Rivington seemed ill at ease.

"I say," he said -- somewhat entreatingly, "I thought --
you're not stringing us, are you? It isn't just the kind

of talk we expected. You haven't even said 'Hully gee!'
once. Do you really belong on the Bowery?"

"I am afraid," said the Bowery boy, smilingly, "that
at some time you have been enticed into one of the dives

of literature and had the counterfeit coin of the Bowery
passed upon you. The 'argot' to which you doubtless

refer was the invention of certain of your literary 'dis-
coverers' who invaded the unknown wilds below Third

avenue and put strange sounds into the mouths of the
inhabitants. Safe in their homes far to the north and

west, the credulous readers who were beguiled by this
new 'dialect' perused and believed. Like Marco Polo

and Mungo Park -- pioneers indeed, but ambitious souls
who could not draw the line of demarcation between dis-

covery and invention -- the literary bones of these
explorers are dotting the trackless wastes of the sub-

way. While it is true that after the publication of the
mythical language attributed to the dwellers along the

Bowery certain of its pat phrases and apt metaphors
were adopted and, to a limitedextent, used in this locality,

it was because our people are prompt in assimilating
whatever is to their commercialadvantage. To the

tourists who visited our newly discovered clime, and
who expected a realization of their literary guide books,

they supplied the demands of the market.
"But perhaps I am wandering from the question. In

what way can I assist you, gentlemen? I beg you will
believe that the hospitality of the street is extended to

all. There are, I regret to say, many catchpenny places
of entertainment, but I cannot conceive that they would

entice you."
I felt Rivington lean somewhat heavily against me.

"Say!" he remarked, with uncertainutterance; "come
and have a drink with us."

"Thank you, but I never drink. I find that alcohol,
even in the smallest quantities, alters the perspective.

And I must preserve my perspective, for I am studyinc,
the Bowery. I have lived in it nearly thirty years, and

I am just beginning to understand its heartbeats. It is
like a great river fed by a hundred alien streams. Each

influx brings strange seeds on its flood, strange silt and
weeds, and now and then a flower of rare promise. To

construe this river requires a man who can build dykes
against the overflow, who is a naturalist, a geologist, a

humanitarian, a diver and a strong swimmer. I love
my Bowery. It was my cradle and is my inspiration.

I have published one book. The critics have been kind.
I put my heart in it. I am writing another, into which

I hope to put both heart and brain. Consider me your
guide, gentlemen. Is there arything I can take you to

see, any place to which I can conduct you?"
I was afraid to look at Rivington except with one

eye.
"Thanks," said Rivington. "We were looking up

. . . that is . . . my friend . . . confound
it; it's against all precedent, you know . . . awfully

obliged . . . just the same."
"In case," said our friend, "you would like to meet

some of our Bowery young men I would be pleased to
have you visit the quarters of our East Side Kappa Delta

Phi Society, only two blocks east of here."
"Awfully sorry," said Rivington, "but my friend's got

me on the jump to-nioht. He's a terror when he's out
after local colour. Now, there's nothing I would like

better than to drop in at the Kappa Delta Phi, but --
some other time!"

We said our farewells and boarded a home-bound car.
We had a rabbit on upper Broadway, and then I parted

with Rivington on a street corner.
"Well, anyhow," said he, braced and recovered, "it

couldn't have happened anywhere but in little old New
York."

Which to say the least, was typical of Rivington.
GEORGIA'S RULING

If you should chance to visit the General Land Office,
step into the draughtsmen's room and ask to be shown

the map of Salado County. A leisurely German -- pos-
sibly old Kampfer himself -- will bring it to you. It will

be four feet square, on heavy drawing-cloth. The lettering
and the figures will be beautifully clear and distinct.

The title will be in splendid, undecipherable German
text, ornamented with classic Teutonic designs -- very

likely Ceres or Pomona leaning against the initial letters
with cornucopias venting grapes and wieners. You

must tell him that this is not the map you wish to see;
that he will kindly bring you its official predecessor.

He will then say, "Ach, so!" and bring out a map
half the size of the first, dim, old, tattered, and

faded.
By looking carefully near its northwest corner you will

presently come upon the worn contours of Chiquito
River, and, maybe, if your eyes are good, discern the

silent witness to this story.
The Commissioner of the Land Office was of the old

style; his antiquecourtesy was too formal for his day.
He dressed in fine black, and there was a suggestion of

Roman drapery in his long coat-skirts. His collars were
"undetached" (blame haberdashery for the word); his

tie was a narrow, funereal strip, tied in the same knot as
were his shoe-strings. His gray hair was a trifle too long

behind, but he kept it smooth and orderly. His face was
clean-shaven, like the old statesmen's. Most people

thought it a stern face, but when its official expression was
off, a few had seen altogether a different countenance.

Especially tender and gentle it had appeared to those
who were about him during the last illness of his only

child.
The Commissioner had been a widower for years, and

his life, outside his official duties, had been so devoted
to little Georgia that people spoke of it as a touching and

admirable thing. He was a reserved man, and dignified
almost to austerity, but the child had come below it all

and rested upon his very heart, so that she scarcely missed
the mother's love that had been taken away. There was

a wonderful companionship between them, for she had
many of his own ways, being thoughtful and serious

beyond her years.
One day, while she was lying with the fever burning

brightly in her checks, she said suddenly:
"Papa, I wish I could do something good for a whole

lot of children!"
"What would you like to do, dear?" asked the Com-

Missioner. "Give them a party?"
"Oh, I don't mean those kind. I mean poor children

who haven't homes, and aren't loved and cared for as
I am. I tell you what, papa!"

"What, my own child?"