"WHY, IT'S REALLY A TROLLEY!" HE CRIED. _In colors_ 68 "IT KEEPS ME JUMPING ALL THE TIME" 72 "I HAVEN'T THE MONEY" 78 ON THE OSCYCLE. _In colors_ 80 "MY OWN PRIVATE ICEBERG" 83 THE MAN FROM SATURN JUMPED 86 TOM JUMPED, AND IN A MOMENT WAS SITTING ASTRIDE THE GREAT BIRD'S NECK. _In colors_ 89 "UPON THE ANVIL IN HIS SANCTUM" 93 DEVOURING HIS FAVORITE AUTHOR 98 TOM IS AWAKENED BY THE AVALANCHE. _In colors_ 100 TAIL PIECE 102 [Illustration] [Illustration] Andiron Tales By John Kendrick Bangs Being the Remarkable Adventures of a Boy with a Lively Imagination CHAPTER I. Tom and the Andirons It was perfectly natural in one respect, anyhow. There was really no reason in the world why Tom should not lie upon the great bear-skin rug in front of the library fire those cold winter nights if he wanted to, nor need anyone be surprised that he should want to. It was indeed a most delightful place to lie in. The bear-skin was soft and in every way comfortable and comforting. The fireplace itself was one of those huge hospitable affairs that might pass in some apartment houses in our narrow cooped-up city streets for a butler's pantry or small reception room--in fact in the summer time Tom used to sit in the fireplace and pretend he was in his office transacting business with such of his sister's dolls as could be induced to visit him there; giving orders to imaginary clerks and bookkeepers and keeping an equally fanciful office boy continually on the run. And then apart from the rug and the fireplace it was a beautiful room in which they were. Tom's father was very fond of books, and, although he was a great many years older than Tom, he had not forgotten how to enjoy the very same kind of books that Tom liked. He was not ashamed to have one little niche of his library filled with the stories which had delighted him in his boyhood days, and which still continued to please him, and, of course, this lent an additional charm to the library in Tom's eyes. It held his heroes, and on some of those drowsy nights when the only sounds to break the stillness of the room were the scratching of his father's pen, the soft humming of some little tune by his mother sitting and sewing by the evening lamp, and the fierce crackling of the burning logs, Tom could almost see these heroes stepping down from the shelves and like so many phantoms flitting in and about the room. In fact, upon one occasion, Tom is convinced he did see these very people having a