pocket, and pointed to a
line.

Sarah recognised the first card she had typewritten that afternoon.
There was still the rayed splotch in the upper right-hand corner where a
tear had fallen. But over the spot where one should have read the name
of the meadow plant, the clinging memory of their golden blossoms had
allowed her fingers to strike strange keys.

Between the red cabbage and the stuffed green peppers was the item:

"DEAREST WALTER, WITH HARD-BOILED EGG."

THE GREEN DOOR

Suppose you should be walking down Broadway after dinner, with ten
minutes allotted to the consummation of your cigar while you are
choosing between a diverting tragedy and something serious in the way
of vaudeville. Suddenly a hand is laid upon your arm. You turn to look
into the thrilling eyes of a beautiful woman, wonderful in diamonds and
Russian sables. She thrusts hurriedly into your hand an extremely hot
buttered roll, flashes out a tiny pair of scissors, snips off the
second button of your overcoat, meaningly ejaculates the one word,
"parallelogram!" and swiftly flies down a cross street, looking back
fearfully over her shoulder.

That would be pure adventure. Would you accept it? Not you. You would
flush with embarrassment; you would sheepishly drop the roll and
continue down Broadway, fumbling feebly for the missing button. This you
would do unless you are one of the blessed few in whom the pure spirit
of adventure is not dead.

True adventurers have never been plentiful. They who are set down in
print as such have been mostly business men with newly invented methods.
They have been out after the things they wanted--golden fleeces, holy
grails, lady loves, treasure, crowns and fame. The true adventurer goes
forth aimless and uncalculating to meet and greet unknown fate. A fine
example was the Prodigal Son--when he started back home.

Half-adventurers--brave and splendid figures--have been numerous. From
the Crusades to the Palisades they have enriched the arts of history
and fiction and the trade of historical fiction. But each of them had
a prize to win, a goal to kick, an axe to grind, a race to run, a new
thrust in tierce to deliver, a name to carve, a crow to pick--so they
were not followers of true adventure.

In the big city the twin spirits Romance and Adventure are always abroad
seeking worthy wooers. As we roam the streets they slyly peep at us and
challenge us in twenty different guises. Without knowing