said that he must stay, and invited him to a pipe and a chat. Father had the pipe and gave Jones the chat, and still he stayed. Every moment he meant to take the plunge, but couldn't. Then father began to get very tired of Jones, and fidgeted and finally said, with jocular irony, that Jones had better stay all nightthey could give him a shake-down. Jones mistook his meaning and thanked him with tears in his eyes, and father put Jones to bed in the spare-room and curst him heartily.

After breakfast next day, father went off to his work in the city and left Jones playing with the baby, broken-hearted. His nerve was utterly gone. He was meaning to leave all day, but the thing had got on his mind and he simply couldn't. When father came home in the evening he was surprized and chagrined to find Jones still there. He thought to jockey him out with a jest, and said he thought he'd have to charge him for his board, he! he! The unhappy young man stared wildly for a moment, then wrung father's hand, paid him a month's board in advance, and broke down and sobbed like a child.

In the days that followed he was moody and unapproachable. He lived, of course, entirely in the drawing-room, and the lack of air and exercise began to tell sadly on his health. He passed his time in drinking tea and looking at photographs. He would stand for hours together gazing at the photograph of father's uncle's friend in his Bengal uniform-talking to it, sometimes swearing bitterly at it. His mind was visibly failing.

At length the crash came. They carried him up-stairs in a raging delirium of fever. The illness that followed was terrible. He recognized no one, not even father's uncle's friend in his Bengal uniform. At times he would start up from his bed and shriek: "Well, I think I—-” and then fall back upon the pillow with a horrible laugh. Then, again, he would leap up and cry: "Another cup of tea and more photographs! More photographs! Hear! Hear!"

At length, after a month of agony, on the last day of his vacation he passed away. They say that when the last moment came, he sat up in bed with a beautiful smile of confidence playing upon his face, and said: "Well-the angels are calling me; I'm afraid I really must go now. Good afternoon.'

HER FIFTEEN MINUTES

BY TOM MASSON

At exactly fifteen minutes to eight
His step was heard at the garden gate.

And then, with heart that was light and gay,
He laughed to himself in a jubilant way,

And rang the bell for the maiden trim
Who'd promised to go to the play with him;

And told the servant, with joyous air,
To say there were fifteen minutes to spare.

And then for fifteen minutes he sat
In the parlor dim, and he held his hat,

And waited and sighed for the maiden trim
Who'd promised to go to the play with him,

Until, as the clock overhead struck eight,
He muttered: "Great Scott! it is getting late";

And took a turn on the parlor floor,
And waited for fifteen minutes more;

And thought of those seats in the front parquet. And midnight came, and the break of day;

That day and the next, and the next one, too,
He sat and waited the long hours through.

Then time flew on and the years sped by,
And still he sat, with expectant eye

And lengthening beard, for the maiden trim
Who'd promised to go to the play with him;

Until one night, as with palsied hand
He sat in the chair, for he couldn't stand,

And drummed in an aimless way, she came
And opened the door with her withered frame.

The moon's bright rays touched the silvered hair
Of her who had fifteen minutes to spare.

And then in tones that he strained to hear,
She spoke, and she said: "Are you ready, dear?"

Reprinted by permission of Life Publishing Company.

MY FUNNY EXPERIENCE WITH A WHISTLER1

BY G. H. SNAZELLE

The little yarn I am about to spin is connected with a visit I paid to Switzerland some five years ago. Of course, I presume that many of my audience have been to Switzerland, and they will bear me out that it is a very beautiful country to take a holiday in; and, for the information of those among my audience who have never been there, I would inform them that it is not only beautiful, but it is a country where you can choose your own climate. I mean in this way: If you want it warm, all you've got to do is to stay in the valleys; if you want it cooler, all you've got to do is to go higher up the mountains. Of course, it's a scientific fact that the higher you go the colder you get-if you want it colder you go higher, and so on-but don't go too high, for it's so cold at the top of some of those Swiss mountains that you can't tell the truth. Well, I was taking a holiday there

1 When the whistle is to be long it is printed so When the whistle is to be short,

When it goes from a low to a high note

When it goes from high to low

some time ago, and I got as far as Lucerne, and everybody kept telling me that I ought to climb the Rigi. As you know, the Rigi is only 8,000 feet high, a mere mole-hill as far as Swiss mountains go; but, personally, I found it quite enough. At last I got to the top, and I found that there was a very commodious hotel there. I discovered there was very beautiful scenery to be seen, and I also discovered that I appeared to be the only idiot staying there at that time of year-this was in October-and after being there about three days, and not seeing a soul about, I thought I had had about enough of it, so I sent for the hotel proprietor and asked for my bill, saying I thought I'd get back to the valley again—that is to say, to Lucerne.

The landlord said, "You not comfortable here, sare?"

"Yes," I said, "I'm very comfortable, but I feel dull; I like society, and there appears to be nobody staying here except myself."

"Vell, sare," he said, "of course you come to Switzerland in October, nobody here, but if you come in July you not able to get a bed."

I made a note that I would never go in July, because I like a bed to sleep on sometimes. "However," I said, "if you have anybody staying at the hotel besides myself I'll put in a day or two."

"Vell, sare," he said, "I have von gentleman he stop here."

I remarked that one would be enough if he were good company and sociable.

"Ah, sare," says the landlord, "he not very good company; he nevare speak."

"Never speak!" I said; "good heavens!" Then it struck me that he might be deaf and dumb. So I asked if that were the

case.

"No, sare, he not a deaf, he not a dumb; poor gentleman, he nevare speak, but he whistle a good deal."

"Whistle a good deal. I don't understand you."

"Vell, sare, he try to speak and toujours he finish up mit a vhistle."

"I still fail to follow you-how long has he been here ?" "About four months."

"Has he whistled all the time?"

"Vell, sare, ze poor gentleman, he "

"Excuse the apparent rudeness of the remark, but has he paid his bill?"

"No, sare, he not pay his bill yet."

"Well, what does he do when you show him his bill?"

"Oh! mostly he whistle."

"If there's no charge for seeing this curiosity, I'd like to have a look at him if he is on show this morning."

"The poor gentleman is in the schmoke-room this morning." So I adjourned to the smoke-room, and there I saw a young man sitting at a table, wearing a light tourist suit and reading an old copy of the Referee; he looked a gentleman, but looked particularly wretched, so I thought I would not commit myself by commencing the conversation. I thought if he'd got anything to say, he'd better begin-and I went and gazed out at the beautiful scenery one sees from the Rigi Kulm. Well, he'd got a good deal to say, and he did begin; he came up and touched me on the shoulder behind, and he said, " and then he touched

66

me on the other shoulder, and he said,

66

Then I faced round, and I said, "My friend, I don't somehow seem to grasp your meaning."

He remarked, after making all manner of facial contortions,

"Yes," I said, "that's all very pretty as far as it goes, but it doesn't go far, a lot of it might become monotonous and not being a canary I don't understand you."

"Y-you d-don't under

stand me?"

"No," I said, "can't say I do." Probably I was a little bit handicapped. I hadn't been brought up in an aviary to start with. I've kept birds. Canaries I've had and bullfinches, and, of course, we understand that it's a bird's mission to come here and build a nest and whistle and so on, but when a man is sprung upon one on the top of a mountain who can't talk, and merely whistles, it is a bit of a staggerer. "But," I said, "I hear you can talk, my