or women or cloaked stone, or of beasts trained to be silent. When the awful stillness of the mystery was more than he could bear the man from the black-thatched cottage by the five pine-trees went up to the silk pavilion, and with a bold and nervous clutch of the hand drew one of the curtains aside, and saw the inner mystery, and laughed. And the prophecy was fulfilled, and Thlunrana was never more a terror to the valley, but the magicians passed away from their terrific halls and fled through the open fields wailing and beating their breasts, for laughter was the enemy that was doomed to come against Thlunrana through her southward gate (that was named the Gate of the Doom), and it is of the gods but dwells with man. A LOSING GAME Once in a tavern Man met face to skull with Death. Man entered gaily but Death gave no greeting, he sat with his jowl morosely over an ominous wine. "Come, come," said Man, "we have been antagonists long, and if I were losing yet I should not be surly." But Death remained unfriendly watching his bowl of wine and gave no word in answer. Then Man solicitously moved nearer to him and, speaking cheerily still, "Come, come," he said again, "you must not resent defeat." And still Death was gloomy and cross and sipped at his infamous wine and would not look up at Man and would not be companionable. But Man hated gloom either in beast or god, and it made him unhappy to see his adversary's discomfort, all the more because he was the cause, and still he tried to cheer him. "Have you not slain the Dinatherium?" he said. "Have you not put out the Moon? Why! you will beat me yet." And with a dry and barking sound Death wept and nothing said; and presently Man arose and went wondering away; for he knew not if Death wept out of pity for his opponent, or because he knew that he should not have such sport again when the old game was over and Man was gone, or whether because perhaps, for some hidden reason, he could never repeat on Earth his triumph over the Moon. TAKING UP PICADILLY Going down Picadilly one day and nearing Grosvenor Place I saw, if my memory is not at fault, some workmen with their coats off--or so they seemed. They had pickaxes in their hands and wore corduroy trousers and that little leather band below the knee that goes by the astonishing name of "York-to-London." They seemed to be working with peculiar vehemence, so that I stopped and asked one what they were doing. "We are taking up Picadilly," he said to me. "But at this time of year?" I said. "Is it usual in June?" "We are not what we seem," said he. "Oh, I see," I said, "you are doing it for a joke." "Well, not exactly that," he answered me. "For a bet?" I said. "Not precisely," said he. And then I looked at the bit that they had already picked, and though it was broad daylight over my head it was darkness down there, all full of the southern stars.