abundance, and she wanted to help. She never wanted help for herself. fight to get a new rig on her; but She never wore a jewel and had Clothes meant little to her. It was a eventually a harder fight to get it off. no ring but her High School class ring, and never asked for anything but a wrist watch. She refused to have her hair up; though she was nearly seventeen. "Mother," she protested, "you don't know how much I get by with, in my braided pigtails, that I could not with my hair up." Above every other passion of her life was her passion not to grow up, to be a child. The tomboy in her, which was big, seemed to loathe to be put away forever in skirts. She was a Peter Pan, who refused to grow up. Her funeral yestcrday at the Congregational Church was as she would have wished it; no singing, no flowers save the big bunch of red roses from her Brother Bill's Harvard classmen-Heavens, how proud that would have made her! and the red roses from the Gazette force-in vases at her head and feet. A short prayer, Paul's beautiful essay on "Love" from the Thirteenth Chapter of First Corinthians, some remarks about her democratic spirit by her friend, John H. J. Rice, pastor and police judge, which she would have deprecated if she could, a prayer sent down for her by her friend, Carl Nau, and opening the service the slow, poignant movement from Beethoven's Moonlight Sonata, which she loved, and closing the service a cutting from a joyously melancholy first movement of Tschaikowski's Pathetic Symphony, which she liked to hear in certain moods on the phonograph; then the Lord's Prayer by her friends in the High School. That was all. For her pall-bearers only her friends were chosen: her Latin teacher, W. L. Holtz; her High School principal, Rice Brown; her doctor, Frank Foncannon; her friend, W. W. Finney; her pal at the Gazette office, Walter Hughes; and her brother Bill. It would have made her smile to know that her friend, Charley O'Brien, the traffic cop, had been transferred from Sixth and Commercial to the corner near the church to direct her friends who came to bid her good-bye. A rift in the clouds in a gray day threw a shaft of sunlight upon her coffin as her nervous, energetic little body sank to its last sleep. But the soul of her, the glowing, gorgeous, fervent soul of her, surely was flaming in eager joy upon some other dawn. EDWIN ARLINGTON ROBINSON Old King Cole IN Tilbury Town did Old King Cole No crown annoyed his honest head, No fiddlers three were called or needed; For two disastrous heirs instead Made music more than ever three did. Bereft of her with whom his life Alexis, in his early youth, Began to steal-from old and young. Likewise Evander, and the truth Was like a bad taste on his tongue. Born thieves and liars, their affair Seemed only to be tarred with evilThe most insufferable pair Of scamps that ever cheered the devil. The world went on, their fame went on, And having learned again whereby But never told what kind of good Was in Alexis and Evander. STEPHEN LEACOCK My Financial Career WHEN I go into a bank I get rattled. The clerks rattle me; the wickets rattle me;. the sight of the money rattles me; everything rattles me. The moment I cross the threshold of a bank and attempt to transact business there, I become an irresponsible idiot. I knew this beforehand, but my salary had been raised to fifty dollars a month and I felt that the bank was the only place for it. So I shambled in and looked timidly round at the clerks. I had an idea that a person about to open an account must needs consult the manager. I went up to a wicket marked "Accountant." The accountant was a tall, cool devil. The very sight of him rattled me. My voice was sepulchral. "Can I see the manager?" I said, and added solemnly, "alone." I don't know why I said "alone." "Certainly," said the accountant, and fetched him. The manager was a grave, calm man. I held my fifty-six dollars clutched in a crumpled ball in my pocket. "Are you the manager?" I said. God knows I didn't doubt it. "Yes," he said. "Can I see you," I asked, "alone?" I didn't want to say "alone" again, but without it the thing seemed self-evident. The manager looked at me in some alarm. He felt that I had an awful secret to reveal. "Come in here," he said, and led the way to a private room. He turned the key in the lock. "We are safe from interruption here," he said; "sit down." We both sat down and looked at each other. I found no voice to speak. "You are one of Pinkerton's men, I presume," he said. He had gathered from my mysterious manner that I was a detective. I knew what he was thinking, and it made me worse. "No, not from Pinkerton's," I said, seeming to imply that I came from a rival agency. "To tell the truth," I went on, as if I had been prompted to lie about it, "I am not a detective at all. I have come to open an account. I intend to keep all my money in this bank." The manager looked relieved but still serious; he concluded now that I was a son of Baron Rothschild or a young Gould. "A large account, I suppose," he said. "Fairly large," I whispered. "I propose to deposit fifty-six dollars now and fifty dollars a month regularly." The manager got up and opened the door. countant. He called to the ac "Mr. Montgomery," he said unkindly loud, "this gentleman is opening an account, he will deposit fifty-six dollars. Good morning." I rose. A big iron door stood open at the side of the room. "Good morning," I said, and stepped into the safe. "Come out," said the manager coldly, and showed me the other way. I went up to the accountant's wicket and poked the ball of money at him with a quick convulsive movement as if I were doing a conjuring trick. My face was ghastly pale. "Here," I said, "deposit it." The tone of the words seemed to mean, "Let us do this painful thing while the fit is on us." He took the money and gave it to another clerk. He made me write the sum on a slip and sign my name in a book. I no longer knew what I was doing. The bank swam before my eyes. "Is it deposited?" I asked in a hollow, vibrating voice. "It is," said the accountant. "Then I want to draw a cheque." Some one My idea was to draw out six dollars of it for present use. gave me a cheque-book through a wicket and some one else began telling me how to write it out. The people in the bank had the impression that I was an invalid millionaire. I wrote something on the cheque and thrust it in at the clerk. He looked at it. "What! Are you drawing it all out again?" he asked in surprise. Then I realized that I had written fifty-six instead of six. I was too far gone to reason now. I had a feeling that it was impossible to explain the thing. All the clerks had stopped writing to look at me. Reckless with misery, I made a plunge. "Yes, the whole thing." "You withdraw your money from the bank?" "Every cent of it." "Are you not going to deposit any more?" said the clerk, astonished. "Never." An idiot hope struck me that they might think something had insulted me while I was writing the cheque and that I had changed my mind. I made a wretched attempt to look like a man with a fearfully quick temper. The clerk prepared to pay the money. "How will you have it?" he said. "What?" "How will you have it?" "Oh"-I caught his meaning and answered without even trying to think-"in fifties." He gave me a fifty-dollar bill. He gave it me and I rushed out. As the big door swung behind me I caught the echo of a roar of laughter that went up to the ceiling of the bank. Since then I bank no more. I keep my money in cash in my trousers pocket and my savings in silver dollars in a sock. Madeline of the Movies A Photoplay Done Back into the Words (EXPLANATORY NOTE.-In writing this I ought to explain that I am a tottering old man of forty-six. I was born too soon to understand moving pictures. They go too fast. I can't keep up. In my young days we used a magic lantern. It showed Robinson Crusoe in six scenes. It took all evening to show them. When it was done the hall was filled with black smoke and the audience quite unstrung with excitement. What I set down here represents my thoughts as I sit in front of a moving picture photoplay and interpret it as best I can.) FLICK, flick, flick . . . I guess it must be going to begin now, but it's queer the people don't stop talking: how can they expect to hear the pictures if they go on talking? Now it's off. PASSED BY THE BOARD OF Ah, this looks interesting-passed by the board of-wait till I adjust my spectacles and read what it It's gone. Never mind, here's something else, let me see-CAST OF CHARACTERS-Oh, yes-let's see who they are-MADELINE MEADOWLARK, a young something-EDWARD DANGERFIELD, a—a what? Ah, yes, a roo—at least, it's spelt r-o-u-e, that must be roo all right—But |