riods of salutary waiting; waiting for street cars, and dentists, and committees whose chairmen have been delayed by other committees. There are moments in the busiest day when through no fault of our own we are left accidentally alone. There may not be time in these chance intervals for the choicer fruits of solitude to ripen, but there is at least time for some mushroom growths. The punctual man has many such moments for solitary musing while he is waiting for the unpunctual man.

The mind is its own place and in itself can create a driven feeling in the Vale of Arcady. And where is there more calm repose than in the mind of the officer at Fifth Avenue and FortySecond Street, as he deliberately moves his hands, like Moses at the Red Sea, dividing the waves of traffic that the hurried people may pass in safety?

To take advantage of these fleeting opportunities, one must have a quick control over his own mind. He must not only be able to start his mental machinery, but he must be able to stop it when it is moving to no purpose. This is the more difficult matter. Many persons keep their minds revolving ceaselessly on one subject for

the same reason that the driver of a temperamental automobile lets his engine run while the car stops. He is afraid that if it gets cool he can't crank it again. A reliable self-starter would save a great deal of wear and tear.

I cannot include under the pleasant name of "leisure" those activities that are carried on systematically after business hours. Very soon they become things that must be done. There are misers of time who clutch at each spare moment and put it to usury. They expect some definite return from their investment. All mental activities which are closely articulated and planned in advance should be classed under the head of "overtime work." In our moments of true leisure the unexpected happens, or, if nothing happens, we do not care. We do that which is unprofitable because it pleases us. We read a book because it happens to be near us and it looks inviting. It is a case where propinquity is everything. The latchstring of the mind is out. We entertain random thoughts and are occasionally surprised to find that we have entertained wisdom unawares. Our attitude is like that of Elizabeth's great minister, Lord Burleigh, who

at the end of a day's work would fling his robe of office on the floor and say, "Lie there, my Lord Treasurer, till I call for you in the morning." In a healthy mind there is an interim between one duty and another. This prevents them from wearing each other out. These intervals of soothing carelessness, if not unduly prolonged, are very restorative. Lord Burleigh in the morning resumed his robe of office with zest, because he had been able to throw it off so lightly.

That leisure is compatible with a good deal of work I learned as a child from my Aunt Frances. She was the wife of the village physician. She had twelve children and lived in a large, rambling house which was not planned for saving steps. Yet she was never in a hurry. A peculiar institution of Aunt Frances's house was the asyou. It saved no end of worry. When anything was lost, my aunt would say placidly, "You'll probably find it on the as-you"; and so we usually did.

The as-you was a broad landing on the stairs that led from the basement kitchen to the livingroom. Usually the members of the family had their hands full when they went upstairs. In such cases they were apt to leave something in

the landing with the full assurance that it would be there for them when they made the next trip. The remark that you would find a household article "as you go up," or "as you go down," had been, at last, contracted into a place-name. I think that every well-ordered mind ought to have an as-you. It is not like an attic where you put decrepit pieces of furniture which you think you will use again, but which you never do.

There are duties which you lay down temporarily because you have your hands too full. You don't want to put them aside where you will forget them. You want to put them where you can pick them up again without too much trouble. There they lie in plain view. You have a feeling that you have carried them as far as you are able to-day. As you come that way to-morrow it will be a pleasure to take them up again. In the meantime they are quite safe on the as-you.

THE LEISURABLE HOURS OF

JOHN WESLEY

LET one who thinks that leisure is beyond the reach of the busy man, and beneath the attention of the man in earnest, read the Journal of John Wesley. It is the record of an intensive religious campaign carried on for more than fifty years with unabated ardor. No Sabbathbreaker was more oblivious to the distinction between the days of the week than Wesley. All days were alike to him. They were all filled with preaching and planning and all sorts of personal services. Five o'clock was the hour for the first sermon, then on horseback or by chaise to speak to a vast multitude in another town, then to horse again, and in the evening a fervent appeal to another great congregation. This was not an occasional outburst of activity; it was Wesley's routine. In all weathers and over all kinds of roads, through Georgia, through Ireland and Wales and Scotland, and through all the English countryside, he was traveling incessantly, greeted at one village by serious-minded Meth