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Show WHAT TILTON IS DOINC. People frequently ask us, in person or by letter, what Mr. TilLon is doing. Not having seen bim for a long time, and being sadly deficient in the faculty of evolving information from our interior consciousness, we assailed that gentleman with an impertinent interrogation, to which he returned the following characteristic reply, which, though marked "private," we give for the benetit ot those whom it may concern: 174 Livingston St., Aug. 22nd. Dear Mr. Clarke: You ask bow I spend my time? The items aro these each day's history repeating itself: I. Out of bed at six o'clock in the morning tho workingman's hour. J I. A cup of coflee and a crust of bread nothing more. HI. Feed my sparrows at tho window sill of my study thoso tiniest gamins of the street who Hock to my window not suspecting that I'm a dangerous character, char-acter, IV. Five solid hours at my writing desk a fair day's work for the brain. V. Breakfast at noon. VI. In tho afternoon, according aa tho weather vano of humor points, I go somewhere with Florence, or tako a long walk by myself, or -rummage among books, or receivo friends. Vil. These summer overlings aro generally softened and melted away by Florence and her piano and 1 listen, and weep, and thank God for my daughter. VIII. Tho odd moments aro put to use in picking up the threads of old studies where I threw thorn down a year ago. You who know the interruption inter-ruption incidental to a newspaper office, will envy me in my morning solitude, into which no intrudor dares to break except (just at present) a little kitten that climbi up lo my work-table and coils herself asleep around my inktand. Hastily yours, TlIEODOHE TlLTON. |