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antipathy to the Western stove, even to the old-fashioned English fireplace, may arise from its looking too clearly conscious of its own worth, ever so proudly assuming the first place in a room (what an egoist, indeed, looking as if it felt all the responsibility of the universe), Then I reflect on a hibachi or Japanese wooden fire-box, whose single-minded humbleness is the creation of no other country but Japan. It makes its own lifework to follow gracefully wherever you go in the house as a heaven-born servant, serving most beautifully in its small capacity; its loyalty is almost a slavery when it creeps even into a quilt to warm your feet at night. What a dear little thing of the world it is! I have some reasons to hug it sentimentally, because it sweetly makes me dream on this and that, with many precious things which I must have lost long before if it had not kept them in a drawer for me. Isn’t the Japanese fire-box foxy to have a secret side-pocket ? Why, you must not take that out; that's merely a girl’s Rh