ped against the oiled natural-wood rafters--it was a modern
church--ricochetted over the memorial windows, clung lovingly to the new
$200 chandelier, floated along the ridgepole, patted the bald-headed
deacons fondly, and finally died away in a bunch of contribution boxes
in the corner.

Then the minister preached.

* * * * *

A Chicago man who has recently returned from Europe was asked by a
friend what he thought of Rome.

"Well," he replied, "Rome is a fair-sized town, but I couldn't help but
think when I was there that she had seen her best days."

MARK TWAIN

THE NOTORIOUS JUMPING FROG OF CALAVERAS COUNTY[B]

In compliance with the request of a friend of mine, who wrote me from
the East, I called on good-natured, garrulous old Simon Wheeler, and
inquired after my friend's friend, Leonidas W. Smiley, as requested to
do, and I hereunto append the result. I have a lurking suspicion that
Leonidas W. Smiley is a myth; that my friend never knew such a
personage; and that he only conjectured that if I asked old Wheeler
about him, it would remind him of his infamous Jim Smiley, and he would
go to work and bore me to death with some exasperating reminiscence of
him as long and as tedious as it should be useless to me. If that was
the design, it succeeded.

[Footnote B: By permission of the American Publishing Company.]

I found Simon Wheeler dozing comfortably by the barroom stove of the
dilapidated tavern in the decayed mining camp of Angel's, and I noticed
that he was fat and bald-headed, and had an expression of winning
gentleness and simplicity upon his tranquil countenance. He roused up,
and gave me good day. I told him a friend of mine had commissioned me to
make some inquiries about a cherished companion of his boyhood named
_Leonidas W_. Smiley--_Reverend Leonidas W._ Smiley, a young minister of
the Gospel, who he had heard was at one time a resident of Angel's Camp.
I added that if Mr. Wheeler could tell me anything about this Reverend
Leonidas W. Smiley I would feel under many obligations to him.

Simon Wheeler backed me into a corner and blockaded me there with his
chair, and then sat down and reeled off the monotonous narrative which
follows this paragraph. He never smiled, he never frowned, he never
changed his voice from the gentle-flowing key to which he tuned his
initial sentence, he never betrayed the slightest suspicion of
enthusiasm; but all through the i