“Were you?” said Clangingharp. “I’d forgotten. Very well, I’ll pay them all. Keep ’em there as long as you can. I go this way.” He donned his silken tile and disappeared onto the fire-escape. They watched him climb by a hall window into the floor below, and then they heard the quick, impatient ring of the elevator bell. Strings Clangingharp hastened to the corner drug store. Hermia Clinkplunks was pensively sipping soda water. “Ah, punctual, my dear,” he whispered. “Did you get it?” Looking fondly into his false face she handed him a small leathern bag and murmured, “Ten thousand.” Clangingharp thankfully detached a $20 bill from the stacks in the bag and bought her a package of chewing gum. Then they went out and were married. The Knittenpin woman, the Soubrette and Volumnia at last became hungry and made for the elevator. The bride was just getting out of it as they approached, and inquired, “Have you seen anything of Mr. Clangingharp?” FRANK W. NOXON. CARPE DIEM. (An Old Song Resung.) Full of life as it will hold Let us fill the fleeting day, For to-morrow we grow old. Let’s be lovers blithe and bold, Hot with folly while we may, For to-morrow we grow old. Let our eager eyes behold Shining wonders on our way, For to-morrow we grow old. Let delight be uncontrolled, Let the bubble dream be gay, For to-morrow we grow old. When the heart and lips are cold, What will stir this sluggish clay— When to-morrow we grow old? What to us the hoarded gold, Ample lands, and proud display, When to-morrow we grow old? Soon, too soon, the tale is told; Soon, too soon, the dumb dismay. Full of life as it will hold Let us fill the fleeting day, For to-morrow we grow old. CHARLES G. D. ROBERTS. SIDE TALKS WITH THE PHILISTINES: CONDUCTED BY THE EAST AURORA SCHOOL OF PHILOSOPHY. It having come to my notice that nine out of ten of the people who buy this magazine read from the back page forward, on account of the phosphorus in these “notes,” I have decided to make the Side Talks in future fully one-half of the entire magazine. The large crop of potatoes, and the prosperous condition of the School of Philosophy, make it easier for me to be wiser and more joshuescent than ever before. * * * * * I note a disposition in some quarters to roundly censure the western college paper that dished over that old joke of Dean Swift’s, and reported Mr. Hubbard dead. Why, that story is as true as anything the present editor of the intercollegiate periodical has written in the calendar year! * * * * *