My Spaniard, a God fearing man, was greatly shocked by the sight, and my man Friday, too, was strongly affected; but to my shame I must confess that I did not share their abhorrence. Yet even my stomach began to protest when the dancer, darting to one of the canoes, appeared with a gory head that had been chopped from one of the victims of the feast, and continued her shocking gyrations, to a most infernal din of barbarous musical instruments that half a hundred of the wretches were beating. The Spaniard and Friday urged, in their indignation, that we discharge our muskets at the unholy crew; but I restrained them from such an intelligible piece of violence, reflecting that the barbarous customs of these people might be regarded as their own disaster, and that I was not called upon to judge their actions, much less to execute the judgment of heaven upon them. Besides, they were in such numbers that, had we attacked, we should have been overwhelmed. So, calling for my litter, I returned to my habitation. A LINE-O'-TYPE OR TWO _Hew to the Line, let the quips fall where they may._ An artist friend, back from the Land of Taos, brings word of another artist who is achieving influence by raising hogs--or "picture buyers," as he sardonically calls them. This set us to wondering what had become of Arthur Dove, one of the first of the Einstein school to exhibit in this town. Despairing of the public intelligence, Mr. Dove took up the raising of chickens, and very old readers of this column may recall the verses in which we celebrated his withdrawal from art: THE BROODING DOVE. Arthur Dove is raising chickens, He has put his paints away: Tell me, Chronos, where the dickens Are the Cubes of yesterday! Dove was real, Dove was earnest, But his efforts came to nix. Bowing to decree the sternest, He has gone to raising chicks. There's a strong demand for broilers, There's a call for chicken-pie; Dove declined to paint pot-boilers, So he put his brushes by. Luck attend his every setting! May his inspirations hatch! And, whatever price he's getting, May he market every batch. * * * "Perpetual reduction of my audience is my hobby," observes Mr. Yeats, who aspires to be the Einstein of song. When only twelve disciples are able to understand him, he will be content. * * * A scientific expedition will hunt for the missing link in Asia, and may find it. But it will never be known whether the m. l. was capable of the popular songs which one sees in the windows of music stores, or whether it could have done something better. * * * The gadder contrib who uses the Gideon Bible to hold the shaving mirror at the right angle is properly rebuked by sundry readers. As one of them, M. B. C., says, he may make the Line, but he'll have a close shave if he makes heaven. * * *