There is no happier tradesman than he. He stands all day long, and a large part of the night, among his bottles and boxes and jars and jarlets and pots and potlets and tabloids and capsules, selling remedies for colds and coughs and sore throats and rheumatism and neuralgia. The colder it is the more he is on velvet, the chemist. In America he is called a "druggist," but "chemist" is better, even though it confuses a mere peddler of ammoniated quinine with Sir WILLIAM RAMSAY and Sir WILLIAM CROOKES. The old-fashioned spelling was "chymist," and there are still one or two shops in London where this spelling holds, but I think it's affectation. Meanwhile the chemist (or chymist) is coining money. Not even his lavish expenditure of clean white paper and red, red sealing wax, and the gas that burns always to melt that red, red sealing-wax, can make his profits look ridiculous. Not even the constant loss of small articles from the counter, such as manicure sticks, and digestive tablets, and jujubes, and face cream and smokers' cachous, which never ought to be spread about there at all, because they are so easily conveyed by the dishonest customer into pocket or muff, can seriously upset the smiling side of the chemist's ledger. Every night, when at last, laden with gold, he climbs to his bed, he hopes piously that the morrow may be colder. And it usually is. He will soon be a millionaire. It is only a warm wind that can blow the chemist no good. I wish I was a chemist, but it is now too late. Still, I wish I was a chemist. * * * * * [Illustration: _Aunt._ "I can't think of letting you two girls go alone, and as I shall not be able to go your Uncle will look after you." _Niece._ "That's very kind of him, Auntie; but I hope you don't expect us to cling to his apron strings all the time."] * * * * * THE BEER-FIGHT. (Suggested by Mr. CHESTERTON's "The Flying Inn.") Of G. K. C. a tale I tell, of GILBERT CHESTERTON, And how he met GAMBRINUS once and how they carried on. Each roared a lusty challenge out, as only topers can, And sat him down and called for beer, and then the bout began. One had a _Seidel_ to his hand, and one a pewter pot; They drank potations pottle deep, in fact they drank a lot. And as they drank the barrels dry they rolled them on the floor, And sang a stave and drained a quart and called aloud for more. Their glowing souls o'ertopped the stars; they had their hearts' desire, The while the world spun round and round its busy track of fire. "I've lived for this," said G. K. C. and tossed his flaming head; "_Der Kerl ist stark, das Bier ist gut_," was what GAMBRINUS said. The sun looked on, the moon looked on, the comets all stood still To see this stout and jolly pair who never had their fill. And still they drained their beer as if they'd only just begun; And no one dared to interfere to settle which had won.