alto, South Crimea.
The ride from the ancient City of the Klans to the fortress-narded town of Sevastopol lacked nothing in adventure We rested awhile at a little Tur let, tumble-down and squalid, ow apology for a mosque that had a tapering: whitewashed, candle-snuffer sort of min: ret. The feature of the place was the ance. The Tartars, however, tell. who they were, but there is: nothing believ. able about their yarn except that they had no heads, and that their eyes were in the middle of their stomachs. One of us declared those Tartars must have been reading a stray-copy of the travels of that sanctimonious and lying old. knight Sir John Maundeville, who in his journeys saw more unseeable things than all the other world-wanderers, since Herodots downwards, lumped together, ever saw. On the summit of lofty crags were perched the original habitations of the "Forty Thieves." Nobody locally, however, gave them that ungentlemanly title. They call the place Chufut Kale, or the town of Forty Castles. Still, there is good internal evidence that the " Forty Thieves" theory is correct. They were forty brothers, and they were Jews. But they lived over two thousand years ago, and rather belong to ancient history, Sevastopol is crammed full of things that did not particularly interest us.. Sullen fortifications, threatening batteries, gaunt barracks, slimy docks, deadly mines, bastions, earthworks, hospitals, and cemeteries are its stock-in-trade," No one, except an undertaker, can be jovial in such a place. The town is overran with military and naval authorities, whose occupation the whole day long is to salute one another, We stayed a Sunday in Sevastopol. It was like seeking peace and finding a' furnace. We were in the condition of Sidney Smith, who wanted to get out of his skin and si¢ in his bones. It wasn't an ordinary seaside busy on another one. But judying by the box-office returns, the best, most. practical of dramatic critics, it will be long before the new play The Spendthrift will be required. Rosemary is 80 pure, tender, so human in the best sense, that we smile, even as our tears chase the smile from our lips. And we leave the theatre bent. on some kindly, loving deed to those about our own firesides ere it is too late, and we are forsooth forced to gather in our harvest of dead sea fruit, from life's stream, flowing silently by; at our weary foot.
Aysiz Waxewan Larnnor.
Text read from the printed page and cleaned; old type leaves the occasional error.