“Yes,” said the other, tilting his round chin. He drew his property suddenly behind him as if it were menaced. “Yes,” he repeated, “it’s mine.” “Well, le’ me play wif it?” said the wandering baby, with a trembling note of desire in his voice. “No,” cried the pretty child with determined lips. “It’s mine! My ma-ma buyed it.” “Well, tan’t I play wif it?” His voice was a sob. He stretched forth little, covetous hands. “No,” the pretty child continued to repeat. “No, it’s mine.” “Well, I want to play wif it,” wailed the other. A sudden, fierce frown mantled his baby face. He clenched his fat hands and advanced with a formidable gesture. He looked some wee battler in a war. “It’s mine! It’s mine,” cried the pretty child, his voice in the treble of outraged rights. “I want it,” roared the wanderer. “It’s mine! It’s mine!” “I want it!” “It’s mine!” The pretty child retreated to the fence, and there paused at bay. He protected his property with outstretched arms. The small vandal made a charge. There was a short scuffle at the fence. Each grasped the string to the toy and tugged. Their faces were wrinkled with baby rage, the verge of tears. Finally, the child in tatters gave a supreme tug and wrenched the string from the other’s hands. He set off rapidly down the street, bearing the toy in his arms. He was weeping with the air of a wronged one who has at last succeeded in achieving his rights. The other baby was squalling lustily. He seemed quite helpless. He wrung his chubby hands and railed. After the small barbarian had got some distance away, he paused and regarded his booty. His little form curved with pride. A soft, gleeful smile loomed through the storm of tears. With great care, he prepared the toy for traveling. He stopped a moment on a corner and gazed at the pretty child whose small figure was quivering with sobs. As the latter began to show signs of beginning pursuit, the little vandal turned and vanished down a dark side street as into a swallowing cavern. STEPHEN CRANE. THE MINOR POET. Pegasus rose as I drew near, But, Lor’! I grabbed his tail, And now on to Olympus Heights We both serenely sail! HAROLD MACGRATH. [Illustration: CADMUS] TO CADMUS. To good St. Cad we sing, For he’s patron Saint and King Of lettered men. He was both wise and strong And he had a marked penchant To use the pen. He laid the walls of Thebes When he’d sowed Bœotian Glebes In martial oats. He was Minerva’s pet, For she gave the alphabet To him with notes. A serpent he became, When he’d tired of human fame And yellow gold. And now a tempter sly, He but tries to make men buy, Rare book and old.