IT was a week later, and well after two, in the dullest ebb of earth’s deadest hour, when Benson lifted the portiere and stepped into my room. I put down the book at which my brain had been scratching, like a dog scratching at a closed door. It was a volume of Gautier’s “Nouvelles.”By Arthur Stringer35 min
TOO many of us think of a garden as rows,” said the professor; “the successful gardener sees his plot as a community of individual plants each with a set of human needs and habits of its own.” The horticulturalists gave a deep and unanimous sigh; this was not the kind of talk they wanted.By Ethyl Munro7 min
MARMADUKE flipped his cigarette butt away, rested his elbows on the arms of his chair, and joined his finger tips together. I was his guest over Sunday at the Golf Club. There was a little dance at a house near by, to which we had been invited, so we dined comfortably at the club, and had an hour or so before we need start out.By A. C. Allenson23 min
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