Philosophy he would quote from a Celebrated Poet of
Ecuador or Tasmania or some other Seaport Town. Compared with this
Verse, all of which was of the same School as the Icelandic
Masterpiece, the most obscure and clouded Passage in Robert Browning
was like a Plate-Glass Front in a State Street Candy Store just after
the Colored Boy gets through using the Chamois.

After that he became Eloquent, and began to get rid of long Boston
Words that hadn't been used before that Season. He grabbed a
rhetorical Roman Candle in each Hand and you couldn't see him for the
Sparks.

After which he sank his Voice to a Whisper and talked about the Birds
and the Flowers. Then, although there was no Cue for him to Weep, he
shed a few real Tears. And there wasn't a dry Glove in the church.

After he sat down he could tell by the Scared Look of the People in
Front that he had made a Ten-Strike.

Did they give him the Joyous Palm that Day? Sure!

The Stout Lady could not control her Feelings when she told how much
the Sermon had helped her. The venerable Harness Dealer said he wished
to indorse the Able and Scholarly Criticism of Polenta.

In fact, every one said the Sermon was Superfine and Dandy. The only
thing that worried the Congregation was the Fear that if it wished to
retain such a Whale it might have to boost his Salary.

In the Meantime the Preacher waited for some one to come and ask about
Polenta, Amebius, Ramtazuk, Quarolius and the great Icelandic Poet,
Navrojk. But no one had the Face to step up and confess his Ignorance
of these Celebrities. The Pew-Holders didn't even admit among
themselves that the Preacher had rung in some New Ones. They stood
Pat, and merely said it was an Elegant Sermon.

Perceiving that they would stand for Anything, the Preacher knew what
to do after that.

MORAL: _Give the People what they Think they want_.

THE SHADOWS ON THE WALL

By MARY E. WILKINS FREEMAN

Copyright 1903 by Doubleday, Page & Co.

"Henry had words with Edward in the study the night before Edward
died," said Caroline Glynn. She was elderly, tall, and harshly thin,
with a hard colourlessness of face. She spoke not with acrimony, but
with grave severity. Rebecca Ann Glynn, younger, stouter and rosy of
face between her crinkling puffs of gray hair, gasped, by way of
assent. She sat in a wide flounce of black silk in the corner of the
sofa, and rolled terrified eyes from her sister Caroline to her si