in universality by any


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T ALL happened in the fall of 1270.

The Damsel Susanne had developed a sickness that frightened her parents and drove Friar Sinistrari to extra hours of devotion. She would retire as usual in the evening, and, after some hours had passed, there would come a cry from her as though she had suffered from a nightmare in her sleep. Going to her daughter's room, the mother would find her in a deep sleep and very white, with little beads of perspiration on her face. Moisture gathered on a mirror held before her mouth but she could not be seen to breathe. This way she would stay for hours, often till the first dawn of day, and then she would sigh deeply, grow roses in her cheeks and fall into a natural sleep from which she would awake by noon. These periods of deep unconsciousness, hours of stupor, came at first a week apart, then twice a week, and finally every night. During the daytime the damsel lost her buoyancy and light heart and became listless.

The duke, her father, was poor. Fortunately for him the forests were full of deer and the rivers abundant with fish. Grain was raised by the vassals, and firewood was plenty. Everyone contributed toward the welfare of the little community. There was but little gold, and few jewels, some dresses that had been worn for three generations, plenty of armor, and at least some degree of security. The very poverty of the duke and the isolated position of his castle kept at a distance the robber bands that roamed over France during those lawless centuries.

The duke and his Lady Arabella, however, considered themselves rich in one respect, and that was in the possession of their daughter. She was not only a well-behaved young lady, but she had some degree of beauty and in addition was intelligent enough to learn to read and write, a most unusual accomplishment in those days for a woman. The old friar was proud of her, as she was the only pupil of his old age. He was almost enthusiastic over her scholastic attainments and frequently spoke of her wisdom.

In 1270 Susanne was seventeeenseventeen [sic] years old. Life must have seemed very quiet to her during those years, and no doubt she took long breaths and sighed deeply when the friar told her tales of Paris and the French court. I presume that she thought nothing ever happened in Aragon—and just when the child was ready to die from the very sameness of her life, the cat had come to the castle.

There is no doubt that this was a very unusual cat in every way. She was much larger than the average cat, and striped like a tiger. The eyes were yellow and at night shone like large stars. During the entire time the cat was at the castle she was never seen to eat; while she often 543

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 language of the present day. It is true that Latin no longer tyrannised over the intercourse of the learned to such an extent as in the previous century. The Reformation had ousted Latin from the services of the Reformed Church. In every country the vernacular was beginning to assert itself, and the establishment of the Academia della Crusca at Florence in 1582, and of the Académie Française in 1637, showed that the instinctive movement in this direction was becoming thoroughly self-conscious.

But this modernising breeze had not yet stirred the dust on the school-room benches. Latin was still the chief subject taught, though the high estimation in which it stood was shown more by the time devoted to it than by any successful efforts to teach it rapidly and well. Attempts had been made, and many of them, to render the path of the beginner easier, and it was no longer necessary for him to sit down to the task of finding his way through Terence with no other assistance than that given by an ignorant usher; but none of these attempts had attained any genuine result, and there was still no suitable class-book from the study of which could be obtained a fairly comprehensive vocabulary and a knowledge of the structure of sentences sufficient to enable a boy to attack a classic author on his own account.

To the composition of such a class-book Comenius applied himself in 1628, and the result of his efforts was the publication in 1631 of his Janua Linguarum Reserata, or Seminarium Linguarum et Scientiarum Omnium. This book, as an introduction to the study of Latin, was an immense advance on anything that had yet appeared. Its method of construction, however, was not original, as the idea had already suggested itself to two pedagogues, the one Elias Bodinus, and the other William Bateus, a member of the Jesuit College at Salamanca.

With Bodinus’ scheme Comenius had been familiar since 1627, and from it he doubtless borrowed the essential features of the Janua. Bodinus’ suggestion was as


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336 Whatever may be of value of this theory,

The fact remains

This note is deeply


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334 of burden, heavy draught-horse'

The special sense

At this point of occurrence

The ultimate connections


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332 should not appear in future Middle English dictionaries, unless some further occurrences can be adduced.

The action connections of this

In Old English we have, then


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 follows: seventeen hundred of the most useful words were to be skilfully arranged in sentences of a kind calculated to impress themselves indelibly on the memory of the student, and by a careful perusal of these a comprehensive knowledge of the language was to be obtained before any classic author was attempted. Such a book, says Bodinus, would be of great use, and he expresses a wish that some competent scholar may undertake the task.

Of the existence of the other work Comenius only became aware after the plan of his own Janua had taken a definite shape in his mind. On acquainting his friends with the scheme, one of them told him that such a book, under the title Janua Linguarum, had already been written by some Jesuit priests in Spain. He lost no time in procuring the work, but found that while it proceeded much on the lines proposed by him, its execution was so imperfect as to minimise its educational value. Of this contribution made by Spain towards the scholastic needs of the day, Comenius gives a full account, and the book itself is worthy of notice. Originally conceived by William Bateus, it had been written by him in conjunction with his brother, John Bateus, and an Irishman named Stephen. William Bateus died at Madrid in 1614, but his work survived him. A Prussian nobleman, when travelling in Spain in 1605 in the company of some Englishmen of good birth, had made the acquaintance of Stephen, who displayed to him his new and infallible method of teaching Latin. Struck by the merit of the book, he took a copy with him, and, on the return of the party to England, had it published in 1615 with a French and an English translation attached. Though imperfect, it supplied a manifest demand, and was shortly afterwards republished at Strasburg by Isaac Habrecht with the addition of a German translation. Still finding favour, it was again brought out by Gaspar Scioppius at Milan in 1627


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 THE DEVIL'S COACH-HORSES

"hwan hit is iwriten

These two occurrences are the only evidence cited for the survival of OE.

It can hardly be doubted that Joel i. 17,, is the prophet referred to.


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Rh there is a word

in N.E.D. this


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Rh group

If these are the connections of


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all were enemies before reconciliation, yet all enemies are not reconciled, but they that be converted to the faith. Thus we are taught in the word of truth, to distinguish the state of the Gentiles living in their infidelity without God, from the state of the Gentiles reconciled. But now in Christ Jesus, ye who sometimes were farre off, are made nigh by the bloud of Christ, &c. And that he might reconcile both unto God in one body by the crosse, having slaine the enmity thereby. Eph. 2. 13, 16. And you that were sometimes alienated, and enemies in your minds, by wicked works, yet now are reconciled. Col. 1. 21. Now, scil. the Messiah being exhibited, they are reconciled, and their sins pardoned, the promise of mercy pertaining to them, as well as to the Jewes, when formerly abalienati à foedere promissionum, they were not reconciled. And when in the precedent verse he saith, that it pleased the Father by him, (scil. Christ) to reconcile all things unto himselfe, whether they be things in heaven, or things in earth; he speaks of actuall reconciliation, not reconcileablenesse, and all things must be limited, as that signification of the word, and scope of the place doth necessarily require. The sentence is diversly interpreted, some think it not absurd to extend it simply to all things without exception, but especially to reasonable creatures, Angels and men. Others think it must necessarily be restrained to creatures of a certaine kind, and interpret it of Angels and men reconciled one to another, who were formerly separated by mans disobedience. Others restraine it to the faithfull in heaven and earth, and expound it of the Church and men in Covenant, who are received into favour and reconciled by the death of Christ laid hold on by faith. But to interpret it simply of all men penitent, impenitent, believers, infidels, obstinate, separated from God by their evill works, is directly contrary to the Text, and hath scarce a second Author. No man is to be excluded from seeking the benefit of reconciliation: but from the benefit it self the Apostle excludes them that be not in Covenant, and in the state of grace, to whom only this spirituall blessing doth pertaine. And in the same manner this and the like words are to be limited in other places. Eph. 1. 10. Rom. 11. 32. And this they must not deny, if they would be at one with themselves: for they say all men are under a new Covenant, and


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544 sat on the table at mealtime, not even the choicest titbit was fine enough to tempt her appetite. As soon as this cat came to the castle all the other cats left, at once, and their absence was not a cause for concern, for all the rats and mice left at the same time.

The cat came and went according to no rule or reason and seemed to have no trouble in going anywhere she wished to, even though the doors were closed and the windows locked. She was never seen in the small chapel. Her favorite room was that occupied by the Damsel Susanne, and she seemed fonder of that child than of any other person in the castle. She would lie for hours at a time on the floor, watching Susanne, her eyes first narrow slits in the yellow and then deep pits of a peculiar green.

The damsel liked the cat. and for that reason the animal was tolerated. Friar Sinistrari protested from the first and said that it would end in some horrible disaster, but the damsel cried and the Lady Arabella looked concerned and the duke said that he saw nothing of harm in a cat; so it ended in the cat's staying. Yet in the fall of the year the damsel was ill more often than ever.

To add to the worries of Duke Jacobus Hubelaire, strange tales began to come to the castle. First a goose was found dead with blood coming from little punctate holes in the neck; then little lambs were somehow killed during the night and their bodies sucked dry of blood; and finally a child was taken from its crib and the torn and lifeless body left in a thicket near the grief-stricken parents' hut.

The common folk were dependent on the duke for protection, so it was natural that they send a delegation to him telling him what they feared and asking him for help. They were no cowards though they were serfs, and the tale they told to the duke, his lady and the friar was no story to tell to little children.

To put it briefly, their tale was this—that several of them had seen a woman wandering through the woods on the nights when the lambs and the baby had been slain. It was the opinion of those who had seen her most clearly in the moonlight that the woman had the dress and general appearance of the Damsel Susanne. At this statement the duke swore, the Lady Arabella fainted, and the friar crossed himself. The nobility in the castle assured the serfs that they must be mistaken, as they were sure that on these nights the damsel had been asleep in her bed—not only asleep, but so deeply asleep that she could not be aroused.

For a wonder the simple folk believed the duke and his lady. They left the castle convinced that their eyes had betrayed them. The friar went at once to his room, where he spent long hours in study and prayer, nor did he neglect to fast, to purge, and to drink large amounts of water mingled with the juice of limes. Then the secret was revealed to him by merciful Saint Anthony.

What he realized was this:

When the cat was in the room with the damsel, she was always awake or sleeping peacefully. On occasions when the damsel was in her deep and deathlike stupor the cat was never to be seen. When she roused from this deep sleep the cat was always in the room, crouched in one corner or hidden back of a chest. In some way the cat was associated with the strange sickness of the girl. Another fact was evident. The child had been perfectly well before the cat came. Also the killing of the animals and the child had all happened since the coming of the cat.

If the cat could be killed, then the whole trouble would stop. At least Friar Sinistrari hoped so. Unfortunately, the thinking about killing the animal and the actual kill-

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cPACKEN was not much of a name for a town, but it was the name of that town. Doubtless it was good enough for what it designated, for there is no question that there was a certain dry-salt substantiality in the sound, suggestive of corned beef and cabbage, with such concomitant comforts as railroaders especially favor, and road-weary men of the range swing down from dusty saddles to enjoy.

The town lay close by the sprawling Arkansas River, colloquially called the Arkansaw, at a point where the Santa Fe trail of earlier days crossed that stream of deceptive shallows and wide-spreading bars of silt-white sand. Now another Santa Fe trail ran past its door, a trail wood-girded and steel-bound, whose roaring caravans made echoes among its planked buildings, trailing scents of alluring opulence out of their precious freight, rushing eastward from the orange groves of distant California.

Other scents, true, streamed from less romantic trains which jolted and thumped through the town with

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 shrieking flange on curve, grinding brake-shoe against laboring wheel; scents of an industry to which men one knew and met on the street laid their hands, home-binding, intimate smells such as only cattle trains leave after them to speak of another sort of opulence, truly occidental. For McPacken was a town that had been established on cattle, and grown on cattle, and filled its stores and banks and homes and barber shops on cattle, from the very time that it welcomed the first dusty herd from Texas to its pens.

McPacken had lived and done well on the distinction of being the last loading-point to which Texas cattle were driven into Kansas for shipment to eastern markets. It had not been permitted to boast long of this peculiar favor of changing conditions. The day of the Texas cattlemen who brought their beef to the northern shipping-points on foot across a thousand miles of dusty trails, foraging them on the country as they passed, had come to an end shortly after the founding of McPacken on the Arkansas. The railroads had gone to Texas after the cattlemen's business, and the business of others along the way. Contrary to the expectations of everybody, the town did not die with the passing of the last driven herd.

Texas cattle had been brought to Kansas to fatten on its peculiarly succulent grass for many years before McPacken, and the railroad upon which it lay, graced that illimitable land. McPacken was a dot in the very center of the richest grazing country; chance had put it down at a place where each succeeding change seemed

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 only to work its profit and contribute to its strength. Where herds formerly came to be loaded into trains, they arrived now on board of trains, to be dispersed among a hardy set of business adventurers known as feeders. These cattle were pastured along the broad river valley and brought to perfection for the butcher's block. On their day they were driven again to McPacken, loaded and shipped, their going and coming, their stay between, all leaving an accretion of profit in the town.

That was the reason for McPacken, and that was the way it grew. All that was not so very long ago as time runs under the bridges along the Arkansas. There are men still stumping around who rode after those long-horned herds of strangers from the Nueces as young chaps, able yet to take care of a man's ration of steak with their own teeth. Some of them have foreheads extending to their crowns by now; many are grizzled and whiskered, and galled by the saddle of time, but most of them are going strong. Measured by events, it was a long time ago, for things move fast along the Arkansas; counted back by leap-years, not far.

At the time this parting in the pages of McPacken's history is made, to show who cares to move up a chair and read the chapter so offered, the town was at its greatest consequence and prosperity as a center of the native and imported cattle industry. It was the hub of a wide sweep of open range, into which only a few daring adventurers had pushed forward with fence and plow. These homesteads were mainly along the

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 river, the occupants of them looked upon with a curious, questioning interest, not wholly unsympathetic, as people who lent themselves to some heroic, but misguided, experimentation, out of which little good to themselves or humanity at large could come.

This was the attitude toward all agricultural adventurers in the valley of the Arkansas at that time, shared by cattlemen and town dwellers alike. There was no hostility, no unfriendliness. Everybody would have been glad to see them succeed, but nobody expected them to do so. Their low sod houses were lonely markers to the cowboys who rode from distant ranges to McPacken; their struggles with oxen and lank teams against the tenacious sod a never-ending source of mild entertainment for those rovers of the prairies, who twisted in their saddles to look back as they galloped on to the town's delights.

Agriculture, it will be seen, then, did not contribute anything of consequence to the prosperity of McPacken in those days. The little which the people who followed that industry bought and sold in the town would not have been missed if it had been withdrawn entirely, for McPacken did not look to the earth for its supplies. It was a place that lived out of tin cans and bottles, and threw them down in the back yard when it had emptied them.

The railroad had established a division point there, with shops for emergency repairs to cars and engines, a roundhouse for stabling and grooming the steeds of the iron trail, and a system of water works to serve

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 these various enterprises. All of this, with the smoke and noise, gave the place a comfortably progressive atmosphere, in addition to adding to its citizenship many artisans, trainmen, engine wipers, and subsidiary attendants upon the aristocracy of railroad life.

There was the river, the railroad along its shore, where cottonwoods laced with wild grapevines made green refreshment for eyes weary of summer heat glimmering over vast prairie lands; beyond the railroad, McPacken. The town seemed to empty upon the railroad, as one river empties into another, its principal street holding the little red depot, like an island, in its mouth. One stood on the station platform and looked upon all the consequence of McPacken, which was, no doubt, much greater than it appeared.

Beer kegs lay heaped in pyramidal pile on this platform at all times, if not empty ones waiting a train, full ones waiting a wagon. This pile of kegs seemed to be a proclamation to all who arrived, or lingered, or passed by, of the town's defiance, its aloofness in its wickedness from application of the commonwealth's laws.

Yet this was a wickedness of sullen defiance rather than one of lurid depravity; a wickedness that bribed county officials with the left hand while it dispensed beer with the right, practice common to Kansas towns of that time. It was a small-bore wickedness, rather despicable than destructive, which endured until the busy long arm could find time to reach out and squelch

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 it, as happened to McPacken in its day, but a day long after this one of which you read, to be sure. Taking McPacken all over, it was not a bad town for its frontier situation. It had all the material, but never made much of its opportunity.

Between the railroad and the beginning of town there was a wide strip of unoccupied land, owned jointly by McPacken, the county and the "company" as that principal institution of the country was called. Here the county highway entered McPacken from the west, a road that ran past the small sod houses and stubborn farms and lost itself finally in the trails which split from the ends of it like ravelled strands of a lariat. It was a dusty, trampled gray stretch of beaten ground with hitching-racks along the sides of the buildings which stood at the beginning of the principal thoroughfare. Prominent on the corner of this trampled common, the Cottonwood Hotel stood, and in front of the hotel the place which concerned itself with beer kegs and defied the sovereign state.

That was the beginning of McPacken as one saw it from the railroad station: the hotel on the left, the saloon on the right. There were two cottonwood trees of considerable girth and spread of limb in front of the hotel, a pump and watering trough for horses between them. Here the sidewalk was double width, part of it being the hotel veranda, covered by a wooden awning to the curb.

Two benches, fixed solidly against the wall, flanked the door of the hotel, offering accommodations for no

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 fewer than twenty loafers. At certain hours of the day these were filled, especially at evening, when the railroaders' day was done, and the withdrawing sun left it cool and pleasant there. Then Angus Valorous Macdougal, night clerk, dish washer, potato parer and waiter in a pinch, appeared with sprinkling can, gave the sidewalk planks a wetting down, leaving behind him a pleasant odor of allayed dust, reminiscent of a shower.

At such hour the railroaders and chance guests from the range planted their chairs in the street and cocked back with feet on the sidewalk edge, where they viewed at pleasure the passing life of McPacken. That was the original motion picture entertainment, very popular in its day, in Kansas towns, and other towns, a great deal bigger than McPacken. There is not an inch of room for legitimate question that the students of anatomy lined up along the sidewalk of that progressive city were of as much consequence in their orbit, their arguments and conclusions; of as much wit, wisdom and importance, as hotel loungers anywhere, before and since their time.

At the hour of this opening scene in McPacken, and on the veranda of the Cottonwood Hotel, there was very little wit and wisdom being discharged anywhere along the length and breadth of Santa Fe Street, as the main avenue was called. It was midafternoon of a withering hot summer day. Heat danced and wavered like clouds of transparent ephemera over the unpaved street, glimmered in distorting vexation above rails and

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 ballast roadbed. There was a smell of jimson weed and fennel, and oil from the railroad, spiced with invigorating nip of cottonwood leaves like bitters in an insipid drink.

The sound of hammering came out of the railroad yards, where Orrin Smith, the section boss, was working his gang of terriers putting in a switch. It was a deep, whirring, musical note, that of sledge on rail as some sweating jerry labored to bend the stubborn metal for the curve of the lead, yet subdued in that summer furnace, that vacuum of heat about which nature did not appear to concern itself at all, not even with a zephyr strong enough to turn a feather in the road.

Two figures enlivened the somnolent front of the Cottonwood Hotel this drowsy hour, side by side upon one of the benches flanking the open door. Even a stranger would have known, by her bearing of authority, that the woman was the boss of that concern, and that no man was boss of her. She was that type of woman, common to small hotels and boarding houses, whose bearing seemed to say that if there was a man around the place who had been an incident of more or less interest in her life at one time, he had been reduced to the lowest possible terms, if not rubbed out altogether.

Julia Cowgill was a quick and eager woman, rather meagre of frame, and tall, with a persistent prettiness in her gaunt face, a saucy challenge in her quick-darting, wide-awake gray eyes. Gray was stealing away her black hair with its Irish wave and crinkle. She

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 took no pains to hide the peculation, as she might have done with a little adroit adjustment and tucking under about the ears. There was a look of alertness and searching in her face, as if she lived a continual quest for something that she expected to spring up in the road ahead of her and elude her in the end. Some said it was money; there were more kindly souls who believed it was only rest.

The man beside her was not much of an example as men go, although he had a personality that generally drew a second look, especially when he spoke. He was a small man wearing a sandy little mustache; with a sharp little nose that seemed to have been pinched while in a plastic state just above the nostrils, making an indenture there which gave the organ a peculiar aspect of eagerness when he breathed. His head was broad, somewhat flat on top, well suited to the long line of parting and the cowlick that he had trained into his abundant black locks. A flowing crepe necktie adorned the low collar of his broad-striped shirt, the glory of which was not shadowed by either coat or vest.

There was a rich note in his voice that suggested a song; laughter seemed to lie so near the surface of him that he had only to open his mouth for it to appear in his eyes, slily, provokingly, like a chipmunk at its hole. For Banjo Gibson was a man who looked at life as a sort of one-sided joke, and humanity as an arrangement of comical figures paraded for his diversion. There was nothing much in him but a laugh.

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 gill said. "I said to Goosie last night when I heard you talkin' to Angus: 'That's Banjo Gibson. I'll bet anything that's Banjo Gibson.' If I hadn't been so tired I'd 'a' slipped on something and come down."

"Just as well you didn't, pleased as I'd 'a' been to see you. I know how it is here at the hotel—your day's like a rubber sack; the more you put in it the longer it stretches."

"Yes, it's so long, and such worthless help in the dining-room. I had a girl out from Hutchinson—she flew up and quit me in the middle of supper yesterday because Bill Connor pinched her leg. Well, she said he did. I don't believe it."

"Little old Bill, I remember him well. They tell me he's got a run now?"

"Yes, he's makin' regular money. Him and Goosie they're engaged. Goosie she was so put out over what the little freckled flip-tail said about Bill I looked for her to throw his ring in his soup."

"Some people's born to make trouble," said Banjo, with discreet mental reservation bearing on Bill Connor's behavior toward the new girl.

"I wish I could put a man in, but them railroaders wouldn't stand for a man. They seem to think biscuit-shootin' is stric'ly a lady's job."

"It ain't a man's job," Banjo declared with feeling, "though I had to come down to it while I was gone. It was after that quack shook me up in Cheyenne."

"You mean to tell me you waited table, Banjo?"

"If you'd 'a' happened through Chadron, out in the

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 sandhills of Newbrasky, about a year ago, you'd 'a' seen a feller back of the pie counter in the railroad eatin' house you'd 'a' thought was runnin' me a purty tight race for good looks."

"I always said when you went off to play for that Indian doctor you'd see some hard knocks before you got back to McPacken."

"You said it right, for I sure did."

"I'd like to 'a' seen you workin' at that job," Mrs. Cowgill said, the light of her toil-harried spirit in her eyes, a little smile showing at the corners of her large thin mouth.

"I'm thankful we was both spared the sight," Banjo said, with a deep sigh for a shame lived down if not forgotten. "I worked nights, and that helped some, handin' out slam sangwiches and coffee to the passengers that rushed the counter. After the last train we fed passed through, I didn't have anything to do but stand out pie ready for the freight crews. It wasn't much work, only the blowin' was hard on a man's lungs."

"Blowin'?" she repeated severely, in her way of putting a fresh guy in his place. "What do you mean blowin' to cool the pie?"

"No ma'am. I mean dust. That's what I mean. That's the sandiest land in creation, the wind blows so steady and hard you can lean up again it and go to sleep. They do, right along, up there in that country."

"Oh, you get out! I've heard the same thing said of Kansas, but I never saw anything do it but a horse."

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 Banjo laughed a little, more out of politeness than humor. Nobody likes to have a spike put in his joke. "I used to parade up and down before them six pieces of pie," he said, "blowin' off the sand. Believe me or not, that ain't no lie. I never found any other way to keep them cuts of pie clean and eatable."

"Sprinklin' tobacker juice over 'em!" said she.

"I used to blow till I was blue in the face," said Banjo, "with that sand siftin' in the screen door and all around. I got on middlin' comfortable till they changed time on a freight and throwed two crews on me at once. I thought I was gittin' the consumption keepin' twelve piece of pie clean, and I jumped the job."

Banjo did not wait for the effect on Mrs. Cowgill. It was so tremendous on himself that he doubled over with laughter. When he looked sidling up at her as the humor began to work out of him, his eyes were glistening with mirthful moisture. Mrs. Cowgill was not so much as smiling. She was looking down the track where Orrin Smith was herding his jerries putting in the switch, that sharp alertness for the thing she sought and never owned, bending her nice eyebrows together in a bunch.

"You're the beatin'est man, Banjo," she said, in concession to his comical reminiscence. There was little praise, less encouragement, in her tone for a man of humor such as Banjo Gibson, troubadour home from his adventures afar. A woman was crossing the railroad beyond Smith's gang. Mrs. Cowgill's interest was there.

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 "Where did you go from there?" she inquired, the 'woman having passed out of sight, leaving at least a divided portion of Mrs. Cowgill's interest behind.

"I rambled back to Wyoming; I had a lot of good friends in Wyoming. They're the dancin'est crowd of people up there you ever saw, kep' me fiddlin' till I nearly forgot how to pick a banjo at all. But places are so darned far apart in that country it wears a man out travellin' around. I never would 'a' been able to make it around to all of 'em if a feller hadn't made me a gift of a horse, one of them little pinto horses with spots on him, the kind they call a calico horse back in Missouri."

"You must 'a' stood well with them, Banjo."

"Yes, I picked up more money there than I ever made before in my life, and I guess I could 'a' married one of them cowgirls and settled down if I'd 'a' cared enough about any of 'em to take a chance. They're too big and wild for me, I'm here to say. They sling a man's heels off of the floor when they swing, and slap him to sleep if he gives 'em any slack. I like a girl my arm'll reach around, and I like 'em that can take a joke."

Banjo looked rueful; his tone was indignantly resentful. Unpleasant memories appeared to rise beneath his striped shirt of the Wyoming maidens who were dull to the piquant humor of a roving musician.

"It might 'a' been better for you, Banjo, if you'd stayed up in that country and settled down on a ranch."

"Maybe I would if they hadn't got to shootin' the

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 country up the way they're doin'. You've read in the papers about that rustlers' war they're havin' there, I guess? Darn reckless the way they're slingin' lead around."

"I heard some of the boys talkin' about it the other night. They said them Wyoming cowmen had sent out word to all the limber-jims on the range to come up there. I don't know how true it is, but there was a cowhand in here from the Cimarron yesterday on his way to Abilene, headin' for Cheyenne. That's what some of the boys said. I guess it's gettin' too peaceable and quiet in this country for some people."

"I'll take mine where a man can ride along the road at night with his girl without a swarm of bullets clippin' his hair," Banjo said, his deep voice vibrant with the moving memories of past perils. "They'd 'a' put a bullet through my fiddle if I'd 'a' stayed in that country. Feller did slam one through my banjo-head one night when I was seein' a lady home from a dance. He said it was a mistake. Lot of good his 'pologizind 'a' done me if that bullet'd 'a' went through my gizzard. I left there after that."

"I don't believe there's been a shootin' here since you went away," Mrs. Cowgill said, reminiscently. "Yes, I guess there was, too; some drunken cowhands killed a man that worked on a travellin' paint gang. But none of 'em didn't amount to anything."

"No man don't amount to much when he's got a hole drilled through his bellus," Banjo sighed, as if in regret

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 for the many good ones he had known who had gone that way.

"There's that woman again!" said Mrs. Cowgill, her voice sharp with resentful suspicion.

"Ma'am?" Banjo inquired, looking at her in startled surprise.

"Up the street, just comin' out of the Racket Store. She's been runnin' all over town today—she came in on Nine this morning. I'd like to know what she's up to, flippin' around that way."

One might have gathered from Mrs. Cowsgill's hostile attitude that other women had come to McPacken in days past, and flipped around to the public detriment and Mrs. Cowsgill's own personal embarrassment; and that she resented virtuously such invasion, mainly, if not entirely, on account of the stranger going about her mysterious business without first coming to the Cottonwood Hotel, which was a piece of unpardonable impertinence.

"I see her," said Banjo. "She's a peach!"

"She may be a punkin for all you know," Mrs. Cowgill rebuked him scornfully. She bore down on him hard, as if Banjo Gibson's erring judgment in the appraisal of ladies was a thing of notorious public cognizance, a mockery and a merry jest.

"Um-m-m-m!" said Banjo, deep in his chest, a safe and noncommittal sound for a man who has no argument to make, and one to which he can give a portentous shake, even an ominous tremolo, thereby saving his valor and his face.

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 "She's headin' here," Mrs. Cowgill announced, still severe, but a little mollified by the prospect of having her curiosity served at last.

"Makin' a bee-line," Banjo added, not at all hurt by the scornful sitting down on. "What do you suppose—"

"Sh-h-h!" Mrs. Cowgill cautioned.

The stranger's foot was on the porch.

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ER way seemed hesitant and apologetic, for all the brave dash she had made from the door of the Racket Store. The flash that burned in her face was not all due to the scorching heat that beat up, intensified by the reflection, from McPacken's dust-white street as she stood an indecisive moment a little distance from Mrs. Cowgill and Banjo Gibson, seated in comfort on the green bench beside the hotel door.

"Was you wantin' to see somebody?" Mrs. Cowgill inquired, turning casually, feigning a business interest that she did not feel, suppressing a greater one that she would not confess.

"I'm taking subscriptions for a work—a book—this book," the girl said, appealing from face to face with her serious, unsophisticated, wide-open brown eyes. "May I sit here a little while and tell you—show it to you?"

Mrs. Cowgill moved along a little, although there was ample room at her end of the bench, signifying by the shift that the stranger was to sit beside her, and not by the side of Banjo Gibson. Banjo found

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 it necessary, for decorum and comfort, to edge along a little way himself, putting a space of half a yard between himself and the hostess of the Cottonwood Hotel. It was not quite far enough to give him a view beyond her; he shifted a yard more, pretending that his shoestring needed tightening, turning up his eyes in sly measurement of the girl's obvious good points as he leaned.

Banjo was confirmed in his first opinion by this adroit exploration. She was not only a peach, but any kind and all kinds of fruit which was lucious, colorful, sweet. To look at her was refreshment; to be near her a placid joy.

Banjo did not hold it against her that she stood at least a hand's breadth taller than himself, being accustomed by this time to the handicap that nature had placed upon him, thankful for it sometimes when there was fighting and working, and other hardships incidental to the estate of a proper man, to be met. He glowed with admiration as he noted her youthful freshness and the refinement of her face, like a costly fiddle beside a cheap one, he thought, compared to the wind-rough faces of those railroad and cow-ranch girls.

It would take black haws on the bush after the first frost to match her hair. A little hollow along the jaw, maybe; just a trifle too hollow there. But she would fill out with proper feeding. Her hands were strong and flexible, appealing hands to a musician. Music spoke out of them; Banjo could feel it as he

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 could feel it in instruments viewed through a window. It would take apothecary's scales to weigh her when she walked.

So Banjo summed her up, slewed in respectful attention on the bench to look across Mrs. Cowgill. The girl was holding a dumpy thick book with red cover and black lettering clasped in both hands, in a supplicating way of innocence that carried an appeal to Banjo Gibson's heart. That Mrs. Cowgill was neither so friendly nor sympathetic was evident in the aloof suspicion of her bearing.

"It's called A Thousand Ways To Make Money," the girl said, looking that appealing way of hers from face to face, like some poor creature, Banjo thought—he would not insult her by saying a dog—running from door to door of a house on a winter night when everybody was too snug in bed and too selfish in their comfort to get up and let it in.

Mrs. Cowgill took the book from her. She held it in her hand unopened, gazing at it steadily and silently Presently she turned to the agent, who smiled in timid expectancy.

"Was you in there tryin' to sell Jake Smolinsky one of them books?" Mrs. Cowgill demanded, rather than inquired.

"If you mean that little old man that makes a noise like a clock going to strike, I was," the agent confessed, the smile going from her lips, a sort of comical solemnity taking its place.

"Well, child, a thousand ways to make money

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 wouldn't be more than half as many as Jake Smolinsky knows already,' Mrs. Cowgill said, softening in her judgment, as Banjo was glad to see.

The lady agent sighed.

"It looks like the rest of the people in this town are just about as smart as he is," she said.

"You didn't sell a book all the time you've been runnin' around in this broilin' sun?"

"Not a one," the agent replied, but brave in her failure, Banjo could see; no tears within a mile of her.

"I suppose anybody ought to be glad to know a thousand ways to make money," Mrs. Cowgill reflected. "How much does it cost?"

"Only two dollars. And immediate delivery,"—hopefully—"no wait."

"Two dollars for a thousand ways to make money!" Banjo marvelled over the bargain. "And I'd nearly give my l— my ankle, for one sure-shootin' way."

"If you'd like one of the books, sir," the lady agent said, leaning to look at him in her innocence, her great, her pure, unsmirched, unworldly innocence, and no pretense about it, Banjo knew too well.

"Well, hum-m-m-m! Two dollars, hum-m-m-m!" Banjo turned it off with his noncommittal rumble and let it rest. Two hard dollars in the jeans were better, maybe; more certain, without a doubt, than a thousand theories for making more in a little red book with black letters on the back. For, if they were legal ways, they were ways involving work, a condition for

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 obtaining money to which Banjo Gibson was unalterably opposed.

"Now, what's in that book worth two dollars to anybody?" Mrs. Cowgill wanted to know. She put the question pedantically, in the manner of a teacher who had the culprit right before her, and would have no evasion nor squirming out of it in the least.

The lady agent took the book and turned its pages, telling them what it was good for as she went along.

The book told how to make cider vinegar out of the cobs of green corn, horseradish out of turnips, tomato catsup from pumpkins, sofas out of salt barrels, bedsteads out of goods boxes; it told how to make honey out of corn silk, olive oil out of hickory nuts, neckties out of yarn, sofa pillows out of gunnysacks. It told how to preserve eggs in times of plenty, store them for a few years and sell them at a profit of six cents a dozen; it made plain the formulae of patent medicines, which anybody could make for three cents a bottle and sell for a dollar; it exposed the tricks of the grocery business, and gave a full working order for the practice of spiritualism and legerdemain. It told how to make valuable things from trash, giving tables of cost and return, showing what immense profits lay waiting the smart citizen in the very neighborhood at his hand. The man who owned the book had his hand in the world's pocket.

All of that, and a great deal more, the young lady agent recited, not very spiritedly, to be sure; not with the certainty of confidence.

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 "Now, look here," said Mrs. Cowgill argumentatively; "it wouldn't put a person ahead any to make up all that bogus stuff, and maybe kill himself takin' the medicine and usin' the vinegar and preserved eggs. A person don't use enough of them things to make it profitable."

"You're not supposed to use them yourself; you manufacture and sell them."

"I'm thinkin' about that, too," Mrs. Cowgill said. "You say it's a book that ought to be in every home."

"Every home. There comes an opportunity in every life for making money. The secret of success is in being prepared when it comes. All the masters of finance realize this. They never would have been rich if they had not been ready. Every—"

"But suppose you did sell one to every house in McPacken; suppose everybody went to work manufacturin' and bottlin', and preservin' eggs and puttin' down butter, expectin' to sell their humbug stuff to the neighbors. Don't you think the business would be a little bit overdone?"

The lady agent bent her head, thinking it over. In a little while she looked up, grinning whimsically, as if it hurt somewhere, but she was not going to let anybody see the spot if it cost her life.

"I guess the man that wrote the book never thought of that; I'm sure I never did," she confessed.

"Did you ever sell any of them books anywhere?"

"Yes, I've sold a good many—about fifty-three, I

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