OU think jes 'caus yo Mar put dem pants on you, you ain't got ter take no nap in de day time,

but you is."

"I haven't neither."

"Yes, an' 'shet yo mouf' got er spankin' de las' time his Mar hear him, too."

"I never said 'shut your mouf,' I said 'youse botherin' me'!"

"Nev' mine, whut you sed, dem curls stays right on dat hed-less'n you begs m'pardon 'bout dat 'shet yo mouf' bisnes!"

Reluctantly leaving the tiny garden tools, he climbs to the top step of the porch where sits his friend in times of trouble, his foe at sleepy hour, his comrade in all seasons of joy. Taking her white kerchiefed head between his plump, chubby arms, he lovingly squeezes her to him with:

"I love you, Mammy Phyllis, I won't do it any more."

"Bless Mammy's baby! He ain't nuthin' but er man neether, sense his Par done make us pull dem kilts of'n him. Set heah in Mammy's lap an' les us talk 'bout Californy."

"When can we go back there, Mammy ?"

"Lawd, honey, we done spent all yo Par's money rid'in' on dem Sunset kyars an' eatin' dey fine vit'als."

"What are Sunset cars?"

"Lawd, baby, de kyars dat rid us ter Californy!"

Den

"I didn't see any sun set on them.” "Cose you never, but hits dar. De po'ter on our kyar say dat de sun keeps his eye sot on dem Rocky mountains, an' 'bout de time er day he gits low nuf ter set, dat de mountains, dey sorter stretches up, twel dey tetches one nuther. dey howdys, an' shakes hans, an' passes de time er day, twel pres'nly, Miss Rocky Mountains say she's jes tired er dem kyars ringin' an twistin' deysef on her foots, an' on her sides, an' plum twel dey gits on top er head; dat she jes er good mine ter crumble up an' mash em same es er ant.

"Den Mister Sun, he sorter raise up frum whar he's settin' an' say: 'Well, Miss Rockies, I thought maybe you had 'speck fur my feelins.'

"Miss Rocky say, she is, dat she think he's de big'es man in de Firment. Den he tell her she's de grandes' an' riches' lady 'pon earf.

"Den dey bofe looks mighty proud, an' Mister Sun sorter slides back in his seat ergin, an' say: 'You knows, Rocky, darlin', dem Sunset kyars is de onlies' name sake I got 'pon de earf, an' ef you crumbles yo sef up, an' 'stroys dem, den you not only 'stroys m'name sake, but you cripples yo own sef so bad, dat you can't nuver reach up high nuf ter have no mo conversashuns wid me, an dat'll make me so lonesome, twel I'll have ter go hunt me er nuther honey-gal.'

"Dat surt'nly stirry's Miss Rocky Mountains up! She rar back her head an' turn so cole, twel de snow broke out all over her head, an' shoulders an' she say: 'Hit ain't dat I keers, Mister Sun, whether you gits you er nuther gal er no, but I does keer 'bout cripplin' m'own sef.'

"Jes den de Sun, he sorter settle down er lit'le lower an' kiss de top er Miss Rocky's head all kiver'd wid snow an' says: 'Good night, m'proud beauty, I'll trus' m'lit'le name sake ter you.'

"Den she smiles, an' shines like all de

dey car'ys em out ter San Francisker ter dat big Oshun we seed out dar; but de Oshun, she too bizzy flirtin' wid de moon, ter pay tenshun ter Miss Rocky's tears, an' so de Sun nuver gits no wud 'bout hit."

"Boo hoo! Boo hoo! Mammy, I don't want the cars to make the mountains cry." "Now, jes lis'n ter you! Settin' up heah cryin' 'stid er goin' ter sleep. Hush now! lemme wipe yo eyes."

"No, no, I want to take the cars off the mountains."

"Lawd, honey, don't you know Miss Rocky Mountains wud fly at you like er tiger ef she thought you seed dem tearsshe prouder er dem tears den you is uv dem new gyarden tools-dem tears is de proof uv love. G'long an' finish yo' well, you done got too big ter take naps in de day time an' you nuver is ter git big er nuf ter 'preshate de gran'nes uv er ooman's heart."

ENSON had written a book.

B A great many people-too

many, it must be acknowledged, have been guilty of the same offense. But no one had written a book like Benson's.

That it was a singularly unusual production could not be denied. The critics all recognized this. What they did not recognize was that it was a perfectly natural result.

Of this fact no one was aware but Benson himself. If one other person suspected it, he recognized it as a suspicion and kept silent.

The truth was the book had been written while Benson was fighting "blue devils;" it was the outcome of face to face bout with the demon called mental depression.

It had been a close shave-like the tossing up of a penny. But he had won out.

Naturally, the book was unique.

One-half the public being a little off its mental base, went wild over it; the other half, practical and cold-blooded, condemned it vigorously.

The combined commendation and condemnation could have but one resultthe success of the book was inevitable. And Benson, thanks to a chronically lean pocketbook, a bad liver, and an overtaxed physical and mental condition, had-according to the critics-written a great book, and was voted that most lauded of twentieth century heroes-a literary phe

nomenon.

An appreciative public was at Benson's feet-because he was a genius, so the public declared. True it had been

ELIZABETH VORE

Illustrated by Arthur Lewis

hinted before by certain voices "crying in the wilderness" during the past few years of his struggle for existence and substantial recognition, that he was a genius, and the public had wended its indifferent way down the other side of the street with its collective back turned squarely Bensonward.

But it does not necessitate a very brilliant intellect to discern the difference between genius enthroned in a ten by twelve hall bedroom, in seedy attire, and a general run-down-at-the-heel appearance, from genius upon whose lofty brow prosperity has set its seal.

"Unto him who hath it shall be given," was Benson's inward comment when first it dawned upon him how beloved he was by an admiring public.

The crisis was past. He had emerged from the affray with his cerebral equilibrium thoroughly regained-to all appearances, and developed a cool-headedness and a cold-blooded appreciation of the commercial value of the situation that was baffling to the hero-worshipers.

Genius and business ability were incongruous, yet genius is erratic, and of course one could not expect Benson to be like other people, or even like other geniuses.

Had he worn a sunflower in his lapel, or journeyed up and down the land exhibiting Benson, and telling-for a consideration-how he came to write "Benson's Venture," by which name his book was called, people could have understood; that was what the public naturally expected.

Benson did none of these things. His manner of life was as unobtrusive as was his appearance commonplace. He was a slight, well built, youngish man, on the right side of forty. The redeeming features of his face were a square, decided chin and a pair of keen blue eyes that had a trick of observing things closely without seeming to do so. looked simply a well-dressed, well-bred young man, whom the casual observer would never have taken for a genius.

He