ir childish bonnets.

And there came a knock at my door.

"Eight o'clock!" said One. "Arise!"

"Nay," I answered; "it cannot be."

"But the water is hot within the can, and the table will be spread for
them that break their fast."

"So be it. I rise." And behold it was a dream!

CHAPTER III.

Far away the mother of the little nigger stood churning. Where is
the mother of the little black nigger? She is churning slowly in the
garden. But cannot the aunt of the good gardener churn herself? No;
for she is in the orchard, plucking the apples, peaches, apricots,
pears (_Birnen_), to give to the butler's grandmother.

And there came Life and The Ideal walking hand in hand. And behind
them came Wealth and Vastness singing together. And Infinity was
there, and Health, and Wisdom, and Love. And Reflection was mounted
on a steed with Joy. And many other shapes followed, delicately
arrayed in fine linen. And helmet-wearing Men in Blue marshalled the
procession. And they spake roughly, saying, "Pass away there, pass
away there!"

And I said, "Is this the Lord Mayor's Show?"

And One said, "No."

And I said, "Is it the Salvation Army?"

And again One said, "No."

And I said, "Is it SEQUAH?"

And One said again. "No."

And I said, "I have guessed enough."

And One said, "Yes."

But The Real was not there, and they passed away.

And One said, "I am Wealth," which was absurd, but No-one laughed. And
they all danced a fandango on the points of their toes. And a shaft of
light lay over them. And they wandered on. At last they came to a bad,
wicked naughty, brimstone place. And I said to Some-one, "I like this.
It seems a good place." And still No-one laughed. And Wealth touched
me, and I was glad. And I said, "Give me millions, or buy a box of
matches," and Law seized me and took me to the Cell. Then I said to
the Beak, "Your Worship." And the Beak said unto me, "Begging again.
Forty shillings." And again I woke. And it was all a striving and a
striving and an ending in Nothing.

THE END.

* * * * *

TO MLLE. JANE MAY.

"Au clair de la lune,
Mon ami PIERROT,
Prete-moi ta plume
Pour ecrire un mot."

_Prete-moi ta plume!_ Could wit borrow a feather
From Cupid's own pinion, 'tis doubtfullish whether
A "_mot_" might be made which should happily hit
The "gold" of desert; and Love, aided by Wit,
Though equal to eloquent passion's fine glow,
Might both be st