he Big City large and sudden things happen. You round a corner
and thrust the rib of your umbrella into the eye of your old friend
from Kootenai Falls. You stroll out to pluck a Sweet William in
the park--and lo! bandits attack you--you are ambulanced to the
hospital--you marry your nurse; are divorced--get squeezed while
short on U. P. S. and D. O. W. N. S.--stand in the bread line--marry
an heiress, take out your laundry and pay your club dues--seemingly
all in the wink of an eye. You travel the streets, and a finger
beckons to you, a handkerchief is dropped for you, a brick is dropped
upon you, the elevator cable or your bank breaks, a table d'hote or
your wife disagrees with you, and Fate tosses you about like cork
crumbs in wine opened by an un-feed waiter. The City is a sprightly
youngster, and you are red paint upon its toy, and you get licked
off.

John Hopkins sat, after a compressed dinner, in his glove-fitting
straight-front flat. He sat upon a hornblende couch and gazed, with
satiated eyes, at Art Brought Home to the People in the shape of "The
Storm" tacked against the wall. Mrs. Hopkins discoursed droningly
of the dinner smells from the flat across the hall. The flea-bitten
terrier gave Hopkins a look of disgust, and showed a man-hating
tooth.

Here was neither poverty, love, nor war; but upon such barren stems
may be grafted those essentials of a complete life.

John Hopkins sought to inject a few raisins of conversation into
the tasteless dough of existence. "Putting a new elevator in at the
office," he said, discarding the nominative noun, "and the boss has
turned out his whiskers."

"You don't mean it!" commented Mrs. Hopkins.

"Mr. Whipples," continued John, "wore his new spring suit down
to-day. I liked it fine It's a gray with--" He stopped, suddenly
stricken by a need that made itself known to him. "I believe I'll
walk down to the corner and get a five-cent cigar," he concluded.

John Hopkins took his hat and picked his way down the musty halls and
stairs of the flat-house.

The evening air was mild, and the streets shrill with the careless
cries of children playing games controlled by mysterious rhythms and
phrases. Their elders held the doorways and steps with leisurely
pipe and gossip. Paradoxically, the fire-escapes supported lovers in
couples who made no attempt to fly the mounting conflagration they
were there to fan.

The corner cigar store aimed at by John Hopkins was kept by a m