the citizen must, of
course, use for his guidance, and then, with horse, foot, guns, corsets,
hams, mucilage, investment companies, and all, he hurls himself at the
point.

Meanwhile I have discovered a way to make the Sanscrit scholar heed my
creature who plays the piano with a hammer.

NEW YORK SKETCHES

STORIES TOLD BY AN ARTIST IN NEW YORK

A TALE ABOUT HOW "GREAT GRIEF" GOT HIS HOLIDAY DINNER.

Wrinkles had been peering into the little dry-goods box that acted as a
cupboard.

"There are only two eggs and a half of a loaf of bread left," he
announced brutally.

"Heavens!" said Warwickson, from where he lay smoking on the bed. He
spoke in his usual dismal voice. By it he had earned his popular name of
Great Grief.

Wrinkles was a thrifty soul. A sight of an almost bare cupboard maddened
him. Even when he was not hungry, the ghosts of his careful ancestors
caused him to rebel against it. He sat down with a virtuous air. "Well,
what are we going to do?" he demanded of the others. It is good to be
the thrifty man in a crowd of unsuccessful artists, for then you can
keep the others from starving peacefully. "What are we going to do?"

"Oh, shut up, Wrinkles," said Grief from the bed. "You make me think."

Little Pennoyer, with head bended afar down, had been busily scratching
away at a pen and ink drawing. He looked up from his board to utter his
plaintive optimism.

"The _Monthly Amazement_ may pay me to-morrow. They ought to. I've
waited over three months now. I'm going down there to-morrow, and
perhaps I'll get it."

His friends listened to him tolerantly, but at last Wrinkles could not
omit a scornful giggle. He was such an old man, almost twenty-eight, and
he had seen so many little boys be brave. "Oh, no doubt, Penny, old
man." Over on the bed Grief croaked deep down in his throat. Nothing was
said for a long time thereafter.

The crash of the New York streets came faintly. Occasionally one could
hear the tramp of feet in the intricate corridors of this begrimed
building that squatted, slumbering and aged, between two exalted
commercial structures that would have had to bend afar down to perceive
it. The light snow beat pattering into the window corners, and made
vague and grey the vista of chimneys and roofs. Often the wind scurried
swiftly and raised a long cry.

Great Grief leaned upon his elbow. "See to the fire, will you,
Wrinkles?"

Wrinkles pulled the coal-box out from und