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Kansas University Weekly.
ment has the same effect. But to find that we have swallowed a "made-to-order" is to feel that an insult has been offered to our patience and good judgment.
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Recently I happened in an old, frequented business house up town, and in an out of the way corner I saw a collection of forgotten or "left-behind" umbrellas which seemed to represent all classes of the umbrella-carrying society. Who the real owners of this stray property may be, and thro' what hands each umbrella may have passed, is a problem rather pleasing to the fancy. A man may not be known by the umbrella he leaves behind, but umbrellas, like dogs, strongly suggest the nature of the people who can tolerate them. I looked over the heap and fancied I could picture the forgetful ones who to day feel resentful towards some unknown, fancied umbrella thief. How many such heaps there are along the main street, and how many complaints we hear of stolen umbrellas. I believe the number of stolen umbrellas is greatly over-estimated.
When we have forgotten a thing, it is the same with us as if it never existed. Now when one has forgotten the place where he forgot his umbrella—that is, when he has forgotten that he forgot it, he is driven to the belief that he never forgot it and concludes some dishonest man is responsible for its disappearance.
A Narrow Escape.
Early in the summer of 1892, a friend of mine, Harvey Parks, went on a pleasure trip to Europe. After he had gone I noticed by the papers that the ship on which he had crossed the Atlantic had narrowly escaped being run down by another ship. No particulars were given, and with this slight account I had to remain content until the following year when Harvey returned. He then gave me a full account of their peril and of the thrilling incidents connected with it.
Everything had gone well with the great steamer and its passengers until the third day
out. The weather had been warm and mild, the sea calm, the sky clear. The passengers were all in good spirits and were enjoying the voyage. Under the influence of the bright sunshine and the calm sea they united in declaring that the dangers of braving "old Father Neptune" had been greatly over-estimated.
But on the afternoon of the third day out there was a great change in the weather. A gray, damp mist crept slowly over the darkening sea, shutting down around the steamer and seeming to isolate it from all the rest of the world. The good ship Baltic was plowing steadily ahead, apparently wrapped in a mantle of cold, impenetrable fog. There seemed to be one vast sea above, below, and around. The passengers shivered and retired to their cabins. The songs and laughter and sounds of revelry ceased and an ominous, oppressive silence brooded over the entire ship.
Toward evening the mist cleared a little, and the sun could be seen setting behind banks of angry-looking lowering clouds.
About 8 o'clock Harvey came on deck and took a promenade, wrapped in his heavy mackintosh. He had felt too uneasy and restless to remain below. The darkness was intense, the breeze sighed mournfully in the rigging, and as the Baltic plunged steadily ahead the waves kept striking her sides with a sullen, rhythmic swash.
All at once Harvey fancied he saw a light on the sea, ahead and a little to the right. The next instant he saw a black, shapeless, shadowy mass rapidly advancing toward him across the water, and from terror his voice stuck in his throat as he tried to yell, "a ship!" The helmsman of the Baltic saw it at the same time and tried to bring his vessel around, but too late. The terrible, indistinct bulk towered over them for a moment, then there was a grinding, scraping crash, a shock which almost threw Harvey off his feet, and the stranger ship disappeared in the darkness, leaving terror and confusion behind her.
Immediately after the shock there was a rush of terror stricken passengers to the deck.