l, I need hardly tell you my Juliet was not a success. I was
conscious of tripping about the stage in an airy, elated way, which
was allowable only during the earlier scenes; but when I should have
been tragic and desperate, I was still brimming over with new found
joy. All through Juliet's grand monologue, where she swallows the
poison, ran the refrain--"Jack has come home, I am going to marry
Jack." I had an awful fear once that I mixed two names a little, and
called on Jackimo when I should have said Romeo, and when my speech
was over and I lay motionless on the bed, I gave myself up to such
delightful thoughts that Capulet or the Friar, I forget which,
bending over the couch to assure himself that I was really dead,
whispered--

"Keep quiet, you're grinning."

I was very glad when the play was over. We often read the reverse
side of the picture--of how the clown cracks jokes while his heart is
breaking; perhaps his only mother-in-law passing away without his
arms to support her. But no one has ever written of the Juliet who
goes through terror, suffering, and despair, to the tune of "Jack's
returned, I'm going to marry Jack."

THE STORY OF MR. KING.

BY DAVID CHRISTIE MURRAY.

This is the story of Mr. King,
American citizen--Phineas K.,
Whom I met in Orkhanie, far away
From freshening cocktail and genial sling.
A little man with twinkling eyes,
And a nose like a hawk's, and lips drawn thin,
And a little imperial stuck on his chin,
And about him always a cheerful grin,
Dashed with a comic and quaint surprise.

That very night a loot of wine
Made correspondents and doctors glad,
And the little man, unask'd to dine,
Sat down and shar'd in all we had.
For none said nay, this ready hand
Reach'd after pillau, and fowl, and drink,
And he toss'd off his liquor without a wink,
And wielded a knife like a warrior's brand.
With a buccaneering, swaggering look
He sang his song, and he crack'd his jest,
And he bullied the waiter and curs'd the cook
With a charming self-approving zest.

We wanted doctors: he was a doctor;
Had we wanted a prince it had been the same.
Admiral, general, cobbler, proctor--
A man may be anything. What's in a name?
The wounded were dying, the dead lay thick
In the hospital beds beside the quick.
Any man with a steady nerve
And a ready hand, who knew how to obey,
In those stern times might well deserve
His fifty piastres daily pay.

So Mr. King, as