By Mark Nye Bunner. In twelve pills and two boxes. In plain pasteboard boxes, $1.00 per box. In gilt edge boxes, uncut, $2.00 per box. By all means the strongest work of this popular condenser. It is not too much to say that there is more giggle in each pill than can be found in any similar work. And the fit at the end—well, it is wholly indescribable. Long Greens & Co., Literary Dispensatory, Chicago and London. Sent prepaid by telepath, on receipt of price. A FEW CRITICISMS. _Washington Roast_: “Not a dull pill in the box.” _New York Rostrum_: “Very clever. After taking one pill, the reader cannot put down the box until he has taken all its contents.” _Chicago Between-Seas_: “Cannot contain our disgust. Tried to digest the contents of these boxes, but threw up the job after taking one pill.” _New Orleans Pickatune_: “The pills lead gently and pleasantly up to the final mystery when the Fit clears everything up in a very sensational manner. More such pills would have a highly beneficial effect upon modern literature.” HERBERT L. BAKER. AN INTERVIEW WITH THE DEVIL. It is only during inclement weather that writers who cannot command the oracular and prophetic freedom, which is the proud possession of the morning and evening journals, can hope to gain even the smallest audience; for the masses are more hungry for facts which lie, than for the truth, or even those fine fantasies that afford us some surcease of wide-open eyed sorrow. If this paper is ever read at all, it should be read in gloomy weather. Indeed, it is intended to be read on a gray day, as it was written on a wild night. Only very robust imaginations feel the fascination or the eternal questions of life and death in the wide ample world of broad, white sunlight; for their animal spirits get the better of their reason. In rainy weather we writers flatten our noses against the panes of strange windows, lost to all sense of propriety, in the wild hope that some one within is reading one of our amusing works. In the case of the present writer, however, it is all proper to say that he has suffered disillusionment so often that he has espoused a chill dignity, and sits at home and reads his own works in a spirit of grim appreciation. Indeed, accepting the appalling vacuity of the million noisy heads as an incurable fact—a fact that should chasten the vanity of those whose hopes and ambitions and thought are borne and blown hither and thither, like puff-balls upon the acclaiming wind of ten thousand pairs of lungs—it may be said with perfect propriety that it is nothing less than impertinence for any writer, who aims to rise above the biting lechery of the common imaginations, to expect to find readers under clear skies. Even the midsummer sun, which is surely innocent of any such evil