-to-do and contented with itself. The later
realistic studies of life in its lowest forms were the offspring of the
scientific spirit. And the latest reaction to the novel of adventure,
with its emphasis on daring and virility, is connected with the
remarkable revival of imperialism. But while fiction is specifically
the most transient of forms, generically it is the most permanent.
Therefore, our young Man of Letters must write a novel. That is what
the public wants."

"Yes," cried the Publisher, "a novel of adventure in Cromwell's time.
That period is up, just now, and has not been worked out."

"A novel of purpose," said the Critic; "that is the highest type of
fiction."

"A novel of character," said the Cynic. "A change in fashion is due.
Take the President of a Trust for your hero, and make him repent under
the pressure of the Social Boycott. The public loves surprises."

"Why not write the Great American Novel?" said the Doctor of Divinity.
"I have heard several demands for it."

"A good love story," said the Man of Business, "or perhaps a detective
story, would be the best thing to sell."

"The one point on which your friends seem agreed," said the True Story
Teller, with a smile, "is that the public gives you an order for a
novel."

"Well, you know, I have written one already," answered the young Man of
Letters, very quietly.

"Why didn't you tell us?" chorused the others. "Why haven't you
published it?"

He hesitated a moment before answering: "It did not seem to me good
enough."

"My young friend," said the Publisher, with his most impressive and
benevolent air, "we have your welfare at heart. You may write essays
and stories and poems as a recreation, or for some future age. But this
is the day of the novel, and you are wasting your chance unless you
publish one as soon as possible. Touch your novel up, or give it to me
as it is. You will certainly make a big thing out of it."

"Perhaps," said the young Man of Letters, thoughtfully; "but what if I
would rather write the things that please me most, and try to do good
work?"

My Uncle Peter looked at him half-quizzically, yet with a smile of
benevolent approval, and conferred upon him the honour and reward of
escorting the True Story Teller home in his canoe that evening, across
the swirling river, where the molten gold of sunset ran slowly to the
sea.

SOME REMARKS ON GULLS

WITH A FOOT-NOTE ON A FISH

I

CITY GULLS

The