Rough-leaf," said the Somewhere Man; "gravel-weed we call it in our
country, because it marks the poorest soil."

"Trailing arbutus," said the Anywhere Man; "May-flowers we call them
in our country."

"But why?" asked the Nowhere Man. "May has not yet come."

"She is coming," answered the other; "she will be here before these
are gone."

On the other side of the wood they entered a meadow where a little
bird was bubbling over with music in the air.

"Skunk-blackbird," said the Somewhere Man; "colours the same as a
skunk."

"Bobolink," said the Anywhere Man; "spills his song while he flies."

"It is a silly name," said the Nowhere Man. "Where did you find it?"

"I don't know," answered the other; "it just sounds to me like the
bird."

By this time it was clear that the two men did not play the game by
the same rules, but they went on playing, just as other people do.

They saw a little thatched house beside the brook. "Beastly hovel,"
said the first man. "Pretty cottage," said the second.

A woman was tossing and fondling her child, with kiss-words. "Sickly
sentiment," said the first man. "Mother love," said the second.

They passed a youth sleeping on the grass under a tree. "Lazy hound!"
said the first man. "Happy dog!" said the second.

Now the third man, remembering that he was a philosopher, concluded
that he was wasting his imaginary time in hearing this endless old
game.

"I must bid you good-day, gentlemen," said he, "for it seems to me
that you are disputing only about appearances, and are not likely to
arrive Somewhere or Anywhere. But I am seeking _das Ding an sich_."

So he left them, and went on his way Nowhere. And I know not which of
the others won the game, but I think the second man had more pleasure
in playing it.

[Illustration]

THE UNRULY SPRITE

A PARTIAL FAIRY TALE

[Illustration]

There was once a man who was also a writer of books.

The merit of his books lies beyond the horizon of this tale. No doubt
some of them were good, and some of them were bad, and some were
merely popular. But he was all the time trying to make them better,
for he was quite an honest man, and thankful that the world should
give him a living for his writing. Moreover, he found great delight in
the doing of it, which was something that did not enter into the
world's account--a kind of daily Christmas present in addition to his
wages.

But the interesting thing about the man was that he