Say, my wife came home from shopping the other day filled with righteous indignation, and, of course, while men are not supposed to have any curiosity, you know, my peace of mind was somewhat disturbed. I began to have vague fears that perhaps some miserable detective in one of the department stores might have insulted her--perhaps accused her of having too warm an affection for the lace counter. At length, however, seeing that I would not ask the question she was burning to hear, she burst out with: "I wish the shopkeepers would be more careful how they put mirrors in conspicuous places." "What's the matter? Been trying to dodge your own reflection?" I asked, for do you know it was the first time I had ever heard a woman complain of too much looking-glass. [Illustration] "No; but you know there is one of those triple mirrors in one of the department stores, and poor dear Fido spent fifteen minutes chasing around it trying to find the other dog. I thought I'd never get him out of that store." Ever been through the Chinese quarter down around Mott Street, where you can smell the incense of the joss-sticks burning before the ugly little idols? [Illustration] I saw in the paper the other day about a fellow who had come from Korea with samples of idols that he wanted an American firm to manufacture, and it begins to look as though presently our enterprising Yankees might corral this trade along with everything else. That gave me an inspiration which I set down in verse--if you'd like to hear the result I don't mind one bit, so prepare to weep, for here it goes: The heathen in his blindness Bows down to wood and stone-- Some idol inexpensive He puts upon a throne; But now we'll teach the heathen The error of his way, And sell him modern idols Made in the U. S. A. We'll lift the foolish heathen From groping in the dust. And change and civilize him-- We'll form an Idol Trust. For ages he has groveled In superstition dim But now we'll help his progress By making gods for him. No seven-handed figures; No gods with coiling tails: No birds, no bugs, no serpents, No animals, nor whales-- No, sir! He'll have our idols: A shovelful of coal, A meter, and an oil can To terrify his soul. A bonnet and a ribbon: A bargain ad.--the strife They'll cause will make the heathen Yearn for a better life. The poor benighted pagan Will come out of the dark And bow before our idol-- The mighty dollar mark! [Illustration] Mr. Carboline, our druggist at the corner, has troubles of his own, though I never realized the fact until I saw a perspiring individual rush in upon him with a thermometer in his hand the other day, and in an excited tone exclaim: "Here, take back this darned machine before I freeze to death." [Illustration]