me, but I don't believe a wurrud he says. Most iv th' people iv this wurruld is a come-on f'r science, but I'm not. Ye can't con-vince me, me boy, that a man who's so near-sighted he can't read th' sign on a cable-car knows anny more about th' formation iv th' earth thin Father Kelly. I believe th' wurruld is flat, not round; that th' sun moves an' is about th' size iv a pie-plate in th' mornin' an' a car-wheel at noon; an' it 's no proof to me that because a pro-fissor who 's peekin' through a chube all night says th' stars ar-re millyions iv miles away an' each is bigger thin this wurruld, that they 're bigger thin they look, or much higher thin th' top iv th' shot-tower. I've been up tin thousand feet on a mountain, an' they seemed so near that I kept whiskin' thim off me nose as I lay there on me back, but they wasn't anny larger thin they were on th' sthreet-level. I believe what I see an' some iv th' things I'm told, if they 've been told often, an' thim facts iv science has not been hung long enough to be digistible." But, annyhow, they say that man first begun writin' whin he had to hammer out his novels an' pomes on a piece iv rock, an' th' hammer has been th' imblim iv lithrachoor iver since. Thin he painted it on skins, hince th' publisher; thin he played it an' danced it an' croshayed it till 't was discovered that ink an' pa-aper wud projooce wurruds, an' thin th' printin'-press was invinted. Gunpowdher was invinted th' same time, an' 't is a question I've often heerd discussed which has done more to ilivate th' human race. A joke.

Th' longer th' wurruld lasts th' more books does be comin' out. Day be day I r-read in th' pa-apers announcemints iv new publications that look like th' dilinquent tax-list. They 's a publisher in ivry block, an' in thousan's iv happy homes some wan is pluggin' away at th' romantic novel or whalin' out a pome on th' type-writer up-stairs. A fam'ly without an author is as contimptible as wan without a priest. Is Malachi near-sighted, peevish, averse to th' suds, an' can't tell whether th' three in th' front yard is blue or green? Make an author iv him! Does Miranda prisint no atthractions to th' young men iv th' neighborhood, does her overskirt dhrag, an' is she poor with th' gas-range? Make an authoreen iv her! Forchunitly, th' manly insthinct is often too sthrong f'r th' designs iv th' fam'ly, an' manny a man that if his parents had had their way might have been at this moment makin' artificial feet f'r a deformed pome is l'adin' what me fri'nd Hogan calls a glad, free, an' timperymintal life on th' back iv a sthreet-car.

"But lithrachoor is th' gr-reat life-wurruk iv th' modhren woman. Th' conthrol is passin' into th' hands iv th' fair sect, an' th' day will come whin th' wurrud book will mane no more to an able-bodied man thin th' wurrud gusset. Women write all th' romantic novels that ar-re anny good. That's because ivry man thinks th' thrue hayroe is himsilf, an' ivry woman thinks he's James K. Hackett. A woman is sure a good, sthrong man ought to be able to kill anny number iv bad, weak men, but a man is always wondherin' what th' other la-ad wud do. He might have th' punch left in him that wud get th' money. A woman niver cares how manny men are kilt, but a man believes in fair play, an' he'd like to see th' polis intherfere about Chapter Three.

"Women writes all th' good romantic novels, an' read thim all. If anny proud la-ad in th' gum business thinks he riprisints th' ideal iv his wife's soul, he ought to take a look at th' books she reads. He'll larn there th' reason he's where he is, is because he was th' on'y chanst, not because he was th' first choice. 'Twud humble th' haughtiest prince iv thrade to look into th' heart iv th' woman he cares most f'r an' thinks laste about, an' find that, instead iv th' photygraft iv a shrewd but kindly man with a thriflin' absence iv hair on his head an' a burglar-proof safe on his watch-charm, there's a pitcher iv a young la-ad in green tights playin' a mandolin to a high front stoop. On th' stoop, with a rose in her hand, is his lawful-wedded wife, th' lady Annamariar Huggins iv Peotone. Ye can't keep her away fr'm a romantic novel. No matther what Edward Atkinson tells ye, she prefers 'Th' Age iv Chivalry' to th' mos' atthractive housewurruk. A woman's readin' is niver done. Hardly a day passes but some lady frind iv mine stops me on me way to catch a car, an' asks me if I don't regard Morse Hewlett as th' gr-reatest an' mos' homicidal writer iv our time, an' what I've got to say about Hinnelly's attack on Stevenson. 'Madam,' says I, 'I wud n't know Morse if I was to see him goin' down th' sthreet ax in hand, an' as f'r Hinnelly, his name escapes me, though his language is familiar to anny wan who iver helped load a scow. Stevenson,' I says, 'does n't appeal to me, an' if he shud, I'll revarse th' decision on th' ground iv th' bad prevyous charackter iv th' plaintiff, while,' I says, 'admittin' th' thruth iv what he said. But,' says I, 'th' on'y books in me libr'y is th' Bible an' Shakspere,' says I. 'They 're gr-reat f'r ye,' says she. 'So bully f'r th' style. D' ye read thim all th' time?' she says. 'I niver read thim,' says I. 'I use thim f'r purposes iv definse. I have niver read thim, but I'll niver read annything else till I have read thim,' I says. 'They shtand between me an' all modhren lithrachoor,' says I. 'I've built thim up into a kind iv breakwather,' I says, 'an' I set behind it ca'm an' contint while Hall Caine rages without,' says I.

"Yes, sir, th' readin' an' writin' iv books is as much woman's wurruk as th' mannyfacther iv tidies. A woman is a nachral writer. She don't mind givin' hersilf away if 't will bring a tear to th' eye or a smile to th' lips. But a man does. He has more to give away. I'm not sayin' that anny man can't write betther thin a woman if he wants to. But so can he cuk betther, an' sew betther, an' paint minichoors betther, an' do annything betther but nurse th' baby—if he wants to; but he don't often want to. He despises such thrivyal pursuits. Mos' iv th' gr-reat writers I iver see th' pitchers iv was little, thin, peevish men that was always gettin' licked. Wanst in a while a sthrong man got into th' game, a bull-necked, round-headed man that might have made a fine thrackmaster or boiler-maker, but was addicted to dhrink, an' niver had energy enough left in th' mornin' f'r annything more thin writin' th' best plays or th' finest novels or th' gr-reatest histhries in th' wurruld. But if ye got at th' rale feelin' iv three-meal-a-day men about writin', ye'd find they classed it with preachin', school-teachin', play-actin', dancin', an' lace-wurruk. A man iv that kind might start to write, but if he did, he'd stop an' think afther a while, an' say to himsilf: 'What's a big, sthrong, able-bodied, two-hundhred-an'-tin-pound, forty-four-acrost-th'-chest crather like me doin' here, pokin' these funny hireyoglyphics into a piece iv pa-aper with a little sthick? I guess I'll go out an' shoe a horse.'

"So it is with readin'. I'm tol' I ought to read more be Hogan, who's wan iv th' best-read an' mos' ignorant men I know. Well, maybe I ought, though whin I was a young man, an' was helpin' to build up this counthry, th' principal use iv lithrachoor was as a weepin. In thim days, if a little boy was seen readin' a book, his father took it away fr'm him an' bate him on th' head with it. Me father was th' mos' accyrate man in th' wurruld with letthers. He found th' range nachrally, an' he cud wing anny wan iv us with th' 'Lives iv th' Saints' as far as he cud see. He was a poor man, an' on'y had such books in his libr'y as a gintleman shud take, but if ye'd give him libr'y enough, he'd capture Giberaltor. If lithrachoor niver pinethrated me intelleck, 'twas not his fault. But nowadays, whin I go down th' sthreet, I see th' childher settin' on th' front steps studyin' a book through double-compound-convex spectacles, lookin' like th' offspring of a profissyonal diver. What'll they iver grow up to be? Be hivins! that la-ad Carnaygie knows his business. He is studied th' situation, an' he