Sitting thus with Madeline, talking a little, and thinking very hard
over these momentous matters, I looked up and saw the ghost not a
dozen feet away from us. He was sitting on the railing of the porch,
one leg thrown up before him, the other dangling down as he leaned
against a post. He was behind Madeline, but almost in front of me,
as I sat facing the lady. It was fortunate that Madeline was looking
out over the landscape, for I must have appeared very much startled.
The ghost had told me that he would see me sometime this night, but
I did not think he would make his appearance when I was in the
company of Madeline. If she should see the spirit of her uncle I
could not answer for the consequences. I made no exclamation, but
the ghost evidently saw that I was troubled.

"Don't be afraid," he said. "I shall not let her see me; and she
cannot hear me speak unless I address myself to her, which I do not
intend to do."

I suppose I looked grateful.

"So you need not trouble yourself about that," the ghost continued;
"but it seems to me that you are not getting along very well with
your affair. If I were you I should speak out without waiting any
longer. You will never have a better chance. You are not likely to
be interrupted; and, so far as I can judge, the lady seems disposed
to listen to you favorably; that is, if she ever intends to do so.
There is no knowing when John Hinckman will go away again; certainly
not this summer. If I were in your place I should never dare to make
love to Hinckman's niece if he were anywhere about the place. If he
should catch any one offering himself to Miss Madeline he would then
be a terrible man to encounter."

I agreed perfectly to all this.

"I cannot bear to think of him!" I ejaculated aloud.

"Think of whom?" asked Madeline, turning quickly toward me.

Here was an awkward situation. The long speech of the ghost, to
which Madeline paid no attention, but which I heard with perfect
distinctness, had made me forget myself.

It was necessary to explain quickly. Of course it would not do to
admit that it was of her dear uncle that I was speaking; and so I
mentioned hastily the first name I thought of.

"Mr. Vilars," I said.

This statement was entirely correct; for I never could bear to think
of Mr. Vilars, who was a gentleman who had at various times paid
much attention to Madeline.

"It is wrong for you to speak in that way of Mr. Vilars," she said.
"He is a remarkably well-educated and sensible young man, and has
very pleasant manners. He expects to be elected to the legislature
this fall, and I should not be surprised if he made his mark. He
will do well in a legislative body, for whenever Mr. Vilars has
anything to say he knows just how and when to say it."

This was spoken very quietly and without any show of resentment,
which was all very natural; for if Madeline thought at all favorably
of me she could not feel displeased that I should have disagreeable
emotions in regard to a possible rival. The concluding words
contained a hint which I was not slow to understand. I felt very
sure that if Mr. Vilars were in my present position he would speak
quickly enough.

"I know it is wrong to have such ideas about a person," I said, "but
I cannot help it."

The lady did not chide me, and after this she seemed even in a
softer mood. As for me, I felt considerably annoyed, for I had not
wished to admit that any thought of Mr. Vilars had ever occupied my
mind.

"You should not speak aloud that way," said the ghost, "or you may
get yourself into trouble. I want to see everything go well with
you, because then you may be disposed to help me, especially if I
should chance to be of any assistance to you, which I hope I shall
be."

I longed to tell him that there was no way in which he could help me
so much as by taking his instant departure. To make love to a young
lady with a ghost sitting on the railing near by, and that ghost the
apparition of a much-dreaded uncle, the very idea of whom in such a
position and at such a time made me tremble, was a difficult, if not
an impossible, thing to do; but I forbore to speak, although I may
have looked, my mind.

"I suppose," continued the ghost, "that you have not heard anything
that might be of advantage to me. Of course I am very anxious to
hear; but if you have anything to tell me I can wait until you are
alone. I will come to you to-night in your room, or I will stay here
until the lady goes away."

"You need not wait here," I said; "I have nothing at all to say to
you."

Madeline sprang to her feet, her face flushed and her eyes ablaze.

"Wait here!" she cried. "What do you suppose I am waiting for?
Nothing to say to me indeed!--I should think so! What should you
have to say to me?"

"Madeline," I exclaimed, stepping toward her, "let me explain."

But she had gone.

Here was the end of the world for me! I turned fiercely to the
ghost.

"Wretched existence!" I cried. "You have ruined everything. You have
blackened my whole life. Had it not been for you--"

But here my voice faltered. I could say no more.

"You wrong me," said the ghost. "I have not injured you. I have
tried only to encourage and assist you, and it is your own folly
that has done this mischief. But do not despair. Such mistakes as
these can be explained. Keep up a brave heart. Good-by."

And he vanished from the railing like a bursting soap-bubble.

I went gloomily to bed, but I saw no apparitions that night except
those of despair and misery which my wretched thoughts called up.
The words I had uttered had sounded to Madeline like the basest
insult. Of course there was only one interpretation she could put
upon them.

As to explaining my ejaculations, that was impossible. I thought the
matter over and over again as I lay awake that night, and I
determined that I would never tell Madeline the facts of the case.
It would be better for me to suffer all my life than for her to know
that the ghost of her uncle haunted the house. Mr. Hinckman was
away, and if she knew of his ghost she could not be made to believe
that he was not dead. She might not survive the shock! No, my heart
could bleed, but I would never tell her.

The next day was fine, neither too cool nor too warm; the breezes
were gentle, and Nature smiled. But there were no walks or rides
with Madeline. She seemed to be much engaged during the day, and I
saw but little of her. When we met at meals she was polite, but very
quiet and reserved. She had evidently determined on a course of
conduct, and had resolved to assume that, although I had been very
rude to her, she did not understand the import of my words. It would
be quite proper, of course, for her not to know what I meant by my
expressions of the night before.

I was downcast and wretched and said but little, and the only bright
streak across the black horizon of my woe was the fact that she did
not appear to be happy, although she affected an air of unconcern.
The moon-lit porch was deserted that evening, but wandering about
the house, I found Madeline in the library alone. She was reading,
but I went in and sat down near her. I felt that, although I could
not do so fully, I must in a measure explain my conduct of the night
before. She listened quietly to a somewhat labored apology I made
for the words I had used.

"I have not the slightest idea what you meant," she said, "but you
were very rude."

I earnestly disclaimed any intention of rudeness, and assured her,
with a warmth of speech that must have made some impression upon
her, that rudeness to her would be an action impossible to me. I
said a great deal upon the subject, and implored her to believe that
if it were not for a certain obstacle I could speak to her so
plainly that she would understand everything.

She was silent for a time, and then she said, rather more kindly, I
thought, than she had spoken before:

"Is that obstacle in any way connected with my uncle?"

"Yes," I answered, after a little hesitation, "it is, in a measure,
connected with him."

She made no answer to this, and sat looking at her book, but not
reading. From the expression of her face I thought she was somewhat
softened toward me. She knew her uncle as well as I did, and she may
have been thinking that, if he were the obstacle that prevented my
speaking (and there were many ways in which he might be that
obstacle), my position would be such a hard one that it would excuse
some wildness of speech and eccentricity of manner. I saw, too, that
the warmth of my partial explanations had had some effect on her,
and I began to believe that it might be a good thing for me to speak
my mind without delay. No matter how she should receive my
proposition, my relations with her could not be worse than they had
been the previous night and day, and there was something in her face
which encouraged me to hope that she might forget my foolish
exclamations of the evening before if I began to tell her my tale of
love.

I drew my chair a little nearer to her, and as I did so the ghost
burst into the room from the doorway behind her. I say burst,
although no door flew open and he made no noise. He was wildly
excited, and waved his arms above his head. The moment I saw him my
heart fell within me. With the entrance of that impertinent
apparition every hope fled from me. I could not speak while he was
in the room.

I must have turned pale; and I gazed steadfastly at the ghost,
almost without seeing Madeline, who sat between us.

"Do you know," he cried, "that John Hinckman is coming up the hill?
He will be here in fifteen minutes; and if you are doing anything in
the way of love-making you had better hurry it up. But this is not
what I came to tell you. I have glorious news! At last I am
transferred! Not forty minutes ago a Russian nobleman was murdered
by the Nihilists. Nobody ever thought of him in connection with an
immediate ghostship. My friends instantly applied for the situation
for me, and obtained my transfer. I am off before that horrid
Hinckman comes up the hill. The moment I reach my new position I
shall put off this hated semblance. Good-by. You can't imagine how
glad I am to be, at last, the real ghost of somebody."

"Oh!" I cried, rising to my feet, and stretching out my arms in
utter wretchedness, "I would to Heaven you were mine!"

"I _am_ yours," said Madeline, raising to me her tearful eyes.




"THE PHILOSOPHY OF RELATIVE EXISTENCES"


In a certain summer, not long gone, my friend Bentley and I found
ourselves in a little hamlet which overlooked a placid valley,
through which a river gently moved, winding its way through green
stretches until it turned the end of a line of low hills and was
lost to view. Beyond this river, far away, but visible from the door
of the cottage where we dwelt, there lay a city. Through the mists
which floated over the valley we could see the outlines of steeples
and tall roofs; and buildings of a character which indicated thrift
and business stretched themselves down to the opposite edge of the
river. The more distant parts of the city, evidently a small one,
lost themselves in the hazy summer atmosphere.

Bentley was young, fair-haired, and a poet; I was a philosopher, or
trying to be one. We were good friends, and had come down into this
peaceful region to work together. Although we had fled from the
bustle and distractions of the town, the appearance in this rural
region of a city, which, so far as we could observe, exerted no
influence on the quiet character of the valley in which it lay,
aroused our interest. No craft plied up and down the river; there
were no bridges from shore to shore; there were none of those
scattered and half-squalid habitations which generally are found on
the outskirts of a city; there came to us no distant sound of bells;
and not the smallest wreath of smoke rose from any of the buildings.

In answer to our inquiries our landlord told us that the city over
the river had been built by one man, who was a visionary, and who
had a great deal more money than common sense. "It is not as big a
town as you would think, sirs," he said, "because the general
mistiness of things in this valley makes them look larger than they
are. Those hills, for instance, when you get to them are not as high
as they look to be from here. But the town is big enough, and a good
deal too big; for it ruined its builder and owner, who when he came
to die had not money enough left to put up a decent tombstone at the
head of his grave. He had a queer idea that he would like to have
his town all finished before anybody lived in it, and so he kept on
working and spending money year after year and year after year until
the city was done and he had not a cent left. During all the time
that the place was building hundreds of people came to him to buy
houses, or to hire them, but he would not listen to anything of the
kind. No one must live in his town until it was all done. Even his
workmen were obliged to go away at night to lodge. It is a town,
sirs, I am told, in which nobody has slept for even a night. There
are streets there, and places of business, and churches, and public
halls, and everything that a town full of inhabitants could need;
but it is all empty and deserted, and has been so as far back as I
can remember, and I came to this region when I was a little boy."

"And is there no one to guard the place?" we asked; "no one to
protect it from wandering vagrants who might choose to take
possession of the buildings?"

"There are not many vagrants in this part of the country," he said,
"and if there were they would not go over to that city. It is
haunted."

"By what?" we asked.

"Well, sirs, I scarcely can tell you; queer beings that are not
flesh and blood, and that is all I know about it. A good many people
living hereabouts have visited that place once in their lives, but I
know of no one who has gone there a second time."

"And travellers," I said, "are they not excited by curiosity to
explore that strange uninhabited city?"

"Oh yes," our host replied; "almost all visitors to the valley go
over to that queer city--generally in small parties, for it is not a
place in which one wishes to walk about alone. Sometimes they see
things and sometimes they don't. But I never knew any man or woman
to show a fancy for living there, although it is a very good town."

This was said at supper-time, and, as it was the period of full
moon, Bentley and I decided that we would visit the haunted city
that evening. Our host endeavored to dissuade us, saying that no one
ever went over there at night; but as we were not to be deterred he
told us where we would find his small boat tied to a stake on the
river-bank. We soon crossed the river, and landed at a broad but low
stone pier, at the land end of which a line of tall grasses waved in
the gentle night wind as if they were sentinels warning us from
entering the silent city. We pushed through these, and walked up a
street fairly wide, and so well paved that we noticed none of the
weeds and other growths which generally denote desertion or little
use. By the bright light of the moon we could see that the
architecture was simple, and of a character highly gratifying to the
eye. All the buildings were of stone, and of good size. We were
greatly excited and interested, and proposed to continue our walks
until the moon should set, and to return on the following
morning--"to live here, perhaps," said Bentley. "What could be so
romantic and yet so real? What could conduce better to the marriage
of verse and philosophy?" But as he said this we saw around the
corner of a cross-street some forms as of people hurrying away.

"The spectres," said my companion, laying his hand on my arm.

"Vagrants, more likely," I answered, "who have taken advantage of
the superstition of the region to appropriate this comfort and
beauty to themselves."

"If that be so," said Bentley, "we must have a care for our lives."

We proceeded cautiously, and soon saw other forms fleeing before us
and disappearing, as we supposed, around corners and into houses.
And now suddenly finding ourselves upon the edge of a wide, open
public square, we saw in the dim light--for a tall steeple obscured
the moon--the forms of vehicles, horses, and men moving here and
there. But before, in our astonishment, we could say a word one to
the other, the moon moved past the steeple, and in its bright light
we could see none of the signs of life and traffic which had just
astonished us.

Timidly, with hearts beating fast, but with not one thought of
turning back, nor any fear of vagrants--for we were now sure that
what we had seen was not flesh and blood, and therefore harmless--we
crossed the open space and entered a street down which the moon
shone clearly. Here and there we saw dim figures, which quickly
disappeared; but, approaching a low stone balcony in front of one of
the houses, we were surprised to see, sitting thereon and leaning
over a book which lay open upon the top of the carved parapet, the
figure of a woman who did not appear to notice us.

"That is a real person," whispered Bentley, "and she does not see
us."

"No," I replied; "it is like the others. Let us go near it."

We drew near to the balcony and stood before it. At this the figure
raised its head and looked at us. It was beautiful, it was young;
but its substance seemed to be of an ethereal quality which we had
never seen or known of. With its full, soft eyes fixed upon us, it
spoke.

"Why are you here?" it asked. "I have said to myself that the next
time I saw any of you I would ask you why you come to trouble us.
Cannot you live content in your own realms and spheres, knowing, as
you must know, how timid we are, and how you frighten us and make us
unhappy? In all this city there is, I believe, not one of us except
myself who does not flee and hide from you whenever you cruelly come
here. Even I would do that, had not I declared to myself that I
would see you and speak to you, and endeavor to prevail upon you to
leave us in peace."

The clear, frank tones of the speaker gave me courage. "We are two
men," I answered, "strangers in this region, and living for the time
in the beautiful country on the other side of the river. Having
heard of this quiet city, we have come to see it for ourselves. We
had supposed it to be uninhabited, but now that we find that this is
not the case, we would assure you from our hearts that we do not
wish to disturb or annoy any one who lives here. We simply came as
honest travellers to view the city."

The figure now seated herself again, and as her countenance was
nearer to us, we could see that it was filled with pensive thought.
For a moment she looked at us without speaking. "Men!" she said.
"And so I have been right. For a long time I have believed that the
beings who sometimes come here, filling us with dread and awe, are
men."

"And you," I exclaimed--"who are you, and who are these forms that
we have seen, these strange inhabitants of this city?"

She gently smiled as she answered, "We are the ghosts of the future.
We are the people who are to live in this city generations hence.
But all of us do not know that, principally because we do not think
about it and study about it enough to know it. And it is generally
believed that the men and women who sometimes come here are ghosts
who haunt the place."

"And that is why you are terrified and flee from us?" I exclaimed.
"You think we are ghosts from another world?"

"Yes," she replied; "that is what is thought, and what I used to
think."

"And you," I asked, "are spirits of human beings yet to be?"

"Yes," she answered; "but not for a long time. Generations of men--I
know not how many--must pass away before we are men and women."

"Heavens!" exclaimed Bentley, clasping his hands and raising his
eyes to the sky, "I shall be a spirit before you are a woman."

"Perhaps," she said again, with a sweet smile upon her face, "you
may live to be very, very old."

But Bentley shook his head. This did not console him. For some
minutes I stood in contemplation, gazing upon the stone pavement
beneath my feet. "And this," I ejaculated, "is a city inhabited by
the ghosts of the future, who believe men and women to be phantoms
and spectres?"

She bowed her head.

"But how is it," I asked, "that you discovered that you are spirits
and we mortal men?"

"There are so few of us who think of such things," she answered, "so
few who study, ponder, and reflect. I am fond of study, and I love
philosophy; and from the reading of many books I have learned much.
From the book which I have here I have learned most; and from its
teachings I have gradually come to the belief, which you tell me is
the true one, that we are spirits and you men."

"And what book is that?" I asked.

"It is 'The Philosophy of Relative Existences,' by Rupert Vance."

"Ye gods!" I exclaimed, springing upon the balcony, "that is my
book, and I am Rupert Vance." I stepped toward the volume to seize
it, but she raised her hand.

"You cannot touch it," she said. "It is the ghost of a book. And did
you write it?"

"Write it? No," I said; "I am writing it. It is not yet finished."

"But here it is," she said, turning over the last pages. "As a
spirit book it is finished. It is very successful; it is held in
high estimation by intelligent thinkers; it is a standard work."

I stood trembling with emotion. "High estimation!" I said. "A
standard work!"

"Oh yes," she replied, with animation; "and it well deserves its
great success, especially in its conclusion. I have read it twice."

"But let me see these concluding pages," I exclaimed. "Let me look
upon what I am to write."

She smiled, and shook her head, and closed the book. "I would like
to do that," she said, "but if you are really a man you must not
know what you are going to do."

"Oh, tell me, tell me," cried Bentley from below, "do you know a
book called 'Stellar Studies,' by Arthur Bentley? It is a book of
poems."

The figure gazed at him. "No," it said, presently, "I never heard of
it."

I stood trembling. Had the youthful figure before me been flesh and
blood, had the book been a real one, I would have torn it from her.

"O wise and lovely being!" I exclaimed, falling on my knees before
her, "be also benign and generous. Let me but see the last page of
my book. If I have been of benefit to your world; more than all, if
I have been of benefit to you, let me see, I implore you--let me see
how it is that I have done it."

She rose with the book in her hand. "You have only to wait until you
have done it," she said, "and then you will know all that you could
see here." I started to my feet and stood alone upon the balcony.

"I am sorry," said Bentley, as we walked toward the pier where we
had left our boat, "that we talked only to that ghost girl, and that
the other spirits were all afraid of us. Persons whose souls are
choked up with philosophy are not apt to care much for poetry; and
even if my book is to be widely known, it is easy to see that she
may not have heard of it."

I walked triumphant. The moon, almost touching the horizon, beamed
like red gold. "My dear friend," said I, "I have always told you
that you should put more philosophy into your poetry. That would
make it live."

"And I have always told you," said he, "that you should not put so
much poetry into your philosophy. It misleads people."

"It didn't mislead that ghost girl," said I.

"How do you know?" said Bentley. "Perhaps she is wrong, and the
other inhabitants of the city are right, and we may be the ghosts
after all. Such things, you know, are only relative. Anyway," he
continued, after a little pause, "I wish I knew that those ghosts
were now reading the poem which I am going to begin to-morrow."




A PIECE OF RED CALICO


I was going into town one morning from my suburban residence, when
my wife handed me a little piece of red calico, and asked me if I
would have time, during the day, to buy her two yards and a half of
calico like that. I assured her that it would be no trouble at all;
and putting the sample in my pocket, I took the train for the city.

At lunch-time I stopped in at a large dry-goods store to attend to
my wife's commission. I saw a well-dressed man walking the floor
between the counters, where long lines of girls were waiting on much
longer lines of customers, and asked him where I could see some red
calico.

"This way, sir." And he led me up the store. "Miss Stone," said he
to a young lady, "show this gentleman some red calico."

"What shade do you want?" asked Miss Stone.

I showed her the little piece of calico that my wife had given me.
She looked at it and handed it back to me. Then she took down a
great roll of red calico and spread it out on the counter.

"Why, that isn't the shade!" said I.

"No, not exactly," said she; "but it is prettier than your sample."

"That may be," said I; "but, you see, I want to match this piece.
There is something already made of this kind of calico which needs
to be enlarged or mended or something. I want some calico of the
same shade."

The girl made no answer, but took down another roll.

"That's the shade," said she.

"Yes," I replied, "but it's striped."

"Stripes are more worn than anything else in calicoes," said she.

"Yes, but this isn't to be worn. It's for furniture, I think. At any
rate, I want perfectly plain stuff, to match something already in
use."

"Well, I don't think you can find it perfectly plain unless you get
Turkey red."

"What is Turkey red?" I asked.

"Turkey red is perfectly plain in calicoes," she answered.

"Well, let me see some."

"We haven't any Turkey-red calico left," she said, "but we have some
very nice plain calicoes in other colors."

"I don't want any other color. I want stuff to match this."

"It's hard to match cheap calico like that," she said. And so I left
her.

I next went into a store a few doors farther up the street. When I
entered I approached the "floor-walker," and handing him my sample,
said:

"Have you any calico like this?"

"Yes, sir," said he. "Third counter to the right."

I went to the third counter to the right, and showed my sample to
the salesman in attendance there. He looked at it on both sides.
Then he said:

"We haven't any of this."

"I was told you had," said I.

"We had it, but we're out of it now. You'll get that goods at an
upholsterer's."

I went across the street to an upholsterer's.

"Have you any stuff like this?" I asked.

"No," said the salesman, "we haven't. Is it for furniture?"

"Yes," I replied.

"Then Turkey red is what you want."

"Is Turkey red just like this?" I asked.

"No," said he; "but it's much better."

"That makes no difference to me," I replied. "I want something just
like this."

"But they don't use that for furniture," he said.

"I should think people could use anything they wanted for
furniture," I remarked, somewhat sharply.

"They can, but they don't," he said, quite calmly. "They don't use
red like that. They use Turkey red."

I said no more, but left. The next place I visited was a very large
dry-goods store. Of the first salesman I saw I inquired if they kept
red calico like my sample.

"You'll find that on the second story," said he.

I went upstairs. There I asked a man:

"Where will I find red calico?"

"In the far room to the left. Over there." And he pointed to a
distant corner.

I walked through the crowds of purchasers and salespeople, and
around the counters and tables filled with goods, to the far room to
the left. When I got there I asked for red calico.

"The second counter down this side," said the man.

I went there and produced my sample. "Calicoes downstairs," said the
man.

"They told me they were up here," I said.

"Not these plain goods. You'll find 'em downstairs at the back of
the store, over on that side."

I went downstairs to the back of the store.

"Where will I find red calico like this?" I asked.

"Next counter but one," said the man addressed, walking with me in
the direction pointed out.

"Dunn, show red calicoes."

Mr. Dunn took my sample and looked at it.

"We haven't this shade in that quality of goods," he said.

"Well, have you it in any quality of goods?" I asked.

"Yes; we've got it finer." And he took down a piece of calico, and
unrolled a yard or two of it on the counter.

"That's not this shade," I said.

"No," said he. "The goods is finer and the color's better."

"I want it to match this," I said.

"I thought you weren't particular about the match," said the
salesman. "You said you didn't care for the quality of the goods,
and you know you can't match goods without you take into
consideration quality and color both. If you want that quality of
goods in red, you ought to get Turkey red."

I did not think it necessary to answer this remark, but said:

"Then you've got nothing to match this?"

"No, sir. But perhaps they may have it in the upholstery department,
in the sixth story."

So I got in the elevator and went up to the top of the house.

"Have you any red stuff like this?" I said to a young man.

"Red stuff? Upholstery department--other end of this floor."

I went to the other end of the floor.

"I want some red calico," I said to a man.

"Furniture goods?" he asked.

"Yes," said I.

"Fourth counter to the left."

I went to the fourth counter to the left, and showed my sample to a
salesman. He looked at it, and said:

"You'll get this down on the first floor--calico department."

I turned on my heel, descended in the elevator, and went out on the
street. I was thoroughly sick of red calico. But I determined to
make one more trial. My wife had bought her red calico not long
before, and there must be some to be had somewhere. I ought to have
asked her where she obtained it, but I thought a simple little thing
like that could be bought anywhere.

I went into another large dry-goods store. As I entered the door a
sudden tremor seized me. I could not bear to take out that piece of
red calico. If I had had any other kind of a rag about me--a
pen-wiper or anything of the sort--I think I would have asked them
if they could match that.

But I stepped up to a young woman and presented my sample, with the
usual question.

"Back room, counter on the left," she said.

I went there.

"Have you any red calico like this?" I asked of the saleswoman
behind the counter.

"No, sir," she said, "but we have it in Turkey red."

Turkey red again! I surrendered.

"All right," I said, "give me Turkey red."

"How much, sir?" she asked.

"I don't know--say five yards."

She looked at me rather strangely, but measured off five yards of
Turkey-red calico. Then she rapped on the counter and called out
"Cash!" A little girl, with yellow hair in two long plaits, came
slowly up. The lady wrote the number of yards, the name of the
goods, her own number, the price, the amount of the bank-note I
handed her, and some other matters, probably the color of my eyes
and the direction and velocity of the wind, on a slip of paper. She
then copied all this into a little book which she kept by her. Then
she handed the slip of paper, the money, and the Turkey red to the
yellow-haired girl. This young person copied the slip into a little
book she carried, and then she went away with the calico, the paper
slip, and the money.

After a very long time--during which the little girl probably took
the goods, the money, and the slip to some central desk, where the
note was received, its amount and number entered in a book, change
given to the girl, a copy of the slip made and entered, girl's entry
examined and approved, goods wrapped up, girl registered, plaits
counted and entered on a slip of paper and copied by the girl in her
book, girl taken to a hydrant and washed, number of towel entered on
a paper slip and copied by the girl in her book, value of my note
and amount of change branded somewhere on the child, and said
process noted on a slip of paper and copied in her book--the girl
came to me, bringing my change and the package of Turkey-red calico.

I had time for but very little work at the office that afternoon,
and when I reached home I handed the package of calico to my wife.
She unrolled it and exclaimed:

"Why, this don't match the piece I gave you!"

"Match it!" I cried. "Oh no! it don't match it. You didn't want that
matched. You were mistaken. What you wanted was Turkey red--third
counter to the left. I mean, Turkey red is what they use."

My wife looked at me in amazement, and then I detailed to her my
troubles.

"Well," said she, "this Turkey red is a great deal prettier than
what I had, and you've got so much of it that I needn't use the
other at all. I wish I had thought of Turkey red before."

"I wish from the bottom of my heart you had," said I.




CAMEO EDITION.


REVERIES OF A BACHELOR; or, a Book of the Heart. By Donald G.
Mitchell. With an Etching by Percy Moran.

DREAM LIFE. A Fable of the Seasons. With an Etching by Percy Moran.

OLD CREOLE DAYS. By George W Cable. With an Etching by Percy Moran.

IN OLE VIRGINIA. By Thomas Nelson Page. With an Etching by W. L.
Sheppard.

BITTER-SWEET. A Poem. By J. G. Holland. With an Etching by Otto
Bacher.

KATHRINA. A Poem. By J. G. Holland. With an Etching by Otto Bacher.

LETTERS TO DEAD AUTHORS. By Andrew Lang. With an Etched Portrait by
S. J. Ferris.

"VIRGINIBUS PUERISQUE." By Robert Louis Stevenson With an Etched
Portrait by S. J. Ferris.

A CHOSEN FEW. Short Stories. By Frank R. Stockton. With an Etched
Portrait by W. H. W. Bicknell.

A LITTLE BOOK OF PROFITABLE TALES. By Eugene Field. With an Etched
Portrait by W. H. W. Bicknell.

THE REFLECTIONS OF A MARRIED MAN. By Robert Grant. With an Etching
by W. H. Hyde.

THE OPINIONS OF A PHILOSOPHER. By Robert Grant. With an Etching by
W. H. Hyde.


Each, one volume, 16mo.

Half Calf, g. t., $2.75; half levant, $3.50; cloth, $1.25




Transcriber's Notes

Four typographic errors have been corrected:
  Donald G. Mitchell. With an Etching by Percy Moran.[period inserted]
  and then she'll have to have new ones, and lots[was: lot's]
  standing on the cabin floor instead[was: intead] of the bulkhead.
  him in there and we will shut him up[was: no]. Then I

Three structural changes have been made:
  The half-title text (A CHOSEN FEW) was removed.
  The booklist "Cameo Edition" was moved from before the
    frontispiece to the end of the book.
  The original had the story names alone on a page before the
    story, as well as on the page where the story started. These
    duplicate titles have been removed.