s gone.

"Gee! I believe I've been asleep," said Miss Colby "Wonder what
became of the White Wings!"

THE TALE OF A TAINTED TENNER

Money talks. But you may think that the conversation of a little old
ten-dollar bill in New York would be nothing more than a whisper.
Oh, very well! Pass up this _sotto voce_ autobiography of an X if
you like. If you are one of the kind that prefers to listen to John
D's checkbook roar at you through a megaphone as it passes by, all
right. But don't forget that small change can say a word to the
point now and then. The next time you tip your grocer's clerk a
silver quarter to give you extra weight of his boss's goods read the
four words above the lady's head. How are they for repartee?

I am a ten-dollar Treasury note, series of 1901. You may have seen
one in a friend's hand. On my face, in the centre, is a picture of
the bison Americanus, miscalled a buffalo by fifty or sixty millions
of Americans. The heads of Capt. Lewis and Capt. Clark adorn the
ends. On my back is the graceful figure of Liberty or Ceres or
Maxine Elliot standing in the centre of the stage on a conservatory
plant. My references is--or are--Section 3,588, Revised Statutes.
Ten cold, hard dollars--I don't say whether silver, gold, lead or
iron--Uncle Sam will hand you over his counter if you want to cash
me in.

I beg you will excuse any conversational breaks that I make--thanks,
I knew you would--got that sneaking little respect and agreeable
feeling toward even an X, haven't you? You see, a tainted bill
doesn't have much chance to acquire a correct form of expression. I
never knew a really cultured and educated person that could afford
to hold a ten-spot any longer than it would take to do an Arthur
Duffy to the nearest That's All! sign or delicatessen store.

For a six-year-old, I've had a lively and gorgeous circulation. I
guess I've paid as many debts as the man who dies. I've been owned
by a good many kinds of people. But a little old ragged, damp, dingy
five-dollar silver certificate gave me a jar one day. I was next to
it in the fat and bad-smelling purse of a butcher.

"Hey, you Sitting Bull," says I, "don't scrouge so. Anyhow, don't
you think it's about time you went in on a customs payment and got
reissued? For a series of 1899 you're a sight."

"Oh, don't get crackly just because you're a Buffalo bill," says
the fiver. "You'd be limp, too, if you'd been stuffed down in a
thick cotton-and-li