“In the principal street of San Francisco stood a small female orphan, marking time like a volunteer.  Her little bare feet imprinted cold kisses on the paving-stones as she put them down and drew them up alternately.  The chilling rain was having a good time with her scalp, and toyed soppily with her hair—­her own hair.  The night-wind shrewdly searched her tattered garments, as if it had suspected her of smuggling.  She saw crowds of determined-looking persons grimly ruining themselves in toys and confectionery for the dear ones at home, and she wished she was in a position to ruin a little—­just a little.  Then, as the happy throng sped by her with loads of things to make the children sick, she leaned against an iron lamp-post in front of a bake-shop and turned on the wicked envy.  She thought, poor thing, she would like to be a cake—­for this little girl was very hungry indeed.  Then she tried again, and thought she would like to be a tart with smashed fruit inside; then she would be warmed over every day and nobody would eat her.  For the child was cold as well as hungry.  Finally, she tried quite hard, and thought she could be very well content as an oven; for then she would be kept always hot, and bakers would put all manner of good things into her with a long shovel.”

S.E.—­I’ve read that somewhere.

P.C.—­Very likely.  This little story has never been rejected by any paper to which I have offered it.  It gets better, too, every time I write it.  When it first appeared in Veracity the editor said it cost him a hundred subscribers.  Just mark the improvement! (Reads.)

“The hours glided by—­except a few that froze to the pavement—­until midnight.  The streets were now deserted, and the almanac having predicted a new moon about this time, the lamps had been conscientiously extinguished.  Suddenly a great globe of sound fell from an adjacent church-tower, and exploded on the night with a deep metallic boom.  Then all the clocks and bells began ringing-in the New Year—­pounding and banging and yelling and finishing off all the nervous invalids left over from the preceding Sunday.  The little orphan started from her dream, leaving a small patch of skin on the frosted lamp-post, clasped her thin blue hands and looked upward, ‘with mad disquietude,’”—­

S.E.—­In The Monitor it was “with covetous eyes.”

P.C.—­I know it; hadn’t read Byron then.  Clever dog, Byron. (Reads.)

“Presently a cranberry tart dropped at her feet, apparently from the clouds.”

S.E.—­How about those angels?

P.C.—­The editor of Good Will cut ’em out.  He said San Francisco was no place for them; and I don’t believe——­

S.E.—­There, there!  Never mind.  Go on with the little story.