To where the roads on either hand
Lead onward into fairy land,
Where all the children dine at five,
And all playthings come alive.

Mr. Dooley on Lawyers

BY PETER F. DUNNE.

'YE raymimber Grogan? He was me lawyer in thim days. Whin I had wrongs that I didn't propose to have trampled on, I took thim to Grogan an' Grogan presinted thim to th' coort. Dear me, but 'twas a threet to see an' hear him. He'd been a pedlar in his youth an' ye cud hear his voice as far as th' Indyanny State line. Whin he talked to th' judge ye'd think he was hollerin' insthructions to a ship-wrecked sailor against th' wind. I can see him now as he knelt on th' flure an' called Heaven to witness th' justice iv his cause, or stalked acrost th' room to where me opponent sat an' hissed in his ear, 'Polthroon.' Whin he spoke iv th' other lawyer as 'me larned brother' he done it in such a way that ye expected th' other lawyer to reach f'r a gun.

"An' it wasn't all talkin' ayether. 'Twas th' hardest kind iv exercise. His arms were always in motion. He wud bate th' table with his fist till th' coort house thrembled. He wud shake his head till ye'd think he'd shake it off. If he was th' lawyer in a case of assault an' batthry he'd punch himself in th' jaw an' fall over a chair to show th' jury how it happened. If 'twas a murdher thrile he'd pretind to shoot himself through th' heart an' sink to th' ground dead with his head in a waste-paper basket an' his foot in a juryman's lap. If 'twas a breach iv promise suit he'd kneel on th' flure in front iv a juryman that looked soft an' beg him to be his. There was no kind iv acrobat that ye iver see in a circus that cud give annything to Grogan. An' whin' he'd filled th' air with beautiful language an' baten th' coort room furniture

into slivers, he'd sink down in his chair overcome be his emotions, with th' tears pourin' fr'm his eyes, an' give ye th' wink fr'm behind his han'kerchief.

"He was th' gr'reat man, an' whin th' likes iv him were alive 'twas some fun goin' to law. But now, mind ye, if ye consult a lawyer he receives ye in his office, looks out iv th' window while ye'er tellin' the' story iv th' crool wrong done ye be ye'er neighbor, taps his nose with his eyeglasses an' says: 'Ye have a perfectly good case. I advise ye to do nawthin'. Ninety-four dollars, please. Oh, if ye insist on thryin' th' case, I'll sind the office boy over with ye. He always riprisints. th' firm in coort.

"What wud I be doin' in a smelly coort room; talkin' up to a man that was me chief clerk last year?' says he. 'No, sir, th' law is a diff'rent profissyon fr'm what it was whin Dan'l Webster an' Rufus Choate an' thim gas bags used to make a mighty poor livin be shoutin' at judges that made less. Th' law to-day is not only a profissyon. It's a business. I made a bigger honoraryum last year consolidatin' th' glue inthrests that aftherwards wint into th' hands iv a receiver, which is me, thin Dan'l Webster iver thought was in th' goold mines iv th' wurruld. I can't promise to take a case f'r ye an' hoot me reasons f'r thinkin' ye'er right into th' ears iv a larned judge. I'm a poor speaker. But if iver ye want to do something that ye think ye oughtn't to do, come around to me an' I'll show ye how to do it,'" says he.

Zetto, the Story of a Life

BY WILLIAM J. LONG.

[This extract is printed by special permission. Copyright 1899 by the Outlook Company. Arrangement by Katherine M. Perry.]

O you want a guide, Signore?"

"What is your name?" I asked.
"Zetto, Signore, at your service."

I stopped to look at him, curiously. This was no ordinary guide, such as one might see at any time in Rome, but a boy of the streets clearly; and therefore dirty and disreputable, but with a face that might have descended straight from Ceurtius.

"Listen, Zetto, I don't want a guide, but I do want somebody to talk Italian with, when I am inclined.. I'll give you a franc and a dinner of macaroni to stay with me the rest of the afternoon. Is it a bargain?" "Yes, Signore, it is a bargain."

That was the beginning of our acquaintance. Afterwards we went out several times together and I found him useful, though I could never depend upon him. Gradually I grew to like the boy, and became thoroughly interested in him. I was kind to him, and he seemed to like me after a time.

Late one afternoon I was on my way home from beyond the Tiber, when I stopped at the historic island to "nose" round a minute for anything of interest. Zetto appeared suddenly, surprising me not a little; for I had seen him with some companions miles away earlier in the afternoon. They had all dodged into an alley before I could speak with him. He was unusually quiet that afternoon, I remember. Generally he was bright and chatty.

On the bank of the river I stopped suddenly. "By the way, Zetto, the old Romans made bulwarks all around that island to protect themselves from the floods. Have you seen a bit of smooth wall there?"

Zetto thought a moment; then he glanced past me and his face lightened.

"I don't know, Signore, but there are two gentlemen yonder. Perhaps they live here and can tell us."

I approached and asked the same question. They sprang from the wall, hats in hand, all politeness on the instant. A rapid conversation ensued. They drew close about me, offering their service, pointing out where I could find the thing I wanted. With Zetto they were apparently perfect strangers. Even yet I can only admire the artistic way in which the thing was done.

Fifty feet away a curious conviction struck me without any warning whatever. "Those beggars have picked my pockets," I said to myself suddenly. I slipped my hand into an inside coat pocket where I kept my money. It was gone!

Like a flash the thought came, "If I turn suddenly they will know I have missed things."

I took out my note-book and began to write, turning gradually as if for more light. They were moving off slowly. I wrote on. They moved further and further away, looking back at me slyly. When they thought I had forgotten them, they turned and walked rapidly, their three heads close together, examining the booty. Then I made a dash, running swiftly on my toes.

I

I was almost upon them when Zetto turned. heard a name yelled, probably a rendezvous, then they vanished into three different alleys among hundreds of poor people coming from work. One might as well have chased three cats in an alley with hope of catching them.

I went home slowly, half humorous, half sad. The loss was trifling, but Zetto!

That night was wild and stormy until ten, when the clouds broke and the moon came out. The desire swept over me to see the Colosseum by moonlight, and alone.

At eleven I was there, on a broken column, drinking in the wonder of it. By daylight the ruin is stupendous, impressive beyond words; by night it is mar

vellous, wonderful. And I see it alone at last, flooded by moonlight. Its vastness overpowers me.

Before me stretch the sands on which so many thousands have poured out their lives; gladiators in the fierce lust of blood; captives in the fiercer lust for freedom; Christian martyrs, women, little children, with the charging roar of lions in their ears. I see them marching, their faces lifted, an endless throng. Over all hangs the moon, clear, still, impassive-that saw it all.

The place is full of creeping shadows. Down in the dens there, under that broken arch, is a tiger, the moonlight striping his skin with dark bands. Out there lies a broken pillar, like a man dying, his knees drawn up. A cricket chirps, the cue owls cry; a roosting crow croaks in his sleep. The sounds are magnified in the intense stillness of the great tunneled corridors. I hear the beasts growling in their dens. How many good men and women, whose only crime was their belief in God, have heard that same hungry, awful growling beneath their feet, here in this very spot, and shuddered in horror!

Up there where the seats were, are shadows too. I shall go up presently. Now I like to sit here alone, filling the place with life again. See how the poplar tops outside take strange shapes through the open arches! There is one over the Podium, swaying back and forth, with an Emperor's crown. He is sated with flattery for his entertainment, sleepy with the sight of blood. And there are two others in the second tier, grasping at a captive who is trying to escape. It is far away; but there is a murmur, as of wind in the poplars. Look! The two sway more violently. Something flashes-my God!

I sprang to my feet, hurling off the illusions. That was no cricket, but a human shriek that came ringing along the dark corridors. Another! I gripped my heavy stick and dashed across the arena.

There was a scurry of feet in the dark as I reached the steep incline that led up to the second tier over a great arch still unbroken. Somehow I scrambled up. It was inky black in the crumbling tunnel. A groan above guided me. I groped till a beam of moonlight