The Bank
When I walk down Threadneedle Street I hear the multi- tudinous feet of those who crawl and limp and caper for the love of a handful of crumpled paper. And some of them find it,......
Poetry
The Blue Wind of the Yangtse Valley THE blue wind from the lake Blows, and over me Sad showers of leaves fall To cover me. Sorrow is in the blue wind ; There is none to greet......
In The Bibliotheque Nationale
I SIT in the bi g Work-Hall of the National Library of France. It is a g reat s q uare room, with a wide centre passa g e : at one end of this the entrance, at the other—in a g......
A Hundred Years Ago
In a comfortable stable in the town of Haddington, there dwelleth a horse, whose name is Cakes. He knows all the landlords and public-houses on the road from Haddington to......
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