Here the bashful young man who was dressed as if going somewhere, separated himself, and cried: “Conductor, cut this train in two, or I will have you arrested.” “There, you’re done!” “Cut it short!” “Go, take a walk!” were expressions which greeted this sally. The bashful young man took up the thread of his private life where it had broken off, and wished he had separated himself further. A touch on the sleeve aroused the man with a bicycle. There stood the man on foot. “Hello! Knickerbockers. Horse tied, eh? Thought I’d ketch up to you. Where is your century run? Didn’t I say that there was no scorchin’ gait?” The man with a bicycle said something that commenced with “damn,” and then, seeing a pale frightened-looking girl near by, wished he hadn’t. In the forgetfulness of his remorse he smirched the newsboy with his machine. “You most certainly want to get done hittin’ me with that there last year’s safety,” began the latter, speaking loud enough to be heard by all—but his philippic was cut short by the arrival of train orders, and the clearing of the road. The man with a bicycle did a handsome pedal mount and spun skillfully through the surging mob, catching cries of “See that burning safety!” “Gimmie a ride, boss?” and the like, from those left behind. But the man on a wheel continued to ride. The man on foot continued to walk. And the band played on. HARVEY LEWIS WICKHAM. THE STEWARD. A BALLAD OF DEATH. A Beggar wandered forth to beg. (_A soul may dwell in Heaven or Hell._) At night he groaned aloud, when passed One bearing stores the King wished last. “Now give me food, for the dear Christ’s sake,” (_Or Heaven or Hell—O, choose ye well._) Moaned he the weak, stretching his hand. I trow men fear the final strand. The Steward stopped, and smiled, and bowed. (_One ward may tell of Heaven or Hell._) Softly he spoke: “A fitting thing, To give you food and rob the King!” The one moved on, the one moved not. (_A soul may dwell in Heaven or Hell._) The Steward sold one half the bread. Next morning the Beggar was dead. The jester told the King the tale. (_A soul shall dwell in Heaven or Hell._) A woman gazing at the King, Shrieked—to his knees she did not cling. The King’s sword pushed the Steward on, (_Who can foretell the depths of Hell?_) And the King smiled as on the band Outside a door he laid his hand. C. P. N. LET THERE BE GALL ENOUGH IN THY INK. —_Twelfth Night._