following:  he would be too costly, and would have too many enemies among his brethren, even if he would consent to undertake the job.  Fulkerson had a man in mind, an artist, too, who would have been the very thing if he had been the thing at all.  He had talent enough, and his sort of talent would reach round the whole situation, but, as Fulkerson said, he was as many kinds of an ass as he was kinds of an artist.

PG EDITOR’S BOOKMARKS: 

    Anticipative homesickness
    Any sort of stuff was good enough to make a preacher out of
    Appearance made him doubt their ability to pay so much
    As much of his story as he meant to tell without prompting
    Considerable comfort in holding him accountable
    Extract what consolation lurks in the irreparable
    Flavors not very sharply distinguished from one another
    Handsome pittance
    He expected to do the wrong thing when left to his own devices
    Hypothetical difficulty
    Never-blooming shrub
    Poverty as hopeless as any in the world
    Seeming interested in points necessarily indifferent to him
    Servant of those he loved
    Sigh with which ladies recognize one another’s martyrdom
    Sorry he hadn’t asked more; that’s human nature
    That isn’t very old—­or not so old as it used to be
    Tried to be homesick for them, but failed
    Turn to their children’s opinion with deference
    Wish we didn’t always recognize the facts as we do

A HAZARD OF NEW FORTUNES

By William Dean Howells

PART SECOND

I.

The evening when March closed with Mrs. Green’s reduced offer, and decided to take her apartment, the widow whose lodgings he had rejected sat with her daughter in an upper room at the back of her house.  In the shaded glow of the drop-light she was sewing, and the girl was drawing at the same table.  From time to time, as they talked, the girl lifted her head and tilted it a little on one side so as to get some desired effect of her work.

“It’s a mercy the cold weather holds off,” said the mother.  “We should have to light the furnace, unless we wanted to scare everybody away with a cold house; and I don’t know who would take care of it, or what would become of us, every way.”

“They seem to have been scared away from a house that wasn’t cold,” said the girl.  “Perhaps they might like a cold one.  But it’s too early for cold yet.  It’s only just in the beginning of November.”

“The Messenger says they’ve had a sprinkling of snow.”

“Oh yes, at St. Barnaby!  I don’t know when they don’t have sprinklings of snow there.  I’m awfully glad we haven’t got that winter before us.”

The widow sighed as mothers do who feel the contrast their experience opposes to the hopeful recklessness of such talk as this.  “We may have a worse winter here,” she said, darkly.