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anything gained by the paragraph about the clergymen ? Can you show how the piece grows less and less general, and more and more particular? Where does it begin to increase in interest? Where is the place at which a kind of story begins? Note how much, from that place onward, is story, how much is description, and how much is explanation. In which kind of writing are you most interested? Why? Is there anything humorous in this selection? Do you get a good idea of the camp at night? How is an effect of lonesomeness and isolation produced? Are the people who are described more, or less, good-natured than campers in real life? Can you describe (from your imagination) some particular person in the party? Is the idea that the author gives of camping a fair one? Have your camping experiences been agreeable, or not?

THEME SUBJECTS

When Our Tent Blew Down

An Unexpected Intruder in Camp
How We Pitched Camp

The Night That It Rained
How to Build a Camp Fire
A Rainy Day in Camp
How to Make a Camp Bed
The First Night in Camp
Is Camping Worth While?
The Boy Who Spoiled Our Week
at Camp

Building a Camp Stove
Around the Camp Fire
Camp Cooking
Breaking Camp
Sounds at Night

Some People Who Should
Not Go Camping
An Incident of Camp Life
An Ideal Camping Place
An Accident on the Water
An Unsuccessful Sail

SUGGESTIONS FOR THEME-WRITING

The Night That It Rained :— - How much explanation will be necessary in order to make your reader understand the situation as to time and place? Do you think a long explanation would be interesting? Describe the first suggestion of rain; then the gradual approach of the storm. Tell what you and your companions did, and how you felt. Can you report any of the remarks made by various persons? Can you make the remarks of each person show his character? Does Warner do so? How can you close up your story? Can you give, in a brief way, a suggestion of the passing of the storm (or the coming on of daylight) and

the gradual return to quiet and comfort? Would it be wise to refer again to the feelings of the party, under the changed conditions?

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GOLIATH

THOMAS BAILEY ALDRICH

(From Two Bites at a Cherry).

Ir was raining-softly, fluently, persistently-raining as it rains on the afternoon of the morning when you hesitate a minute or two at the hat-stand, and finally decide not to take your umbrella down town with you. It was one of those fine rains — I am not praising it — which wet you to the skin in about four seconds. A sharp twenty-minutes' walk lay between my office in Court Street and my rooms in Huntington Avenue. I was standing meditatively in the doorway of the former establishment on the lookout for a hack or a herdic. An unusual number of these vehicles were hurrying in all directions, but as each approached within the arc of my observation the face of some fortunate occupant was visible through the blurred glass of the closed window.

Presently a coupé leisurely turned the corner, as if in search of a fare. I hailed the driver, and though he apparently took no notice of my gesture, the coupé slowed up and stopped, or nearly stopped, at the curbstone directly in front of me. I dashed across the narrow sidewalk, pulled open the door, and stepped into the vehicle. As I did so, some one else on the opposite side performed the same evolution, and we stood motionless for an instant with the crowns of our hats glued together. Then we seated ourselves simultaneously, each by this token claiming the priority of possession.

"I beg your pardon, sir," I said, "but this is my carriage."

"I beg your pardon, sir," was the equally frigid reply; "the carriage is mine."

"I hailed the man from that doorway," I said, with firmness.

"And I hailed him from the crossing."

"But I signalled him first."

My companion disdained to respond to that statement, but settled himself back on the cushions as if he had resolved to spend the rest of his life there. "We will leave it to the driver," I said.

The subject of this colloquy now twisted his body round on the dripping box, and shouted

"Where to, gentlemen?"

I lowered the plate glass, and addressed him— "There's a mistake here. This gentleman and I both claim the coupé. Which of us first called you?" But the driver "could n't tell t' other from which," as he expressed it. Having two fares inside, he of course had no wild desire to pronounce a decision that would necessarily cancel one of them.

The situation had reached this awkward phase when the intruder leaned forward and inquired, with a total change in his intonation

"Are you not Mr. David Willis?"

"That is my name."

"I am Edwin Watson; we used to know each other slightly at college."

All along there had been something familiar to me in the man's face, but I had attributed it to the fact that I hated him enough at first sight to have known him intimately for ten years. Of course, after this, there was no further dispute about the carriage. Mr.

Watson wanted to go to the Providence Station, which lay directly on the route to Huntington Avenue, and I was charmed to have his company. We fell into pleasant chat concerning the old Harvard days, and were surprised when the coupé drew up in front of the red-brick clock-tower of the station.

The acquaintance, thus renewed by chance, continued. Though we had resided six years in the same city, and had not met before, we were now continually meeting at the club, at the down-town restaurant where we lunched, at various houses where we visited in common. Mr. Watson was in the banking business; he had been married one or two years, and was living out of town, in what he called "a little box," on the slope of Blue Hill. He had once or twice invited me to run out to dine and spend the night with him, but some engagement or other disability had interfered. One evening, however, as we were playing billiards at the St. Botolph I accepted his invitation for a certain Tuesday. Watson, who was having a vacation at the time, was not to accompany me from town, but was to meet me with his pony-cart at Green Lodge, a small flag-station on the Providence railroad, two or three miles from The Briers, the name of his place.

"I shall be proud to show you my wife," he said, "and the baby -and Goliath."

"Goliath ?"

"That's the dog," answered Watson, with a laugh. "You and Goliath ought to meet - David and Goliath!"

If Watson had mentioned the dog earlier in the conversation I might have shied at his hospitality. I may as well at once confess that I do not like dogs, and am afraid of them. Of some things I am not

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