(_a_) _Too easy acquiescence_

(_b_) _A mental attitude of contradiction_

(_c_) _Undue skepticism_

(_d_) _A dogmatic spirit_

(_e_) _Lack of firmness of mind_

(_f_) _A tendency to take extreme views_

(_g_) _Love of novelty; that is, of what is foreign, ancient,
unusual, or mysterious._

All these serious weaknesses of judgment may be discerned, in rapid
rotation, in the mind of the house-hunter. It would be only natural, we
think, if the real estate man were to tell him to go away and study Mr.
Kleiser's "How to Build Mental Power." In the meantime, the vision of
the home he had dreamed of becomes fainter and fainter in the seeker's
mind--like the air of a popular song he has heard whistled about the
streets, but does not know well enough to reproduce. How he envies the
light-hearted robins, whose house-hunting consists merely in a gay
flitting from twig to twig. Yet, even in his disturbance and nostalgia
of spirit, he comforts himself with the common consolation of his
cronies--"Oh, well, one always finds something"--and thus (in the words
of good Sir Thomas Browne) teaches his haggard and unreclaimed reason to
stoop unto the lure of Faith.

LONG ISLAND REVISITED

The anfractuosities of legal procedure having caused us to wonder
whether there really were any such place as the home we have just
bought, we thought we would go out to Salamis, L. I., and have a look at
it. Of course we knew it had been there a few weeks ago, but the title
companies do confuse one so. We had been sitting for several days in the
office of the most delightful lawyer in the world (and if we did not
fear that all the other harassed and beset creatures in these parts
would instantly rush to lay their troubles in his shrewd and friendly
bosom we would mention his name right here and do a little metrical
pirouette in his honour)--we had been sitting there, we say, watching
the proceedings, without the slightest comprehension of what was
happening. It is really quite surprising, let us add, to find how many
people are suddenly interested in some quiet, innocent-looking shebang
nestling off in a quiet dingle in the country, and how, when it is to be
sold, they all bob up from their coverts in Flushing, Brooklyn, or Long
Island City, and have to be "satisfied." What floods of papers go
crackling across the table, drawn out from those mysterious brown
cardboard wallets; what quaint little