iter, I presume
that you have written something. Does it satisfy you; that is to say,
do you consider that it is as excellent as it need be?"

"I have done a little writing. While thinking, this week, about my
future, somehow there came to me a longing to write. I did so, and I
have been over my little sketch so many times, that I cannot see
wherein it is faulty. Therefore, I must admit, however conceited it
may sound, that I am satisfied with it."

"That is a very bad sign. When a man is satisfied with his own work he
has already reached the end of his abilities. It is only continual
dissatisfaction with our efforts, that ever makes us ambitious to
attain better things. You have said that, in your opinion, I could be
a successful writer. Then let me read and judge what you have written.
You have it with you, I suppose?"

Leon was much embarrassed. He wished that he could say no, but the
composition was in his pocket. So he drew it out and handed it to Dr.
Medjora, without saying a word. The Doctor glanced at it a moment and
then said encouragingly:

"There is a quality in this, as excellent as it is rare. Brevity."

"Ah, Doctor!" said Leon, eagerly. "That is what I have aimed at. I
have but a single idea to expound, and I have endeavored to clothe it
in as few words as possible. Or, rather, I should say, I have tried to
make every word count. Please read it with that view uppermost."

The Doctor nodded assent, and then read the little story, which was as
follows:

IMMORTALITY.

I am dead!

Have you ever experienced the odd sensation of being present
at your own funeral, as I am now?

Impossible! For you are alive!

But I? I am dead!

There lies my body, prone and stiff, uncoffined, whilst the
grave-digger, by the light of the young moon, turns the sod
which is to hide me away forever.

Or so he thinks.

Why should he, a Christian minister, stoop to dig a grave?

Why? Because minister though he be, he is, or was my master;
and my murderer.

Murderer did I say? Was it murder to kill a dog?

For only a dog I was; or may I say, I am?

I stupidly tore up one of his sermons, in sport. For this
bad, or good deed, my master, in anger, kicked me. He kicked
me, and I died.

Was that murder? Or is the word applicable only to Man, who
is immortal?

But stay! What is the test of immortality?

T