And when her grandchildren come home in the evening and tell how they frightened the athletic young writers almost out of their wits, she nearly bursts her old-fashioned stays, laughing at the drollery of it. “Egad!” she cries. “An’ I were an hundred years younger, I’d like nought better than to take a hand myself, and lay my stick about their backs, the young whippersnappers!” And I for one, would like to see her do it. How the SAID family ever became professional Hobgoblins, I can not say. All I know is that, once a hardworking and highly respected family, suddenly they found themselves shunned. There was nothing left for them but to become HOBGOBLINS. Now their only pleasure in life is to see what funny antics they can make the athletic young writers perform in trying to escape from them. And funny they certainly are. Here are a few specimens from some of our leading “best sellers”: “To think I have fallen to that!” _grated_ Gilstar with clenched teeth. “I get rather a good price,” Gilstar _dared_. “I’ll give you twenty-five dollars,” he _offered_ wildly. “What are your terms?” he _clucked_. But why bother about “best sellers,” when you can make almost as funny ones at home? Here is a home-brewed one: “Where are you going to, my pretty maid?” “I’m going to the Doctor’s, to ask his aid, I caught a cold when I slept in the loft,” “Sir,” she coughed, “Sir,” she coughed, “I’m going to the Doctor’s sir,” she coughed. “May I go with you, my pretty maid?” “Oh, yes, indeed, if you’re not afraid Of catching my cold, I shall be pleased,” “Sir,” she sneezed, “Sir,” she sneezed, “Oh, yes, if you please, kind sir,” she sneezed. “Of catching your cold I have no fear, For I’ll take no chances, my pretty dear!” At this the maiden was sorely ruffled, “Sir?” she snuffled, “Sir?” she snuffled, “What do you mean, kind sir,” she snuffled. “I mean I won’t kiss you, my pretty maid!” “Nobody asked you, my smart young Blade!” In her pocket-handkerchief, large and new, “Sir!” she blew, “Sir!” she blew, “Nobody asked you, sir!” she blew. [Illustration] THE VOICE OF THE PUSSY-WILLOW On the first of May I took a day off and used the telephone. It is best to take a day off if you want to get a number these times, and the number asked for was Spring one, nine, two, two—yes, Spring, Nineteen Twenty-Two. “There’s no such number,” said Central; “what you want is Winter 1921.” I assured her that was the last number in the world I desired, and after a wait of an hour or so she gave me Blizzard 1888 on a busy wire, comparing notes with Winter 1920, and I began to despair of ever getting my number.