The Weber Literary Journal around as if for some one whom he expected to meet. A little startled cry escaped his lips as a young man approached him. "Why er hello Bob! What are you doing here?" The young men looked each other in the eyes for several seconds! Their countenances were quite different just then; one of curiosity and astonishment, the other of mischief and fun. The tension was broken by Bob as he held out his hand. "Well, hello old chap. Glad to see you. Say you're some guy! Now don't look so bewildered. I'm not going to hurt you. I mean just this: I received a very curious letter a few days ago in which I was addressed as 'dear Eva.' Don't be alarmed. I finally got things straightened out when I came here to visit my cousins before starting school. Eva was all worked up over a letter she had received and after I read it I understood and so I traded her letters. So you're looking for specimens? Well, Eva is just as good a one as any I've found and she's outside waiting for us. Come on or she will think you didn't come." "Bob, you're a sport." And the two boys walked out together. "Vision "Where are virtues now?' Some of us ask. But we are as the cobbler Who sits in his cell-like shop, Peers through his filthy spectacles, His filthier windows, To the outside And questions as one enters, "Is there a fog to-day?" 32 The Weber Literary Journal The Saltation of Silas Edwin Stoker SILAS DALE was one of the remaining few who seem perfectly content with life and its routine. With few exceptions, mainly, the duty of keeping his one and only daughter at college in the big city, Silas was content as the foremost and only Green County merchant. His store made him a bare living and he remained content to let it stay the old, rusty, dilapidated thing that it was, with its old leaky roof that required three or four good autumn rains to soak it up enough to keep the storm out; its old broken-down shelves, laden with anything from the lines of Superior washing machines to Spinile's prepared spaghetti, most of which had been inventoried at least six times; and its old rusty heater in the center of the floor, with foot rods; and its chairs surrounding the stove for the gentlemen patrons and general loafers. (The ladies could stand, thank you). It was on one of these chairs Silas sat with his plump legs crossed, his bald head reflecting the dancing flames in the open stove, his soft, grey eyes and contented, expressionless face completely absorbed in the "Greenville Semi-Monthly Chronicle." He sat alone, for his hearth side companions were eating dinner at home. The fashionable Mrs. Sprague had bought her family's dinner a la tin can; therefore, the noonday business rush was over. Silas, himself, was at any moment expecting to be called to dinner by his dear wife, Martha, whom he thought was busily preparing their noonday meal in the living roms, conveniently situated in back of the store. "I say, Marthy," commented Silas, spontaneously. "These derned mail order houses'd like to grab a man's business right away from him. I say, d'ya hear, Marthy?" No response came, so Silas took it for granted that she did. "Drat that Bill Johnson's slats! Here he's letting Rears 33