Genre - Fiction. You are on the page - 332
e than any other of the owner's treasures. It was, curiously enough, to this little heap of literature that Wid Gardner presently turned.Forgetful of the hour and of his waiting cows, he sat down, a copy in his hands, his face taking on a new sort of light as he read. At times, as lone men will, he broke out into audible soliloquy. Now and again his hand slapped his knee, his eye kindled, he grinned. The pages were ill-printed, showing many paragraphs, apparently of advertising nature, in fine
cratching his back with it. When Philip did a doubletake, however, the ear was back to normal size and reposing on its owner's tawny cheek. Rubbing the sleep out of his eyes, he said, Come on, Zarathustra, we're going for a walk.He headed for the back door, Zarathustra at his heels. A double door leading off the dining room barred his way and proved to be locked. Frowning, he returned to the living room. All right, he said to Zarathustra, we'll go out the front way then. [Illustration] He
e minutes.But there had been a clever, good-natured littleFrench teacher who had said to the music-master: Zat leetle Crewe. Vat a child! A so ogly beauty!Ze so large eyes! ze so little spirituelle face.Waid till she grow up. You shall see! This morning, however, in the tight, smallblack frock, she looked thinner and odder thanever, and her eyes were fixed on Miss Minchinwith a queer steadiness as she slowly advancedinto the parlor, clutching her doll. Put your doll down! said Miss Minchin. No,
THE LAPIS NIGER.Roma Beata. Maud Howe. Pp. 163, 260. POMPEY'S THEATER._Rome: The Eternal City_. Clara Erskine Clement. Vol. i, P. 374.Ancient Rome in the Light of Recent Discoveries. RodolfoLanciani. P. 190. THE ROMAN FORUM AS IT APPEARS TO-DAY.Roman Holidays and Others. W.D. Howells. P. 96. POEM.--In the Roman ForumAmelia Josephine Burr. Literary Digest. Vol. xlviii, p. 1130. THE ROMAN HOUSE Here is my religion, here is my race, here are the traces of myforefathers. I cannot express the charm
n air.In the grill-room of the Mena House we meet the poet Shakib, who was then drawing his inspiration from a glass of whiskey and soda. Nay, he was drowning his sorrows therein, for his Master, alas! has mysteriously disappeared. I have not seen him for ten days, said the Poet; and I know not where he is.--If I did? Ah, my friend, you would not then see me here. Indeed, I should be with him, and though he be in the trap of the Young Turks. And some real tears flowed down the cheeks of the
eave the farm! Rose. } Rose. If he leaves it, he dies. Edmunds. This base act, proud man, you shall rue. Young Benson. Turn him from the farm! From his home will you cast, The old man who has tilled it for years? Ev'ry tree, ev'ry flower, is linked with the past, And a friend of his childhood appears! Squire. Yes, yes, leave the farm! From his home I will cast The old man who has tilled it for years; Though each tree and flower is linked with the past, And a friend of his childhood appears.