that didn't mean anything, read from either Direction, and then he sized up his Flock with a Dreamy Eye and said: "We cannot more adequately voice the Poetry and Mysticism of our Text than in those familiar Lines of the great Icelandic Poet, Ikon Navrojk:

"To hold is not to have—
Under the seared Firmament,
Where Chaos sweeps, and Vast Futurity
Sneers at these puny Aspirations—
There is the full Reprisal."

When the Preacher concluded this Extract from the Well-Known Icelandic Poet he paused and looked downward, breathing heavily through his Nose, like Camille in the Third Act.

A Stout Woman in the Front Row put on her Eye-Glasses and leaned forward so as not to miss Anything. A Venerable Harness Dealer over at the Right nodded his Head solemnly. He seemed to recognize the Quotation. Members of the Congregation glanced at one another as if to say: "This is certainly Hot Stuff!"

GOOD AND PLENTY

The Preacher wiped his Brow and said he had no Doubt that every one within the Sound of his Voice remembered what Quarolius had said, following the same Line of Thought. It was Quarolius who disputed the Contention of the great Persian Theologian Ramtazuk, that the Soul in its reaching out after the Unknowable was guided by the Spiritual Genesis of Motive rather than by mere Impulse of Mentality. The Preacher didn't know what all This meant, and he didn't care, but you can rest easy that the Pew-Holders were On in a minute. He talked it off in just the Way that Cyrano talks when he gets Roxane so Dizzy that she nearly falls off the Piazza.

VENERABLE HARNESS DEALER

The Parishioners bit their Lower Lips and hungered for more First-Class Language. They had paid their Money for Tall Talk and were prepared to solve any and all Styles of Delivery. They held on to the Cushions and seemed to be having a Nice Time.

The Preacher quoted copiously from the Great Poet Amebius. He recited 18 lines of Greek and then said: "How true this is!" And not a Parishioner batted an Eye.

It was Amebius whose Immortal Lines he recited in order to prove the Extreme Error of the Position assumed in the Controversy by the Famous Italian, Polenta.

He had them Going, and there wasn't a Thing to it. When he would get tired of faking Philosophy he would quote from a Celebrated Poet of Ecuador or Tasmania or some other Seaport Town. Compared with this Verse, all of which was of the same School as the Icelandic Masterpiece, the most obscure and clouded Passage in Robert Browning was like a Plate-Glass Front in a State Street Candy Store just after the Colored Boy gets through using the Chamois.

After that he became Eloquent, and began to get rid of long Boston Words that hadn't been used before that Season. He grabbed a rhetorical Roman Candle in each Hand and you couldn't see him for the Sparks.

After which he sunk his Voice to a Whisper and talked about the Birds and the Flowers. Then, although there was no Cue for him to Weep, he shed a few real Tears. And there wasn't a dry Glove in the Church.

After he sat down he could tell by the Scared Look of the People in Front that he had made a Ten-Strike.

Did they give him the Joyous Palm that Day? Sure!

The Stout Lady could not control her Feelings when she told how much the Sermon had helped her. The venerable Harness Dealer said he wished to indorse the Able and Scholarly Criticism of Polenta.

In fact, every one said the Sermon was Superfine and Dandy. The only thing that worried the Congregation was the Fear that if it wished to retain such a Whale it might have to Boost his Salary.

THE JOYOUS PALM

In the Meantime the Preacher waited for some one to come and ask about Polenta, Amebius, Ramtazuk, Quarolius and the great Icelandic Poet, Navrojk. But no one had the Face to step up and confess his Ignorance of these Celebrities. The Pew-Holders didn't even admit among themselves that the Preacher had rung in some New Ones. They stood Pat, and merely said it was an Elegant Sermon.

Perceiving that they would stand for Anything, the Preacher knew what to do after that.

Moral: Give the People what they Think they want.

THE FABLE OF HANDSOME JETHRO, WHO WAS SIMPLY CUT OUT TO BE A MERCHANT

An Illinois Squab came home from Business College with a Zebra Collar and a pair of Tan Shoes big enough for a Coal Miner. When he alighted from the depot one of Ezry Folloson's Dray Horses fell over, stricken with the Cramp Colic. The usual Drove of Prominent Citizens who had come down to see that the Train got in and out all right backed away from the Educated Youth and Chewed their Tobacco in Shame and Abashment. They knew that they did not belong on the same Platform with One who had been up yender in Chicago for goin' on Twelve weeks finding out how to be a Business Man. By Heck!

An elderly Man approached the Youth who had lately got next to the Rules of Commerce. The elderly Man was a Yap. He wore a Hickory Shirt, a discouraged Straw Hat, a pair of Barn-Door Pants clinging to one lonely Gallus and woolen Socks that had settled down over his Plow Shoes. He was shy several Teeth and on his Chin was a Tassel shaped like a Whisk-Broom. If you had thrown a Pebble into this Clump of Whiskers probably you would have scared up a Field Mouse and a couple of Meadow Larks.

"Home agin, Jethro, be ye?" asked the Parent.

JETHRO

"Yeh," replied the Educated Youth. With that he pulled the Corner of a Sassy Silk Handkerchief out of his upper Coat Pocket and ignited a Cigarette that smelt like Burning Leaves in the Fall.

The Business Man went Home, and the Parent followed at a Respectful Distance, now and then remarking to Himself: "Well, I'll jest swan to Guinney!"

Brother Lyford came in from the East Eighty to get his Dinner, and there was Jethro in the Hammock reading a Great Work by Archibald Clavering Gunter.

"Git into some Overhauls an' come an' he'p Me this Afternoon," said Lyford.

"Oh, rats! Not on your Tintype! I'm too strong to work," replied Jethro, who had learned Oodles of slang up in Chicago, don't you forget it.

PAW

So he wouldn't Stand for the Harvest Field that afternoon. In the Evening when Paw ast him to Milk he let out an Awful Beller. Next Morning he made a Horrible Beef because he couldn't get Loaf Sugar for his Coffee.

Shortly after Breakfast his Paw lured him into the Barn and Lit on him. He got a good Holt on the Adam's Apple and choked the Offspring until his Tongue stuck out like a Pistil.

"You dosh-burned little Pin-Head o' Misery, you!" exclaimed the Old Man. "Goll bing me if I think you're wuth the Powder to blow you up. You peel them Duds an' git to Work or else mosey right off o' this Farm."

The Son's Feelings were so outraged by this Brutal Treatment that he left the Farm that Day and accepted a position in a Five and Ten-Cent Store, selling Kitchen Utensils that were made of Tin-Foil and Wooden Ware that had been painted in Water Colors. He