cards and horses. The sporting man finds it a no less hazardous, but
an equally congenial and more respectable, means of money making, and
he drifts into a broker's office as naturally as the broker relaxes
his nerves--_similia similibus curantur_--spending half an hour over a
roulette wheel in his client's "place."

The flash public very naturally choose the same pleasant road to
fortune. To their minds, whether they place their money on "Reading
Common" or on "Waterboy," the intention, the risk and the result are
the same. There are "fake races" and "fake pools."

"The percentage will ruin you in the end," they warn you, "no matter
what you play." And the business man, who should know better, too
often enters the share market as if he were sitting in an open poker
party, among sharpers and pickpockets, and recklessly surrenders
himself to every temptation of this devil-may-care atmosphere, while
he "plays the game."

It is this combination of the gambler, the sporting man, the fast
broker, the frivolous and ignorant trader and the speculative public,
all possessed with the mad passions of gain and fear, and all
struggling more or less grimly in the maelstrom which boils about the
Stock Exchange, that constitutes the Wall Street spirit.

It is a derisive goblin or a piteous, ineffective human soul,
according as you are a laughing or a weeping philosopher. It expresses
everything in the Street that is pictorial and dramatic; but Wall
Street is first and last a realm of business. It is a strong man's
country.

The men who built the buildings and work in them are giants. When they
war, they hurl millions at each other, as the Titans did mountains.
When they combine, civilization strides.

The Stock Exchange is their battleground. It is a dangerous place for
ladies and civilians. It is best to be serious and cautious, and to
keep one's eyes open, when one travels that way.

THE WIND'S WORD

O Wind of the wild sweet morning!
You have entered the heart in me!
And I'm fain to sing for life and spring
And all young things that be!

O whispering wind of the shadow!
A voice from the day that is past,
You make me fain for the home again
And quiet love at last.

ARTHUR KETCHUM.

THE BOY MAN

By THE BARONESS VON HUTTEN

Among other things, Lady Harden knew when to be silent, and now,
having made her speech, she sat watching Cleeve, as