"

For an answer I got up and began to do a polka step around the supper
table. I am sure Louisa thought the trouble had driven me mad; and I
think the children hoped it had, for they tore after me, yelling with
glee and emulating my steps. I was now something like their old
playmate as of yore.

"The theatre for us to-night!" I shouted; "nothing less. And a late,
wild, disreputable supper for all of us at the Palace Restaurant.
Lumpty-diddle-de-dee-de-dum!"

And then I explained my glee by declaring that I was now a partner in a
prosperous undertaking establishment, and that written jokes might go
hide their heads in sackcloth and ashes for all me.

With the editor's letter in her hand to justify the deed I had done, my
wife could advance no objections save a few mild ones based on the
feminine inability to appreciate a good thing such as the little back
room of Peter Hef--no, of Heffelbower & Co's. undertaking establishment.

In conclusion, I will say that to-day you will find no man in our town
as well liked, as jovial, and full of merry sayings as I. My jokes are
again noised about and quoted; once more I take pleasure in my wife's
confidential chatter without a mercenary thought, while Guy and Viola
play at my feet distributing gems of childish humor without fear of the
ghastly tormentor who used to dog their steps, notebook in hand.

Our business has prospered finely. I keep the books and look after the
shop, while Peter attends to outside matters. He says that my levity
and high spirits would simply turn any funeral into a regular Irish
wake.

THE SPARROWS IN MADISON SQUARE

The young man in straitened circumstances who comes to New York City to
enter literature has but one thing to do, provided he has studied
carefully his field in advance. He must go straight to Madison Square,
write an article about the sparrows there, and sell it to the _Sun_ for
$15.

I cannot recall either a novel or a story dealing with the popular
theme of the young writer from the provinces who comes to the
metropolis to win fame and fortune with his pen in which the hero does
not get his start that way. It does seem strange that some author, in
casting about for startlingly original plots, has not hit upon the idea
of having his hero write about the bluebirds in Union Square and sell
it to the _Herald_. But a search through the files of metropolitan
fiction counts up overwhelmingly for the sparrows and the old Gar