ions of which uniformed men sat and made
chop suey of your tickets. And to this day in the outlying districts
many have it that Chuck Connors, with his hand on his heart, leads
reform; and that but for the noble municipal efforts of one Parkhurst,
a district attorney, the notorious "Bishop" Potter gang would have
destroyed law and order from the Bowery to the Harlem River.

But I beg you to observe Mrs. James Williams--Hattie Chalmers that
was--once the belle of Cloverdale. Pale-blue is the bride's, if she
will; and this colour she had honoured. Willingly had the moss rosebud
loaned to her cheeks of its pink--and as for the violet!--her eyes will
do very well as they are, thank you. A useless strip of white chaf--oh,
no, he was guiding the auto car--of white chiffon--or perhaps it was
grenadine or tulle--was tied beneath her chin, pretending to hold her
bonnet in place. But you know as well as I do that the hatpins did the
work.

And on Mrs. James Williams's face was recorded a little library of the
world's best thoughts in three volumes. Volume No. 1 contained the
belief that James Williams was about the right sort of thing. Volume
No. 2 was an essay on the world, declaring it to be a very excellent
place. Volume No. 3 disclosed the belief that in occupying the highest
seat in a Rubberneck auto they were travelling the pace that passes
all understanding.

James Williams, you would have guessed, was about twenty-four. It will
gratify you to know that your estimate was so accurate. He was exactly
twenty-three years, eleven months and twenty-nine days old. He was well
built, active, strong-jawed, good-natured and rising. He was on his
wedding trip.

Dear kind fairy, please cut out those orders for money and 40 H. P.
touring cars and fame and a new growth of hair and the presidency of the
boat club. Instead of any of them turn backward--oh, turn backward and
give us just a teeny-weeny bit of our wedding trip over again. Just an
hour, dear fairy, so we can remember how the grass and poplar trees
looked, and the bow of those bonnet strings tied beneath her chin--even
if it was the hatpins that did the work. Can't do it? Very well; hurry
up with that touring car and the oil stock, then.

Just in front of Mrs. James Williams sat a girl in a loose tan jacket
and a straw hat adorned with grapes and roses. Only in dreams and
milliners' shops do we, alas! gather grapes and roses at one swipe.
This girl gazed with large blue