A WRITER of Fables1 was passing through a lonely forest when he met

　　a Fortune. Greatly alarmed, he tried to climb a tree, but the

　　Fortune pulled him down and bestowed2 itself upon him with cruel

　　persistence3.

　　"Why did you try to run away?" said the Fortune, when his struggles

　　had ceased and his screams were stilled. "Why do you glare at me

　　so inhospitably?"

　　"I don't know what you are," replied the Writer of Fables, deeply

　　disturbed.

　　"I am wealth; I am respectability," the Fortune explained; "I am

　　elegant houses, a yacht, and a clean shirt every day. I am

　　leisure, I am travel, wine, a shiny hat, and an unshiny coat. I am

　　enough to eat."

　　"All right," said the Writer of Fables, in a whisper; "but for

　　goodness' sake speak lower."

　　"Why so?" the Fortune asked, in surprise.

　　"So as not to wake me," replied the Writer of Fables, a holy calm

　　brooding upon his beautiful face.