t of that.

I rose and hurried nervously down to the shore, and, making a megaphone
of my hands, I shouted:

"Come in! It isn't safe to remain out any longer!"

Scornful laughter from the artillery answered my appeal.

"You'd better come in!" I called. "You can't tell what might happen if
any of those fish should jump."

"Mind your business!" retorted Mrs. Batt. "We've had enough of your
prevarications--"

Then, suddenly, without the faintest shadow of warning, from the centre
of the lake a vast geyser of water towered a hundred feet in the air.

For one dreadful second I saw the raft hurled skyward, balanced on the
crest of the stupendous fountain, spilling ladies, supper, guitars, and
knitting in every direction.

Then a horrible thing occurred; fish after fish shot up out of the storm
of water and foam, seizing, as they fell, ladies, luncheon, and knitting
in mid-air, falling back with a crashing shock which seemed to rock the
very mountains.

[Illustration: "Then a horrible thing occurred."]

"Help!" I screamed. And fainted dead away.

* * * * *

Is it necessary to proceed? Literature nods; Science shakes her head. No,
nothing but literature lies beyond the ripples which splashed musically
upon the shore, terminating forever the last vibration from that
immeasurable catastrophe.

Why should I go on? The newspapers of the nation have recorded the last
scenes of the tragedy.

We know that tons of dynamite are being forwarded to that solitary lake.
We know that it is the determination of the Government to rid the world
of those gigantic minnows.

And yet, somehow, it seems to me as I sit writing here in my office, amid
the verdure of Bronx Park, that the destruction of these enormous fish is
a mistake.

What more splendid sarcophagus could the ladies of the lake desire than
these huge, silvery, itinerant and living tombs?

What reward more sumptuous could anybody wish for than to rest at last
within the interior dimness of an absolutely new species of anything?

For me, such a final repose as this would represent the highest pinnacle
of sublimity, the uttermost zenith of mortal dignity.

* * * * *

So what more is there for me to say?

As for Angelica--but no matter. I hope she may be comparatively happy
with Kitten Brown. Yet, as I have said before, handsome men never last.
But she should have thought of that in time.

I absolve