6 The Book of Bugs. 



why, 'twud make a buck the lin'th o' this cable an' the 

 hoi'th of it from the Mure." 



" It would not. Sure, amn't I tellin' ye I seen it? To 

 me aunt's house it was. A black buck wit 1 pitchers in it. 

 'Twas about the common size o' bucks." 



'T\vas not the rale Histh'ry of the Wurruld thin." 



" It was." 



Rather than have a fuss, Mr. Colleran passed the point 

 at issue for the moment and went on to ask : Well, 

 sipposin' yc had it, Tom, sipposin' ye had it, what good 

 wud it do ye? : 



' Well, for wan thing," declared Mr. Brady, looking 

 out of the window with a far-away glance, " I'd find out 

 where was the cinther of the wurruld. 'Tis somewhere 

 in Peru or Patagony, I disremember which. Wan or th' 

 oother." 



I have often thought since then how completely Mr. 

 Brady's interest in books accorded with that of all other 

 people. If it had been any of my put-in, I could have 

 told him that where he sat at that moment was the center 

 of the world, as it is for each one of us, and that one spot 

 is the one we care most for. It is a most engaging topic 

 of discussion for us at aiil times, and when we get going 

 on it there's no stopping us. I myself possess a large 

 fund of the most breathlessly exciting information, such 

 as how positive I am in my likes and dislikes ; if I like a 

 thing, I like it, and if I don't like it, I don't like it at all. 

 Then, too, I have a great memory for faces. If I see a 

 man ten or fifteen times and become very intimate with 

 him and I meet him six months or a year afterward and 

 he comes up and holds out his hand and says : " Why, how 

 do you do? Don't you remember me? I met you at 

 So-and-so's," quick as a flash it all comes back to me. 

 But I have a very poor memory for names. If I am 



