“Where angels fear to tread,” said my friend Annabel Lee. “What’s sharper than a serpent’s tooth?” said I. “The pen,” said my friend Annabel Lee. “What’s mightier than the sword?” said I. “A rich man,” said my friend Annabel Lee. “What makes the mare go?” said I. “A fool and his money,” said my friend Annabel Lee. “What should they do who live in glass houses?” said I. “Draw down the blinds,” said my friend Annabel Lee. “What’s a man’s castle?” said I. “The devil’s workshop,” said my friend Annabel Lee. “What’s better to do than to break?” said I. “Rob Peter,” said my friend Annabel Lee. “What’s the wind tempered to?” said I. “The camel’s back,” said my friend Annabel Lee. “What do many hands make?” said I. “A shorn lamb,” said my friend Annabel Lee. “What can’t you make out of a pig’s ear?” said I. “A gift-horse,” said my friend Annabel Lee. “What should you never look in the mouth?” said I. “A silk purse,” said my friend Annabel Lee. “What’s half a loaf better than?” said I. “Chickens before they are hatched,” said my friend Annabel Lee. “But let’s not play this any more,” said my friend Annabel Lee. “I’m languid and weary. Can’t you talk to me--and talk so that I may feel rested and comfortable? And don’t stare!” “I fear I can’t amuse you. I am sorry,” said I. “You may envy me, Annabel Lee. You have not Annabel Lee to look at. Would not life look rich and full to you if you could see before you your own vague, purple eyes, and your red red lips, and those hands of power and romance--you, with your scarlet gown and the gold marguerites coming near and fading away in mist?” “No, not particularly,” said my friend Annabel Lee. “I rather like _your_ looks,” she added, and her purple eyes became less vague--“sitting there in your small black frock; and you puff at that tobacco much like a toy engine. Come, you amuse me--you please me. Come near me.” She held out one of her hands and the purple eyes changed suddenly into something that was rarely and indescribably friendly. I felt much from life. My friend Annabel Lee rested the hand she had held out upon my shoulder. “When we go into the great, broad world, Mary MacLane,” she said, “and you have all the apples, and all the ripe-red-raspberry shortcake, and all the cigarettes, then perhaps will you _share_ them with me?” I said I would. XV A STORY OF SPOON-BILLS When the mood takes my friend Annabel Lee she will, if I beg her, tell me quaint and fantastic stories, such as are hidden away in the dusty crevices of this world. These tales have lain away there for centuries, and spiders have spun webs over and about them, so that when, perchance, they are brought out, bits of fine gray fiber are to be found among the lines. Yesterday a pretty, plain story by my friend Annabel Lee that runs through my mind.