son that she had not enclosed them
in quotation marks according to her habit when storing up treasures
gathered from other people. Stedman was not able to determine the
authorship for me, as the verses were new to him, but the authorship has
now been traced. The verses were written by William Wilfred Campbell, a
Canadian poet, and they form a part of the contents of his book called
"Beyond the Hills of Dream."

The authorship of the beautiful lines which my wife and I inscribed upon
Susy's gravestone was untraceable for a time. We had found them in a
book in India, but had lost the book and with it the author's name. But
in time an application to the editor of "Notes and Queries" furnished me
the author's name,[7] and it has been added to the verses upon the
gravestone.

Last night, at a dinner-party where I was present, Mr. Peter Dunne
Dooley handed to the host several dollars, in satisfaction of a lost
bet. I seemed to see an opportunity to better my condition, and I
invited Dooley, apparently disinterestedly, to come to my house Friday
and play billiards. He accepted, and I judge that there is going to be a
deficit in the Dooley treasury as a result. In great qualities of the
heart and brain, Dooley is gifted beyond all propriety. He is brilliant;
he is an expert with his pen, and he easily stands at the head of all
the satirists of this generation--but he is going to walk in darkness
Friday afternoon. It will be a fraternal kindness to teach him that with
all his light and culture, he does not know all the valuable things; and
it will also be a fraternal kindness to him to complete his education
for him--and I shall do this on Friday, and send him home in that
perfected condition.

I possess a billiard secret which can be valuable to the Dooley sept,
after I shall have conferred it upon Dooley--for a consideration. It is
a discovery which I made by accident, thirty-eight years ago, in my
father-in-law's house in Elmira. There was a scarred and battered and
ancient billiard-table in the garret, and along with it a peck of
checked and chipped balls, and a rackful of crooked and headless cues. I
played solitaire up there every day with that difficult outfit. The
table was not level, but slanted sharply to the southeast; there wasn't
a ball that was round, or would complete the journey you started it on,
but would always get tired and stop half-way and settle, with a jolty
wabble, to a standstill on its chipped side.