stiff glazed hat to find out what kind of strategy is needed. Then
they proceed to drown out an ice-cream saloon on the wrong side of the
street.

Browne is happy. He climbs a lamppost, and sets to work taking notes
as fast as his pencil can fly. Somebody, mistaking his coat-tail
pockets for the post-office, drops in a set of public documents (it
is the last day of franking), which so interferes with Browne's
equilibrium that he falls over backward into an ash-barrel, after
getting out of which he finds it rests him to write with his pencil in
his teeth. At last order is restored, the thumb is repaired, and the
procession, getting untangled, moves off to the inspiriting strains of
"Ain't you glad," etc.

Browne mixes in two more scenes before lunch. In the afternoon there's
a balloon ascension, where everything goes up but the balloon; and
a croquet-party brim full of eccentricities. Browne picks up half a
dozen juvenile and domestic incidents, hardly worth alluding to, and
goes home, through a series of adventures, to find a tall, raw-boned
horse, a total stranger, walking over his flower-beds and occasionally
looking in at the windows. Browne's skirmishes around the animal (the
whole campaign together) cost him about thirty dollars.

I resign Danbury to Browne. Though there's a capital fellow there whom
I should like to see, I'd rather not go down there and pay taxes.

SARSFIELD YOUNG.


ANOTHER GHOST.