dearest, look at all this. Golden oak. _Store furniture_,
by Jove! Mr. Pawket's gift to you and me."

The lady of the vanilla did not betray Mr. Badgely's hope of her.
Widening her lovely eyes at the rich solidities before her, she slipped
to the old man's side and seized his hands. A strange sense of fog
enveloped Mr. Pawket; he stole a scared glance sidewise at the Rural.
"It was all for me," the vibrant voice insisted. "This Weeliam he is
_favorito_--he thinks the whole world is for his gift; but kind Signor
Pawket thinks only of me; he knew"--with exquisite slow arrangement of
accents--"how interested and happy I should be to at once understand the
practical American ways--and he knew, with such understanding, how I
must save and guard the poor destructed--what you call
them?--_foornitures_, of my own people."

"Now, now, now!" protested Mr. Pawket, feebly.

Mr. Fripp, however, nodded to the Rural. "Well, it seems she knowed all
the while that that there furniture warn't no good."

At last, at the architect's somewhat desperate solicitation, they all
turned their steps to the _salon_. Mr. Badgely, making pathetic
dumb-show, dragged William Folsom to the rear.

"Nerve yourself," he whispered, "nerve yourself. I'm afraid it's going
to be worse than I feared. It seems that there were actually six of
them--only one is not quite finished. The competition was very
tense--and they all arrived in my absence. Old man, hold me! I'm about
all in!"

Mr. Folsom, with appropriate concern, put his arm about his friend.
Together they braced to meet any shock. When at last they lifted their
eyes it was to stand locked in awe and admiration. Over the shoulders of
the group in front of them they could see into the _salon_. It was
furnished with a sofa and six chairs upholstered in scarlet plush. There
was also a center-table on which was spread a red plush cover. On this
table, each with a card tied with a ribbon bow and bearing the name of
its maker, stood ranged in solid splendor six golden "Everythings."

A NIGHT AMONG THE HORSES[5]

[Note 5: Copyright, 1918, by Margaret C. Anderson. Copyright, 1920,
by Djuna Barnes.]

BY DJUNA BARNES

From _The Little Review_

Toward dusk, in the summer of the year, a man dressed in a frock coat
and top hat, and carrying a cane, crept through the underbrush bordering
the corral of the Buckler farm.

As he moved small twigs snapped, fell and were silent. His knees were
green