Hindustan walk in lovely procession through the streets, they too, like
the friars, are clad in yellow. Amber is yellow; so is the orange; and
so were stage-coaches and many dashing things of the old time; and pink
is yellow by lamplight. But gold-mines, it has been proved, are not so
yellow as is popularly supposed. Hymen's robe is Miltonically 'saffron,'
and the dearest petticoat in all literature--not forgetting the
'tempestuous' garment of Herrick's Julia--was 'yaller.' Yes!--

''Er petticoat was yaller an' 'er little cap was green,
An' er name was Supi-yaw-lat, jes' the same as Theebaw's Queen.'

Is it possible to say anything prettier for yellow than that?




LETTER TO AN UNSUCCESSFUL LITERARY MAN


My Dear Sir,--I agree with every word you say. You have my entire
sympathy. The world is indeed hard, hard to the sad--particularly hard
to the unsuccessful. A sure five hundred a year covers a multitude of
sorrows. It is ever an ill wind for the shorn lamb. If it be true that
nothing succeeds like success, it is no less sadly true that nothing
fails like failure. And when one thinks of it, it is only natural, for
every failure is an obstruction in the stream of life. Metaphorical
writers are fond of saying that the successful ride to success on the
back of the failures. It is true that many rise on stepping-stones of
their dead relations--but that is because their relations have been
financial successes. In truth, instead of the failure making the