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Once upon a time, a good many years ago, there was a traveller, and he set out upon a journey.

"All hunting stories are the same," said Clovis; "just as all Turf stories are the same, and all--"

The Baroness Gruebel shrugged her plump shoulders.

Treddleford sat in an easeful arm-chair in front of a slumberous fire, with a volume of verse in his hand and the comfortable consciousness that outside the club windows the rain was dripping and pattering with persistent purpose.

Then they set off, the little girl holding in her hand the small varnished rung of a crutch, just as she might walk beside her big friend and hold his thumb.

The war was over. The Germans occupied France. The whole country was pulsating like a conquered wrestler beneath the knee of his victorious opponent.

A man who could write anything cheerful after a day in the drafting-yards would be a freak of nature.

VANKA ZHUKOV, a boy of nine, who had been for three months apprenticed to Alyahin the shoemaker, was sitting up on Christmas Eve.

Looking at Nellie's motionless eyes and parted lips, one could hardly say whether she was asleep or awake, but nevertheless she was seeing.

At nightfall the old woman was at home again. She slept well that night.

An old story yet lives of the "Thorny Road of Honor," of a marksman, who indeed attained to rank and office, but only after a lifelong and weary strife against difficulties.