see them, feel them, hear their queenly voices, hear the 
rustle of their heavenly skirts in my soul, my heart, my 
entire being. Their habits, their perfumes, all their little 
feminine in ividualities come before me now, which arouse the 
Sreatest imagination that I am possessed of. 
ehold! like poets of old, they come before me like a 
dream! I can see their beautiful hair flying in a balmy 
breeze, their dress flying about their virtuous legs, legs of 
a goddess—Venus herself. The eyes of tenderness, rosy lips 
and cheeks, baby feet, velvet hands, all stare me in the face, 
smile and laugh at me joyously. 
After these girls disappeared from me, dear reader, I 
resolved to devote my time to the consolation of study; 
hence, frequented the lecture halls, museums, libraries, 
Parks, bathing beaches, religious institutions of all kinds, 
ere and there contemplating every department of knowl- 
edge I could conceive of; physiognomy, astronomy, geology, 
ypnotism, magic, history, poetry, and so on, became human 
constituents of nature for my contemplation. Homer, Virgil, 
ante, Dumas, Balzac, Bain, Darwin, Huxley, Tyndall, Reid, 
and many others, began to open my eyes, educate me, show 
me that which I had not seen. Spencer, Proctor, Lubbock, 
ope, and Byron became my friends. : ; 
: t me now tell you about the hairpin, handkerchief, and 
Piece of hair, three objects that have been very dear to me, 
which have also entertained my imagination, I assure you, 
will do the same for you. For that they are autobiographical 
articles of myself, you will find them to be of profound inter- 
est. ence, we will proceed. 
June Sth, 1920, about five o'clock in the evening, being in 
my froom, I resolved to promenade, whereupon I finally 
walked along the side of the lake. Here I became enthused 
with the huge body of water, a blue sky of magnificence, a 
balmy breeze, boats within the distance, and the characteristic 
sound of the animated waves. Now and then, here and there, 
a train, passer-by, or some other attraction, would draw my 
attention. This being the case, after becoming tired of walk- 
ing, I sat on a large stone, sat to dream, think, meditate on 
various things and subjects. And, while being in this state, 
I cast my head down, placed my hand in the sand, where- 
upon, behold, my fingers became imprisoned, became a vic~ 
tim to one of the objects of femininity—a hairpin. 
“Ah,” mused I, “to whom can this belong? Perhaps 
a French, German, English, or American woman has lost it. 
Is she married or single, beautiful or ugly, young or old? 
She who has lost it could be an African, a sweet little 
Mulatto, Quadroon, Octoroon. Again, it may belong to my 
dear Ruby, Florence, Pasaline, or Polisky. Last, and not 
58 ‘ 
