I often look on at myself as I look on at the other little puppet people who appear so small coming down Buchanan Street. Buchanan Street I mention because that is where I have my shop now; and when I am putting the books in the outside boxes—‘the dips’— I sometimes glance up and down the street, wondering about-them all. So small, and yet so interesting ! I look a moment and then go back into the shop, to read a page or two of Tacitus or Herodotus and Jet the world wag. Puppets we are, puppets under the high stone house-fronts, and under Saint Rollox chimney that volleys out a cloud of smoke all day up there beyond the top of the hill which is as awfully covered with houses of the living as the hill behind Saint Mungo’s cathedral with tombstones for the dead.