Hers are those dainty shoes, red as the rose,
Or white as lilies, or yet brown or tan,
Or bright deep yellow like the marigolds
That dot the dusty sidewalk till it blooms
And blossoms like a brilliant flower bed.

And where is the girl who dares to wear on a black shoe the riotous red heels of our grandmothers, which you may sometimes still see in shop windows? Can you not picture "Beatrix" clicking down the stairs on them? Or was it red rosettes she wore on her slippers? No, when DuMaurier pictured her in his illustrations to "Henry Esmond," she wore "scarlet stockings and white shoes." Her "wonderfulest little shoes with wonderful tall

red heels " appear later in the story; also that she wore "silver clocked stockings," and again, that her "red stockings were changed for a pair of gray, and black shoes in which her feet looked to the full as pretty." Thackeray knew things about a woman's foot, you may be sure.

A newspaper item says that a prominent actress has braved the red heels and rejoices in them. It is to be hoped that they are not too high, and are carried with circumspection.

And speaking of ribbands, with a "d" in

them—where is the demure girl, in black low shoes with black or white silk stockings, who dare lace her ribbands all up the ankle as in the days "under the Directory?" I blow a kiss to her, if I may make so bold.

An Incident in Book

Collecting

IT is no mark of distinction in these days to

have books. It is as matter-of-course as the having of pots and pans and kettles in the kitchen. We buy our books as unconcernedly as our tea or tobacco. The quality of the article bought may vary with our purse or mood, but the habit of buying remains. In this In this age being a good citizen involves being a good book buyer.

But although now there be truly books for the million, and a library may be bought for a song at the dry goods stores, it does not follow that the college man and scholar, the man of parts and of letters, need fill his shelves in that vulgar way, or stoop to dip from the fountains of wisdom with a common dipper. For while to the plodding student, books may appear only as the tools of his craft or mere vehicles of knowledge, for him, later in the growth of culture, do books take on a lovable personality, and become animate with the soul of the author.

And to him then is it given, no longer to buy books but to collect them. For the collecting of books is another matter, and calls for the exercise of some individuality of taste and peculiar bent of mind. You may buy books "in sets," but they are to be collected only piecemeal. You may buy them for their broad pages or showy bindings, but you will collect them, perhaps indeed with some regard to these qualities, but oftener for a mere title page or colophon, or the very simplicity of their first paper covers. The buying of them is merely an everyday incident. The collecting of them may be anything from a pastime to a purpose in life.

To differentiate again: between the book collector and the book lover, or bibliophile, there is a great gulf fixed, and into it must be cast many a trashy volume and many a one of gaudy and meretricious show before that gulf is filled, and the gap bridged over. Nor is one's right to the title of bibliophile a quality easily determinable. Who shall say when trees and shrubs lose their individuality and become an arboretum? or a number of evergreens attain to the dignity of being worthily called a collec