ins that to-morrow will be Sunday: so it
will, he is right, too. The fact is, we are all right, and thus _three
Sundays have come together in a week_."

_Smitherton_ (_after a pause_). "By the bye, Pratt, Kate has us
completely. What fools we two are! Mr. Rumgudgeon, the matter stands
thus: the earth, you know, is twenty-four thousand miles in
circumference. Now this globe turns upon its own axis--revolves--spins
around--these twenty-four thousand miles of extent, going from west to
east, in precisely twenty-four hours. Do you understand, Mr.
Rumgudgeon?"

_Uncle._ "To be sure--to be sure. Doctor Dub--"

_Smitherton_ (_drowning his voice_). "Well sir, that is at the rate of
one thousand miles per hour. Now, suppose that I sail from this position
a thousand miles east. Of course I anticipate the rising of the sun here
at London by just one hour. I see the sun rise one hour before you do.
Proceeding, in the same direction, yet another thousand miles, I
anticipate the rising by two hours--another thousand, and I anticipate
it by three hours, and so on, until I go entirely round the globe, and
back to this spot, when having gone twenty-four thousand miles east, I
anticipate the rising of the London sun by no less than twenty-four
hours; that is to say, I am a day _in advance_ of your time. Understand,
eh?"

_Uncle._ "But Dubble L. Dee--"

_Smitherton_ (_speaking very loud_). "Captain Pratt, on the contrary,
when he had sailed a thousand miles west of this position, was an hour,
and when he had sailed twenty-four thousand miles west was twenty-four
hours, or one day, _behind_ the time at London. Thus, with me, yesterday
was Sunday--thus with you, to-day is Sunday--and thus with Pratt,
to-morrow will be Sunday. And what is more, Mr. Rumgudgeon, it is
positively clear that that we are _all right_; for there can be no
philosophical reason assigned why the idea of one of us should have
preference over that of the other."

_Uncle._ "My eyes!--well, Kate--well Bobby!--this _is_ a judgment upon
me as you say. But I am a man of my word--_mark that_! You shall have
her, my boy (plum and all), when you please. Done up, by Jove! Three
Sundays in a row! I'll go and take Dubble L. Dee's opinion upon _that_."

FOOTNOTES:

[456-1] A poet is born, not made.

THE MODERN BELLE

_By_ STARK

She sits in a fashionable parlor,
And rocks in her easy chair;
She is clad in silks and satins,
And jewels a