So he ate an orange, slowly spitting out the seeds. Outside, the snow
was turning to rain. Inside, the electric stove seemed to give no heat
and rising from his writing-table, he sat down upon the stove. How good
it felt! Here, at last, was life.
He reached for another orange. Far away in Paris, Mascart had knocked
Danny Frush cuckoo in the second round. Far off in Mesopotamia,
twenty-one feet of snow had fallen. Across the world in distant
Australia, the English cricketers were sharpening up their wickets.
_There_ was Romance.
Patrons of the arts and letters have discovered _The Forum_, he read. It
is the guide, philosopher, and friend of the thinking minority. Prize
short-stories—will their authors write our best-sellers of to-morrow?
You will enjoy these warm, homespun, American tales, bits of real life
on the open ranch, in crowded tenement or comfortable home, and all with
a healthy undercurrent of humor.