the
united lovers, backgrounded by defeated villainy and derogated by the
comic, osculating maid and butler, thrown in as a sop to the Cerberi
of the fifty-cent seats.

But our programme ends with a brief "turn" or two; and then to the
exits. Whoever sits the show out may find, if he will, the slender
thread that binds together, though ever so slightly, the story that,
perhaps, only the Walrus will understand.

_Extracts from a letter from the first vice-president of the Republic
Insurance Company, of New York City, to Frank Goodwin, of Coralio,
Republic of Anchuria._

My Dear Mr. Goodwin:--Your communication per Messrs.
Howland and Fourchet, of New Orleans, has reached us. Also
their draft on N. Y. for $100,000, the amount abstracted
from the funds of this company by the late J. Churchill
Wahrfield, its former president. . . . The officers
and directors unite in requesting me to express to you
their sincere esteem and thanks for your prompt and much
appreciated return of the entire missing sum within two
weeks from the time of its disappearance. . . . Can assure
you that the matter will not be allowed to receive the
least publicity. . . . Regret exceedingly the distressing
death of Mr. Wahrfield by his own hand, but . . .
Congratulations on your marriage to Miss Wahrfield . . .
many charms, winning manners, noble and womanly nature and
envied position in the best metropolitan society. . . .

Cordially yours,

LUCIUS E. APPLEGATE,
First Vice-President the Republic Insurance Company.

The Vitagraphoscope
(Moving Pictures)

The Last Sausage

SCENE--_An Artist's Studio._ The artist, a young man of prepossessing
appearance, sits in a dejected attitude, amid a litter of sketches,
with his head resting upon his hand. An oil stove stands on a pine
box in the centre of the studio. The artist rises, tightens his waist
belt to another hole, and lights the stove. He goes to a tin bread
box, half-hidden by a screen, takes out a solitary link of sausage,
turns the box upside-down to show that there is no more, and chucks
the sausage into a frying-pan, which he sets upon the stove. The
flame of the stove goes out, showing that there is no more oil. The
artist, in evident despair, seizes the sausage, in a sudden access of
rage, and hurls it violently from him. At the same time a door opens,
and a man who enters receives the sausage forcibly against his nose.