Sara found herself seated next to the Brown Teddy-Bear. After he had
eaten a pickle or two and begun to look cheerful, she asked him,
tactfully, what he had had so long on his mind.

"I'll tell you, Sara," said the Brown Teddy-Bear candidly and
mournfully. "I'm so ephemeral."

Sara opened her eyes, and looked at him carefully. What new affliction
was this? "Do you mean you're sick?" she asked, after a while.

"No, Sara," said the Teddy-Bear, smiling sadly. "You don't understand.
What I mean is, I'm already old-fashioned; I've had my day. Twenty
years from now, nobody will know what you mean when you speak of a
Teddy-Bear."

"I will," said Sara, squeezing his paw affectionately.

"Well, perhaps you will, Sara," admitted the Teddy-Bear, "because
you'll remember. But the children won't, and they're the only ones
that matter."

"I'll tell mine," insisted Sara stoutly.

"Ah, yes, Sara," said the Teddy-Bear, still more sadly, "but such
loyalty as yours is rare. I have but a frail hold upon posterity. The
same is true of many of my colleagues--the Billiken, for instance, and
the Kewp. But the Billiken is a philosopher, and doesn't care; and the
Kewp is a careless child. But I feel it, Sara; I have to confess to
you that I am a prey to the 'last infirmity of noble minds.'" After a
moment he added, less sadly but more irritably, "That creature, now,