as the occasion required, and resume his attempts to write as good as

copperplate. He hated writing; the ink always crept up his fingers and

the smell of ink offended him. And he was filled with unexpressed

doubts. Why should writing slope down from right to left? Why

should downstrokes be thick and upstrokes thin? Why should the

handle of one's pen point over one's right shoulder?

His copy books towards the end foreshadowed his destiny and took the

form of commercial documents. "Dear Sir," they ran, "Referring to

your esteemed order of the 26th ult., we beg to inform you," and so

on.

The compression of Mr. Polly's mind and soul in the educational

institutions of his time, was terminated abruptly by his father

between his fourteenth and fifteenth birthday. His father--who had

long since forgotten the time when his son's little limbs seemed to

have come straight from God's hand, and when he had kissed five minute

toe-nails in a rapture of loving tenderness--remarked:

"It's time that dratted boy did something for a living."

And a month or so later Mr. Polly began that career in business that

led him at last to the sole proprietorship of a bankrupt outfitter's

shop--and to the stile on which he was sitting.

The History of Mr Polly