stery begins much nearer. There is
no disenchanting bird's-eye view of the counter with all things thereon.
There are alluring glimpses of piled-up wealth.

There particularly is the land of the heart's desire in a square
glass-covered case. There are many beautiful things in the store to be
admired from below; but one supremely beautiful and delectable object is
the crowning glory of the place.

The artist who spends his life in attempting to minister to dull adult
sensibilities never created a masterpiece that gave such pure delight as
the candy dog which my Philosopher spies.

"See the dog!" It is, indeed, a miracle of impressionist art. It is not
like the dogs that bite. It offers itself alluringly to the biter,--or
rather to one who would leisurely absorb it. Even now there is a
vagueness of outline that suggests the still vaguer outlines it will
have when it comes into the possession of a person of taste.

This treasure can be procured for one copper cent. My Philosopher feels
that it is a wise investment, and I thoroughly agree with him. However
much the necessaries of life may have advanced in price, the prime
luxuries are still within the reach of all. We still have much to be
thankful for when with one cent we can purchase a perfect bliss.

It is all so interesting and satisfactory that we feel that the visit to
the grocer's has been a great success. It is only when we are halfway
home that we remember the yeastcake.

Sometimes my Philosopher insists upon my telling him a story. Then I am
conscious of my awkwardness. It is as if my imagination were an old
work-horse suddenly released from its accustomed tip-cart and handed
over to a gay young knight who is setting forth in quest of dragons. It
is blind of both eyes, and cannot see a dragon any more, and only
shies, now and then, when it comes to a place where it saw one long ago.
There is an element of insincerity in these occasional frights which
does not escape the clear-eyed critic. It gets scared at the wrong
times, and forgets to prance when prancing is absolutely demanded by the
situation.

When my Philosopher tells a story, it is all that a story ought to be.
There is no labored introduction, no tiresome analysis. It is pure
story, "of imagination all compact." Things happen with no long waits
between the scenes. Everything is instantly moulded to the heart's
desire.

"Once upon a time there was a little boy. And he wanted to be a
cock-a-doo