is a bird too. A new bird, about the size of a turkey."

"Turkey in Europe or Turkey in Asia?" we asked.

He pulled a gun from his belt and stroked it lovingly. There are moments when even an interviewer' recognises the dangers of importunity, and this was one.

ONE OF OUR GREATEST.

An Interview.

It was naturally not without difficulty that I won my way to the presence of so busy and influential a publicist. A man who spends his whole time in instructing the readers of so many different papers in the delicate art of discerning the best and ignoring the rest cannot have much margin for inquisitive strangers.

However, I succeeded in penetrating to his sanctum and, while waiting for the lion to appear, had an opportunity to look round. It was severely furnished—obviously the room of a great thinker. I noticed on the desk, which was covered with paper and note-books, a copy of Roget's Thesaurus and Taylor's Natural History of Enthusiasm. With two such works one can, of course, go far. On the wall were the mottoes, "We needs must love the highest when we see it," and (from The Bellman) "What I tell you three times is true." I noticed two portraits also: one was of a delightful grande dame who might have graced a pavane in the days of Louis Quinze, inscribed to her "fellow-worker in the great cause, from Madame de Boccage," and another was the photograph of a gay young Frenchman in English clothes, signed "To mon cher colleague from 'is sincere friend Alphonse." There were also three telephones on the table and several typewriters here and there.

A moment later the wizard came in—a tall scholarly-looking figure, with all the stigmata of the great thinker beneath one of the highest brows in Europe.

"And what," he asked, bowing with perfect courtesy, "can I do for you?"

"I have come hoping for the privilege of an interview," I said.

"But why," he replied with charming diffidence, "should you interview me? Why am I thus honoured?"

"Because you are a very remarkable person," I replied. "You are the only journalist who can contribute the same articles regularly to The Pall Mall, The Westminster and I don't know to how many other papers besides. That is a feat in itself. You are the only journalist who always has the same subject."

He admitted these fine performances.

"So I should like to ask you a few questions," I continued. "The public is naturally interested in the personality of so widely read an author. May I know how you obtained your amazing command of words? Your fluency?"

"I have ever made a study of the finest writers," he said. "From Moses to De Courville, I have read them all. These studies and constant intercourse with the brainiest Americans I can meet have made me what I am."

"But your certainty in discrimination," I said—"how did you acquire that? Most of us are so doubtful of ourselves."

"I never am," he replied; "I am sure. One thing at a time is my theory. Concentrate on one thing and forget all the rest. In other words, trust to elimination. That's what I do. Having found something that I know to be good I instantly eliminate all thought of the existence of rival claimants and concentrate on that discovery and its exploitation."

"Marvellous," I murmured. "And how do you think of all your variations on the one stimulating theme?"

"Ah!" he said, "that is my secret." He tapped his massive forehead. "It wants a bit of doing, but I think I may say that up to date I have delivered the goods."

"You may," I said. "Have you no assistants?"

He flushed angrily and I changed the subject.

"In your spare time——" I began.

"I have none," he said. "I want none."

"But surely now and then," I urged, "after office hours?"

"I never relax," he said. "If I am not writing I am worshipping. I walk up and down on the other side of the street, gazing this way, wondering and adoring."

What a man!

"Now and then," I said, "you puzzle me a little. The columns in the evening papers go fairly straight to the point, but you are not always so direct. One now and then has to search for the true purpose of the article."

He bent his fine brows in perplexity.

"As when?" he asked.

"Well," I said, "those third leaders in The Times, for example. I often read them without making perfectly sure which department of the great House you are recommending: to which of its varied activities you are drawing particular attention."

He looked more bewildered. "The third leaders in The Times?" he asked.

"Yes," I said. "Don't you write those?"

"No," he replied with emphasis.

"Great Heavens!" I said, "I'm very sorry if I've hurt you. But I always assumed that you did."

The simultaneous ringing of the three telephones warned me that my time was up and I rose to go.

"Good-bye," he said, "Good-bye. You know where to go if you want anything, don't you? No matter what it is—ties, socks, dress—suits, scent, afternoon tea, civility, perfection. You know where to go?"—and he bowed me out.

And that is how I met Callisthenes.

"'Arf a mo, Chawley; let's wait an' see 'im sit down."

BLUDYARD.

Mr. Rudyard Kipling's few remarks, made beneath the blue sky of the Empire at Tunbridge Wells, have not yet lost their effect. The famous orator's letter-bag is daily crowded with communications from total strangers who have striven in vain to resist the impulse to tell him what they think of him and his speech.

"I understand from the local paper that you're an author," writes one correspondent from Haggerston; "if you can write like you can speak, your books ought to sell in hundreds."

"Your speech was quite good," writes another, "so far as it went; the only fault I have to find with it is that it was not strong enough, Sir, not strong enough. The blackguards!"

An envelope of pale purple, gently perfumed, contained that well-known work (now in its tenth thousand), "Gentle Words, and How to Use Them. By Amelia Papp." We understand that the receipt of this famous pamphlet had a tremendous effect upon Mr. Kipling.

The speech has put courage into the heart of a young literary man known to us. "I have long yearned to break away from the weaklings who can do no more than call a spade a spade," he said the other day. "I feel that I now have a master's authority for doing so. In gratitude I can do no less than send Mr. Kipling a copy of my new book, The Seven D's, when it is ready."

"I cannot be too grateful for your impressive speech," wrote a lady from Balham. "For many weeks now I consider that my butcher has been sending joints that are perfectly disgraceful, and I have been quite at a loss to know how to deal with him. But thanks to your great utterance I was able to get together just the words I wanted, and on Tuesday last I sent him such a letter. You will be glad to know that Wednesday's shoulder was excellent."

An anonymous correspondent, dating from a temporary address at Limehouse, has written, "Why don't you come over on our side? You and I together could do great things."