a sea is filling from rivers of experience.  Forgetfulness rises as a tide and creeps upward to drown within us those stories of the days that were.  And because this is true, it comes to me that you as a memory must stand tallest in the midst of my regard.  For of you I find within me no forgetfulness.  I have met others; they came, they tarried, they departed.  They came again; and on this second encounter the recollection of their existences smote upon me as a surprise.  I had forgotten them as though they had not been.  But such is not your tale.  Drawn on the plates of memory, as with a tool of diamond, I carry you both in broadest outline and in each least of shade; and there hangs no picture in the gallery of hours gone, to which I turn with more of pleasure and of good.  Nor am I alone in my recollection.  Do I pass through the Fifth Avenue Hotel on my way to the Hoffman, that vandyked dispenser leans pleasantly across his counter, to ask with deepest interest:  “Do you hear from the Old Man now?” Or am I belated in Shanley’s, a beaming ring of waiters—­if it be not an hour overrun of custom—­will half-circle my table, and the boldest, “Pat,” will question timidly, yet with a kindly Galway warmth:  “How’s the Old Man?” Old Man!  That is your title:  at once dignified and affectionate; and by it you come often to be referred to along Broadway these ten years after its conference.  And when the latest word is uttered what is there more to fame!  I shall hold myself fortunate, indeed, if, departing, I’m remembered by half so many half so long.  But wherefore extend ourselves regretfully?  We may meet again; the game is not played out.  Pending such bright chance, I dedicate this book to you.  It is the most of honour that lies in my lean power.  And in so doing, I am almost moved to say, as said Goldsmith of Johnson in his offering of She Stoops to Conquer:  “By inscribing this slight performance to you, I do not mean to so much compliment you as myself.  It may do me some honour to inform the public that I have lived many years in intimacy with you.  It may serve the interests of mankind also to inform them that the greatest wit may be found in a character without impairing the most unaffected piety.”  I repeat, I am all but moved to write these lines of you.  It would tell my case at least; and while description might limp in so far as you lack somewhat of that snuffle of “true piety” so often engaging the Johnsonian nose, you make up the defect with possession of a wider philosophy, a better humour and a brighter, quicker wit than visited or dwelt beneath the candle-scorched wig of our old bully lexicographer.

Alfred Henry Lewis.

Some Cowboy Facts.