The works of Edgar Allan Poe; newly collected and edited, with a memoir, critical introductions, and notes, by Edmund Clarence Stedman and George Edward Woodberry; the illustrations by Albert Edward Sterner.

SOME WORDS WITH A MUMMY

THE symposium of tne preceding evening had
been a little too much for my nerves. I had a
wretched headache, and was desperately drowsy. Instead of going out, therefore, to spend the evening,
as I had proposed, it occurred to me that I could not
do a wiser thing than just eat a mouthful of supper
and go immediately to bed.
A light supper, of course. I am exceedingly fond
of Welsh rabbit. More than a pound at once, however, may not at all times be advisable. Still, there
can be no material objection to two. And really,
between two and three there is merely a single unit
of difference. I ventured, perhaps, upon four. My
wife will have it five; but, clearly, she has confounded
two very distinct affairs. The abstract number, five, I
am willing to admit; but, concretely, it has reference
to bottles of Brown Stout, without which, in the way
of condiment, Welsh rabbit is to be eschewed.
Having thus concluded a frugal meal, and donned
my nightcap, with the serene hope of enjoying it till
noon the next day, I placed my head upon the pillow,
and, through the aid of a capital conscience, fell into
a profound slumber forthwith.
But when were the hopes of humanity fulfilled?
I could not have completed my third snore when
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