"Why do the lieatlion rage?" blurted out Mr. Blykins. who had been sitting beside the evening lamp for s&veral minutes in silent communion with his faraway thoughts. "There's the question. Wby do they?" "I give it up, dear," his -n-ife responded, her eyes sparkllng with genial expectancy. "This isn't a conuiKlrum. It's one of these qnestions people ask in order to lmmiliate you by a reminder that you don't know the answer. It isn't original, anyhow. ïhere is every roason why the heathen should not rase. They have everything their own way. Ivook at the Philippine natives. Iook t Aguinaldo. All they'd have to do voulci be to ann-jxed peacefiully and ome over to this country and hold nice, easy jobs in dime museums for he rest of their days." "This country is going to be a pereet ethnological eongress pretty soon," he cornmented. "It might be a liappy family of all nations. But these heathens will rage. If there is anything that makes me tired, ifs a heathen, And I want o say this, Mrs. Blykins. If I find bat you are knitting any more tidies and buying any more red flannel to niake wearing apparel for the heathen i'm going to protest. You mean well; your motives are lofty, but the heathen don't desei've it."