's collection
of flies is n't about as significant in the Order of Things as his own
Museum of Beetles?

--I couldn't help thinking that perhaps That Boy's questions about the
simpler mysteries of life might have a good deal of the same kind of
significance as the Master's inquiries into the Order of Things.

--On my left, beyond my next neighbor the Scarabee, at the end of the
table, sits a person of whom we know little, except that he carries
about him more palpable reminiscences of tobacco and the allied sources
of comfort than a very sensitive organization might find acceptable.
The Master does not seem to like him much, for some reason or
other,--perhaps he has a special aversion to the odor of tobacco. As
his forefinger shows a little too distinctly that he uses a pen, I shall
compliment him by calling him the Man of Letters, until I find out more
about him.

--The Young Girl who sits on my right, next beyond the Master, can
hardly be more than nineteen or twenty years old. I wish I could paint
her so as to interest others as much as she does me. But she has not a
profusion of sunny tresses wreathing a neck of alabaster, and a cheek
where the rose and the lily are trying to settle their old quarrel with
alternating victory. Her hair is brown, her cheek is delicately pallid,
her forehead is too ample for a ball-room beauty's. A single faint line
between the eyebrows is the record of long--continued anxious efforts to
please in the task she has chosen, or rather which has been forced upon
her. It is the same line of anxious and conscientious effort which I saw
not long since on the forehead of one of the sweetest and truest singers
who has visited us; the same which is so striking on the masks of
singing women painted upon the facade of our Great Organ,--that
Himalayan home of harmony which you are to see and then die, if you
don't live where you can see and hear it often. Many deaths have
happened in a neighboring large city from that well-known complaint,
Icterus Invidiosorum, after returning from a visit to the Music Hall.
The invariable symptom of a fatal attack is the Risus Sardonicus.--But
the Young Girl. She gets her living by writing stories for a newspaper.
Every week she furnishes a new story. If her head aches or her heart
is heavy, so that she does not come to time with her story, she falls
behindhand and has to live on credit. It sounds well enough to say
that "she supports herself by her pen," but h