The elevators in the Eiffel Tower are wonderful. They run right up its legs, the way ants do us at picnics, only inside, and glorious to say they were made not only in the United States, but in Yonkers, where I was born, and going up in 'em makes you feel as if you were at sea, because they can't go up straight, the legs being bandy. At one time you'd have thought I was lying on the floor when I was only standing up straight, it got off the perpendicular so far. Pop asked why it was they didn't have a sign up telling people that these elevators came from Yonkers, and a man that knew all about it said it wouldn't do any good because the French people didn't know where Yonkers was, and besides they were exciteable, and wouldn't ride in a machine they thought wasn't French. "Let 'em walk then," said Pop. "It's too high up," said the man. "Well," said Pop, "as a walk it may be high up, but as a trick it's low down." And the man agreed with him, but he said: "It isn't my fault. Mr. Eiffel built the tower, I didn't. I'm only a green-grocer at Leamington." And then we all laughed, but Pop's kind of mad about it yet, because he's proud of Yonkers, and thinks people that do things ought to get credit for 'em. After we came down from the tower I wanted Pop to take me up in a balloon they had flying about a mile away, but he wouldn't. He thought we'd had high living enough for one day, and, besides, Jules advised us not to go. He said every once in a while the balloon broke loose and landed in the desert of Sahara, which is very awkward to those who can't go a week without water and don't eat sand. And the walking is bad, so we didn't go. To-morrow we are going out to the palace at Versailles in a big coach, and if I see anything worth telling about I'll drop you another line. Yours ever BOB. PRACTICAL GOLF. BY W. G. VAN TASSEL SUTPHEN. (_In Five Papers._) II.--DRIVING. All golf is divided into three parts--driving, approaching, and holing out--and of these three, driving, or free hitting, either with wood or iron, is by far the most pleasing. It is a delightful sensation to feel the ball slip away almost by itself as the club head swings through, and then to watch it describing its graceful curve of, say, one hundred and fifty yards through the air, or skimming like a swallow, straight and low over that dreaded bunker. Without driving, indeed, there would be very little golf, and happy is the man who may always count upon being both far and sure.