the war telegrams divert my first attention from the advertising columns
of the daily papers. I repeat, let no man think I have disclosed the
weaknesses of the neighborhood, nor rashly open that closet which
contains the secret skeleton of his dwelling. My carpets have been
altered to fit all sized odd-shaped apartments from parallelopiped to
hexagons. Much of my furniture has been distributed among my former
dwellings. These limbs have stretched upon uncarpeted floors, or have
been let down suddenly from imperfectly established bedsteads. I have
dined in the parlor and slept in the back kitchen. Yet the result of
these sacrifices and trials may be briefly summed up in the statement
that I am now on the eve of removal from my PRESENT NEIGHBORHOOD.




MY SUBURBAN RESIDENCE.


I live in the suburbs. My residence, to quote the pleasing fiction of
the advertisement, "is within fifteen minutes' walk of the City Hall."
Why the City Hall should be considered as an eligible terminus of
anybody's walk, under any circumstances, I have not been able to
determine. Never having walked from my residence to that place, I am
unable to verify the assertion, though I may state as a purely abstract
and separate proposition, that it takes me the better part of an hour to
reach Montgomery Street.

My selection of locality was a compromise between my wife's desire to
go into the country, and my own predilections for civic habitation. Like
most compromises, it ended in retaining the objectionable features of