be short of ready cash just now, and regret exceedingly that I cannot comply with your request.

But I shall do none of this. I shall refuse you the money on other grounds-grounds which I shall endeavor to make plain to you, so that the matter may not again come up between us.

In the first place, I would have you know at once that I am no moralist. My refusal is not based upon any absurd notion as to the deteriorating effect that a compliance with your request. may have upon your character. Whether to let you have the money will do you good, or will do you harm, is no concern of mine. You have arrived at your present dilemma through agencies which are entirely personal to you. You may have inherited certain weaknesses which make it impossible for you to turn yourself to a proper account, or circumstances may have really been against you. But whether it is Bad Luck, Fatalism or Folly is entirely outside of my province to determine.

No, my friend, I am refusing you the loan for other reasons, purely selfish.

The fact is that I like you. Your faults, so long as they do not obtrude themselves upon me, do not matter. But your virtues have contributed much to my pleasure and satisfaction in the past, and to be candid with you, I am just grasping enough to wish them to continue to do so in the future.

The moment that we tamper with money affairs, all will then be over.

You may be a scamp or a scalawag. What matters this to me so long as this part of you does not bother me? Or if you are simply unfortunate, the same result follows.

And so, my friend, I say to you, if you will, borrow the money of some other.

But leave the rest of yourself to me.

IT WAS ALL RIGHT.

"I HAVE a great idea."

As he spoke it was more than evident that the young playwright, whose name even now was a household word in two continents, was more than ever before in his career carried away by the tide of a true inspiration.

"Can it be possible," said the manager, "that your play has already matured? Why, when we parted company last evening, you could think of nothing, and now

"Now," burst forth the enthusiastic artist, "it is finished-it is complete! Listen, while I tell you."

The face of the manager showed a trace of disappointment. He moved uneasily in his seat.

"Don't be too sure," he muttered. "Your enthusiasm may have misled you. But go on." "Listen then. The plot? Bah! It is nothing. I stole it from the French. And then I fixed it up to suit myself. First, then, we have an opening chorus. The girls will come out in some brand-new color scheme which your designer can put his mind on immediately. Then some vaudeville specialties will be introduced. The scene will be laid-well, say on Broadway at midnight, or on some uninhabited island—that doesn't matter. And here's a new topical song, entitled

'But I cannot swallow that!'

"In the last act Chippie Bandoline, the star, is just saved from-oh, well, some one, and every girl in the chorus appears in pea-green tights."

The manager grasped the great man by the hand.

"Grand!" he cried. "Simply grand! Do you know, when you first spoke, I was afraid you were going to propose something entirely too good for the public."

SPRING.

THIS is honeymoon time. Orange blossoms fill the valleys. Old shoes still linger by the sides of doorsteps. Porters are flecking rice from the Pullman seats. Parsons are thoughtful or gay, according to the amount. Church aisles are waxing reminiscent. At home, in the silent spare room, the wedding presents lie clustered awaiting the return of the owners. And certain other useless but expensive ornaments are hiding their lights in safe deposit drawers.

Papa and mamma go about their duties mechanically. Papa is absorbed in the past Mamma, more cheerful, in the future.

Hands are being clasped in hotel corridors. Certain old prehistoric looks are being exchanged in shady lanes, on the deep sea, on railway trains and in other places. Money is being spent. Niagara and Washington are in the same mood.

In the smoking-rooms cigars are being puffed hastily, remorsefully. In the dining-rooms lumps of sugar are dealt out with conspicuous blushes. Waiters are smiling, old stagers are being bored, and indifference is being simulated in vain.

Silk hats and tailor-made gray traveling gowns are hobnobbing. Flowers are being placed in certain buttonholes. Kissing is a drug on the market.

Honeymoon time is here! Brides and grooms are hurrying

North, South, East, West, while the old world smiles to itself and says:

"That's what makes me go round!"

SUMMER.

THAT warm, vaporous, unwieldy, soft, humid, odoriferous and expensive thing called summer is approaching. Summer landlords are creeping out of their holes, mixing attractive paints in alluring colors, and baiting their circulars with mendacious photographs for prospective victims. At seaside resorts the board walks are being mended, the bathing houses renumbered, and orders for new towels in microscopic measurements distributed in the dry goods district, while the barrooms are dug out from the sand, and what is left over from last year's beer put out for the first comers. Head waiters are coming northward in private cars for new harvests. Ticket agents in railroad stations are ruffling their tempers anew for the rush. Porters are practicing the open palm movement, and every steamship is already suffering from overpopulation. Nature, holding the mirror up to herself, is satisfied at last with her appearance. The summer` girl is coming out of her chrysalis, radiant and ready for the campaign. Clerks in counting rooms are growing restless, and are toying with their pens. Even lobsters in the deep sea are getting their fans ready. The cities murmur louder than ever, waiting to perspire. Streets prepare to radiate, and only the fountains sing a premonitory song of joy. Even the tall buildings sigh as they feel themselves expanding, and murmur sadly, "We're in for it." Only the brazen statues in the park don't care.

School children are looking forward to learning something. The mosquitoes are beginning to buzz, while all the ants left