teen-twenties are old in it now in the first of the fifties. It 's rather curious," the squire said, with a long sigh of satisfaction in the anomaly, "but after the arrest of Dylks, and his trial and acquittal before this court," the squire smiled, “when he came out of the tall timber, and had his scalp mended, and got into a whole. suit of Saint Peter's clothes, he did n't find the Little Flock fallen off a great deal. They were a good deal scared, and so was he. That was the worst of the lookout for Dylks-his habit of being afraid; it was about the best thing, too-kept him from playing the very devil. There's no telling how far he might have gone if he had n't been afraid-I mean, gone in personal mischief."

"Yes," the stranger assented. "And his failure in all his miracles had no effect on his followers?"

either, after the first. He was very well dressed, and looked as if he had been living on the fat of the land, somewhere among the faithful Over-the-Mountains, I reckon. Knew where the fried chickens roosted. Excuse me, Mother. She 's heard that joke before," he explained to their guest.

"I've heard it too often to mind it," Mrs. Braile mocked back.

"Well, it seems to be new to our friend here."

Mr. Manderville was laughing, but he controlled himself to ask:

"And had the fellow no progressive doctrine, no steps of belief, no logical formulation of his claims? He could n't have been merely a dunderheaded, impudent charlatan who expected to convince by the miracles he did n't do?"

"Oh, no; oh, no. I did n't mean to im

"Why, he did n't fail, according to the Little Flock; it was only the unbelievers that disbelieved in the miracles. Even those that went with him Over-the-Mountains to see the New Jerusalem come down got to having seen it as time went on, though some had their doubts when they first came back. Before they died, they 'd all seen him go up in a chariot of fire with two black horses and no driver. Nobody but those two purblind ignorant boys that tried to keep him from drowning, when he fell into the river, could be got to say that the heavenly city did n't come down and suck him up. Why, seven or eight years after he left there was a preacher who was one of his followers came back here and preached in the Dylks Templethe old Temple burned down long ago and was never rebuilt-preached the divinity of Dylks, and said there was no true. religion that did n't recognize him as God. As for Christianity, he said it was just a hotchpotch of Judaism and heathenism. He saw the Good Old Man go right up into heaven, and said he was going to come back to earth before long and set up his kingdom here. He's never done it, and that slick preacher never came back,

a cunning rascal in his way, and he had the sort of brain that has served the purpose of the impostor in all ages. He had a plan of belief, as you may call it, which he must have thought out before he came here, if he had n't begged, borrowed, or stolen it from somebody else. At first he called himself a humble teacher of Christianity, but it was n't a great while before he pretended to be Jesus Christ, who died on Calvary. That did n't satisfy him long, though. When he had convinced some that he was Christ, he began to teach that the Christ who was crucified, though he was a real Messiah, was not a perfect Messiah, because he had died and been buried, and death had had power over him just as it has over any mortal. But the real Messiah would never taste death, and he was that Messiah. Dylks would never taste death, and as the real Messiah he would be one with God, and in fact he was the one and only God. These were the steps, and the way to belief in the godhead was clear to the meanest understanding. The meaner the understanding the clearer," the squire summed up, with another tattoo on his pipe-stem. "You see," he resumed after a moment, "life is hard in a new country, and anybody that prom

ises salvation on easy terms has got a strong hold at the very start. People will accept anything from him. Somewhere, tucked away in us, is the longing to know whether we'll live again, and the hope that we 'll live happy. I've got fun out of that fact in a community where I 've had the reputation of an infidel for fifty years; but all along I 've felt it in myself. We want to be good, and we want to be safe, even if we are not good; and the first fellow that comes along and tells us to have faith in him, and he 'll make it all right, why, we have faith in him, that 's all."

"Well, then," the stranger said, holding him to the logic of the facts as he leaned toward him from his side of the fireplace and fixed him with an eager eye, "I can't see why he did n't establish his superstition in universal acceptance, as, say, Mahomet did."

"I'm glad you came to that," the squire blandly submitted. "For one thing, and the main thing, because he was a coward. He had plenty of audacity, but mighty little courage, and his courage gave out just when he needed it the most. And perhaps he had n't perfect faith in himself; he was a fool, but he was n't a crazy fool. Then, again, my idea is that the scale was too small, or the scene, or the field, or whatever you call it. The backwoods, as Leatherwood was then, was not the right starting-point for a world-wide imposture. Then, again, as I said, Dylks was timid. He was not ready to shed blood for his lie, neither other people's nor his own, and when it came to fighting for his doctrine, he was afraid; he wanted to run. And, in fact, he did run, first and last. No liar ever had such a hold on them that believed his lie; they 'd have followed him any lengths: but he had n't the heart to lead them. When Redfield and I got hold of him, after he had tasted the fear of death there that week in the tall timber, he was willing to promise anything we said. And he kept his promise; he would n't if he could have helped it, but he knew Jim Redfield would hold him to it if he squeezed his life out doing it."

The stranger was silent, but not appar

ently convinced, and meanwhile he took up another point of interest in the story which he heard from the squire.

"And whatever became of his wife and her 'true' husband?"

"Oh, they lived on together. Not very long, though. They died within a week of each other, did n't they, Mother?"

"Just a week," Mrs. Braile said, animated by the human touch in the discussion. "They lived mighty happy together, and it was as good a death as a body could want to die. It was that summer when the fever mowed the people down so. They took their little girl with them." She sighed from a source of hidden sorrow. "They all went together."

Braile took his pipe out and gulped before he could answer the stranger's next question.

"And the boy, Dylks's son, is he living?"

"Oh, yes." At the pleasant thought of the boy the squire began to smile. "He and Hingston's son took over the mill from Hingston after he got too old for it, and carried it on together. Hingston was n't one that hung on to the faith in Dylks, but he never made any fuss about giving it up. Just stayed away from the Temple that the Little Flock built for themselves."

"And is young Dylks still carrying on the milling business?"

"Who? Joey? Oh, yes. He married Benny Hingston's sister. Benny's wife died, and he lives with them."

"And there ain't a better man in the whole of Leatherwood than Joey Billings, as we always call him," Mrs. Braile put in. "He was the best boy anywhere, and he 's the best man."

"Well, it's likely to come out that way sometimes," the squire said with tender irony.

The stranger looked at his watch; he jumped to his feet.

"And you can't say," Mrs. Braile continued, with a certain note of indignation as for unjust neglect of the pair, “but what James Redfield and Jane has got along very well together."

"Oh, yes, they 've got along," the squire

asserted. "He 's got along with her, and she 's got along with the children-plenty of them. I reckon she 's what he wanted, and they 're what she did."

The stranger looked a little puzzled. "That instinct of maternity," the squire explained. "You may have noticed it in women-some of them."

"Oh! Oh, yes," Mr. Manderville assented.

"It was the best thing, or at least the strongest thing, in Jane. I don't say anything against it, Mother," he said tenderly to his wife. "Jane was a good girl, especially after she got over her faith in Dylks, and she 's a good woman. At least Jim thinks so."

Mrs. Braile contented herself as she I could with this.

"Nine o'clock! Mrs. Braile, I'm ashamed. But you must blame your husband partly. Good night, ma'am; goodWhy, look here, Squire Braile," he arrested himself in offering his hand,-"how about the obscure scene where Joe Smith founded his superstition, which bids fair to live right along with the other false religions? Was Leatherwood, Ohio, a narrower stage than Manchester, New York? And in point of time the two cults were only four years apart."

"Well, that's a thing that 's occurred to me since we 've been talking. Suppose we look into it to-morrow? Come round to breakfast-about six o'clock. One point, though: Joe Smith only claimed to be a prophet, and Dylks claimed to be a god. That made it harder maybe."

NCE upon a time there were three

ONCE

artists, a poet, a painter, and a musician. They lived in garrets, and every night they sat around a table in a small restaurant and discussed art. They had a friend who sat with them, a philistine person who worked on a newspaper; they tolerated him, for he was a good listener, and often paid for the refreshments.

One night when they met the poet seemed strangely excited. No sooner had the other three taken their places than he cried exultantly:

"To-day I wrote my masterpiece! Listen!" And drawing a paper from his pocket, he read as follows:

Upon his face was a look of great bewilderment and dawning uneasiness.

The next night, when the friends met again, the philistine seemed anxious to atone for his tactless remark of the night before. He insisted upon ordering and paying for the finest dinner the restaurant afforded, together with four bottles of the best wine. So his friends forgave him, for he was a decent sort, after all.

This time it was the painter who seemed unduly restless. Finally he laid a flat package upon the table, and spoke as follows:

"To-day I painted my masterpiece! Look!" And opening the package, he displayed a square of painted canvas. looked like this:

It

BROUILLARD

Upwards.....

And yet ever in the damp night

I hardly know.

Through wild, familiar forests

You-

And on the misty hill the curlew screams.

I, too, sometimes.

Lust and laughter-

Ah.......

Why did you never tell me?

Ah.......

Ah......

"Tremendous!" cried the painter. "My congratulations, old fellow."

"A very moving piece of work," commented the musician.

"But," said the philistine, diffidently, "it has neither rhyme, rhythm, nor sense. How can you call it poetry?"

"Who said I did?" retorted the poet. "It is a word-painting."

And the philistine was silent. Though the others sat late, talking of life and art, he said nothing.

"Remarkable!" cried the poet. "My congratulations, old fellow."

"A very interesting piece of work," commented the musician.

"But," stammered the philistine, "it is ugly as the devil, and does n't look like anything. How can you call it painting?"

"Who said I did?" retorted the painter. "It is a color-symphony."

And again the philistine was silent.

Though the others sat late, discussing art, he spoke no word.

His puzzled look had returned; he seemed to ponder some intricate problem.

On the third night the musician was late. While they waited, the philistine apologized to the poet and the painter for his lack of comprehension of their work, and again ordered the dinner and the wine. And again they forgave him. But the But the philistine, though he cheered up somewhat, still seemed a little puzzled and uneasy.

At last the musician burst into the restaurant. He was radiant, and waved a manuscript in his hand as he rushed to the table.

"I have just finished my masterpiece!" he cried. "Listen!" And going to the piano near by, he played the following:

"Superb!" cried the poet and the painter in unison. "Congratulations, old fellow."

"But," protested the philistine, "it has neither melody nor rhythm, and the harmony sounds awful. How can you call it music?"

"Who said I did?" retorted the musician. "It is a sound-poem."

The philistine seemed more puzzled than ever. "Are n't you fellows getting your trades mixed?" he murmured.

Forthwith the three arose indignantly and left him, declaring that they could waste no further time upon such a lowbrow.

Oh, Shining Shoes!

By RALPH BERGENGREN

Na

IN a democracy it is fitting that a man

polished or, to use a brighter, gayer word, shined. We are all kings, and this happy conceit of popular government is nicely symbolized by being, for these shining moments, so many kings together, each on his similar throne and with a slave at his feet. The democratic idea suffers a little from the difficulty of realizing that the slave is also a king, yet gains a little from the fair custom of the livelier monarchs to turn from left foot to right and from right to left, so that, within human limits, neither shoe shall be undemocratically shined first. Nor is it uncommon for the kings on the thrones to be symbolically and inexpensively served by yet other sovereign servants. Newspapers in hand, they receive the reports of their high lord chancellors, digest the social gossip of their realm, review its crimes, politics, discoveries, and inventions, and are entertained by their jesters, who, I have it on the authority of a current advertisement, all democratically smoke the same kind of tobacco. "You know 'em all, the great fun-makers of the daily press, agile-brained and nimblewitted, creators of world-famed characters who put laughter into life. Such live, virile humans as they must have a live, virile pipe-smoke." There are, to be sure, some who find in this agile-brained and nimble-witted mirth an element of profound melancholy; it seems often a debased coin of humor that rings false on the counter of intelligence; yet at its worse it is far better than many of the waggeries that once stirred laughter in medieval monarchs. The thought renders then bearable, these live, virile humans, that only a few centuries ago would have been too handicapped by their refinement to compete successfully with contemporary humorists.

But there are a good many of us, possessors of patience, self-control, and a sponge in a bottle, who rarely enjoy this