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Chapter 2 Solutions

Prob . 2.1
(a&b) Sketch a vacuum tube device. Graph photocurrent I versus retarding voltage V for
several light intensities.
I

light
intensity

Vo V

Note that Vo remains same for all intensities.

(c) Find retarding potential.

λ=2440Å=0.244μm =4.09eV
1.24eV μm 1.24eVμm
V = hν - Φ = -= - 4.09eV = 5.08eV - 4.09eV  1eV
o
λ(μm) 0.244μm

Prob . 2.2
Show third Bohr postulate equates to integer number of DeBroglie waves fitting within
circumference of a Bohr circular orbit.
4o n 2 2
q2 mv2
r= and = and p = mvr
n 2 o 2 
mq 4π r r
2 2 2
4o n 2 n2 2 4πo rn = n rn n2 2

2
r= = =
n
mq2 mr 2
q2 mr 2 mv2 m2 v2 r

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 B n n
m2 v2 rn 2 = n 2 2
mvrn = n
is the th
p = n ird Bohr postulate

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 Prob . 2.3
(a) Find generic equation for Lyman, Balmer, and Paschen series.
hc mq4 mq 4
ΔE = = -
λ 32π2o 2 n1 2
2
32π2o 2 n2 2 2

2 1 2 1
hc mq4 (n 2 - n 2 ) mq4 (n 2 - n 2 )
=
λ 32 2 n 2 n 2
 2 n 2 n 2 h2
= o 1 2
o 1 2

8 n n h hcπ
2 2
2
8ε82h3c n1 2 n2 2
2 2 2
= o
= o1 2

4 2 2 4
mq (n - n ) mq n 2- n 2
2 1 2 1

8(8.8510 -12 F 2
)  (6.6310
m
−34
Js)  2.998108
3
n 2n 2

= m s
 21 21
9.1110 kg  (1.6010
-31 -
n -n2
2
19
C)4

2 2 2 2
 = 9.11108 m n 21 n 2 2 = 9.11Å n 21 n 2 2
n -n n -n
2 1 2 1
n1 =1 for Lyman, 2 for Balmer, and 3 for Paschen

(b) Plot wavelength versus n for Lyman, Balmer, and Paschen series.
LYMAN SERIES PASCHEN SERIES
n n^2 n^2-1 n^2/(n^2-1) 911*n^2/(n^2-1) n n^2 n^2-9 9*n^2/(n^2-9) 911*9*n^2/(n^2-9)
2 4 3 1.33 1215 4 16 7 20.57 18741
3 9 8 1.13 1025 5 25 16 14.06 12811
4 16 15 1.07 972 6 36 27 12.00 10932
5 25 24 1.04 949 7 49 40 11.03 10044
8 64 55 10.47 9541
LYMAN LIMIT 911Ǻ 9 81 72 10.13 9224
10 100 91 9.89 9010
BALMER SERIES
n n^2 n^2-4 4n^2/(n^2-4) 911*4*n^2/(n^2-4) PASCHEN LIMIT 8199Ǻ
3 9 5 7.20 6559
4 16 12 5.33 4859
5 25 21 4.76 4338
6 36 32 4.50 4100
7 49 45 4.36 3968

BALMER LIMIT 3644Ǻ

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 Prob . 2. 4
(a) Find Δpx for Δx=1Ǻ.
-34
h h 6.6310 J s
Δp Δx = → Δp = = = 5.0310-25 kgm

x
4 x
4 Δx 4π10-10m s

(b) Find Δt for ΔE=1eV.

-15
h h 4.14 10 eV s
ΔEΔt = → Δt = = = 3.3010-16s
4 4 ΔE 4π1eV

Prob . 2. 5
Find wavelength of 100eV and 12keV electrons. Comment on electron microscopes compared to
visible light microscopes.
2E
E= 1
2 mv2 → v =
m
-34
h h h 6.6310 J s
E = E 4.9110 J m
1
λ= = = =
-2 - 12 -19 1
2

p mv 2 E  m 29.1110 kg -31

For 100eV,
λ = E-2 4.9110-19J 2 m = (100eV1.60210-19 )-2 4.9110-19J 2 m = 1.2310-10m = 1.23Å
1 1 1 1
J
eV

For 12keV,
λ = E-2 4.9110-19J 2 m = (1.2104eV1.60210-19 )-2 4.9110-19J 2 m = 1.1210-11m = 0.112Å
1 1 1 1
J
eV

The resolution on a visible microscope is dependent on the wavelength of the light which is
around 5000Ǻ; so, the much smaller electron wavelengths provide much better resolution.

Prob . 2. 6
Which of the following could NOT possibly be wave functions and why? Assume 1-D in each
case. (Here i= imaginary number, C is a normalization constant)

A) Ψ (x) = C for all x.

B) Ψ (x) = C for values of x between 2 and 8 cm, and Ψ (x) = 3.5 C for values of x between 5
and 10 cm. Ψ (x) is zero everywhere else.

C) Ψ (x) = i C for x= 5 cm, and linearly goes down to zero at x= 2 and x = 10 cm from this peak
value, and is zero for all other x.
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If any of these are valid wavefunctions, calculate C for those case(s). What potential energy for x
≤ 2 and x ≥ 10 is consistent with this?

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 

A) For a wavefunction (x) , we know Ρ =   (x)(x)dx = 1

*

-

 
0 c = 0
Ρ=   (x)(x)dx  dx → Ρ=   (x) cannot be a wave function
* 2
=c
- -  c  0

B) For 5  x  8 , (x) has two values, C and 3.5C. For c  0 , (x) is not a function


and for c = 0 : Ρ = 
-
*
(x) (x)dx = 0  (xc) annot be a wave function.

 iC x-2
 3
( ) 2x5
C) (x)= 
− iC ( x-10) 5  x 10
 5
 5 2 10 2
c c
-  (x)(x)dx = 2 9 ( x-2) dx +525 ( x-10) dx
2 2
Ρ= *

c2 5 c2 10

= (x-2)3 2 + (x-10)3
3×9 3×25 5

 27 125  8c2
= c2  + =
 27 3×25  3
8c2
Ρ=1  =1  c=0.612 → (x) can be a wave function
3

Since (x) = 0 for x  2 and x 10 , the potential energy should be infinite in these two

regions.

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Prob. 2.7
A particle is described in 1D by a wavefunction:
Ψ = Be-2x for x ≥0 and Ce+4x for x<0, and B and C are real constants. Calculate B and C to make
Ψ a valid wavefunction. Where is the particle most likely to be?

A valid wavefunction must be continuous, and normalized.

For (0) = C = B



2
To normalize  , dx = 1
-
0 

 C e dx +  C e dx = 1
2 8x 2 -4x

- 0

C 2
 −1 
0 
e + C   e-4x
8x 2
=1
8 −
 4 0

C2 C2 8
+ =1  C=
8 4 3

Prob. 2.8
The electron wavefunction is Ceikx between x=2 and 22 cm, and zero everywhere else. What is
the value of C? What is the probability of finding the electron between x=0 and 4 cm?
 = Ceikx
22
1
 *dx = C2 (20) = 1  C =
-1
cm
2 20
4 2

 1 
 ( 2) =
1

2
Probability = dx = 

0  20  10

Prob . 2.
9
Find the probability of finding an electron at x<0. Is the probability of finding an electron at
x>0 zero or non-zero? Is the classical probability of finding an electron at x>6 zero or non?
The energy barrier at x=0 is infinite; so, there is zero probability of finding an electron at
x<0 (|ψ|2 =0). However, it is possible for electrons to tunnel through the barrier at 5<x<6;
so, the probability of finding an electron at x>6 would be quantum mechanically greater

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exist. No portion of this material may be reproduced, in any form or by any means, without permission in writing from the publisher.
than zero (|ψ|2 >0) and classical mechanically zero.

Prob . 2. 10
Find 4 px 2 + 2 pz 2 +7mE for (x, y, z,t) = Ae j(10x+3y-4t) .

 2
- j(10x+3y-4t) 

 A e
* j(10x+3y-4t)
  A e dx

px 2 = - j x  = 100 2


A e
2 - j(10x+3y-4t) j(10x+3y-4t)
e dx
-

 2
- j(10x+3y-4t)  
 A e
* j(10x+3y-4t)
  A e dz
 =0
pz2 = - j z 


A
2
e- j(10x+3y-4t)e j(10x+3y-4t)dz
-

- j(10x+3y-4t)  
 A e  −   Ae
* j(10x+3y-4t)
dt

E = -  j t
= 4



2 - j(10x+3y-4t) j(10x+3y-4t)
A e e dt
-

4 px 2 +2pz 2 +7mE = 400 + 28(9.1110 kg)

2 -31

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Prob. 2.11
Find the uncertainty in position (Δx) and momentum (Δρ).
2  πx  L
Ψ(x,t) = sin  e-2πjEt/h and  *  dx = 1
L L 0

x 
L
2L
x =  *  x  dx = x sin
2
dx = 0.5L (from problem note)

0 L0  L 
L L

x 
sin2  dx = 0.28L2 (from problem note)
2
x2 =  *  x  dx = x
2

0 L0  L 

2
Δx = x2 - x = 0.28L2 - (0.5L)2 = 0.17L

h h
p  = 0.47
4πΔx L

Prob. 2.12
Calculate the first three energy levels for a 10Ǻ quantum well with infinite walls.
n 2  π2  2 (6.6310-34 )2
En = =  n 2 = 6.0310-20  n 2
2 m L2 89.1110−31 (10−9 )2

E1 = 6.0310-20 J = 0.377eV
E2 = 40.377eV =
1.508eV
E3 = 90.377eV = 3.393eV

Prob. 2.13
Show schematic of atom with 1s22s22p4 and atomic weight 21. Comment on its reactivity.
nucleus with
8 protons and This atom is chemically reactive because
13 neutrons
the outer 2p shell is not full. It will tend
2 electrons in 1s to try to add two electrons to that outer
shell.
2 electrons in 2s

4 electrons in 2p

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 = proton
= neturon
= electron

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Another random document with
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course, I can only frown and nod. What else could I do? I couldn’t go
down and speak to her; but I try very hard with my expression.
“Once when he was making love to a new bookkeeper girl I was
able really to act. I told her to be careful. She was a good girl, but oh
so silly, as girls can be with musicians. All musicians, that is, but me
and the fat ’cellist. She replied that what I said might be true but she
liked him all the same. She took people as she found them, she said,
and he was always very nice and kind to her.
“‘If you want a lover,’ I said, ‘let me be your lover. I have no one to
love; he has thousands.’ But she only laughed. ‘There’s some fun in
taking a man from thousands,’ she said. That’s what women are. I
don’t want to win a girl from thousands of men. I just want her or I
don’t want her. But women—at any rate the women who come here—
are different.
“Well, she wouldn’t listen, but she was a good girl, and true to me,
for she didn’t tell him what I said, although I couldn’t bring myself to
ask her not to. But she was honourable and didn’t tell him. And so it
went on; he smiling and bowing and playing to the women all day, at
lunch and dinner, and going to tea with them in between, or playing
cards with his little set of friends, and at night the bookkeeper girl
waiting for him. And so it went on for a month, and then he grew tired
and left her, and she lost her place here; and if she has any money
now it is that which I have lent her to get through her trouble with.
“So you see what sort of a man he is. But that he can play I will
admit. He has a wonderful touch, and a beautiful instrument worth a
great deal of money. He could earn a large salary in any orchestra in
the world. But there is no heart in his playing. He does not love music
as one should.”
Without Souls

I.—The Builders

I
Mrs. Thrush. What do you think of that hawthorn?
Mr. Thrush. Oh, no, my dear, no; much too isolated, it would
attract attention at once. I can hear the boys on a Sunday afternoon
—“Hullo, there’s a tree that’s bound to have a nest in it.” And then
where are you? You know what boys are on a Sunday afternoon? You
remember that from last year, when we lost the finest clutch of eggs in
the county.
Mrs. Thrush. Stop, stop, dear, I can’t bear it. Why do you remind
me of it?
Mr. Thrush. There, there, compose yourself, my pretty. What other
suggestions have you?
Mrs. Thrush. One of the laurels, then, in the shrubbery at the
Great House.
Mr. Thrush. Much better. But the trouble there is the cat.
Mrs. Thrush. Oh, dear, I wish you’d find a place without me; I
assure you (blushing) it’s time.
Mr. Thrush. Well, my notion, as I have said all along, is that there’s
nothing to beat the very middle of a big bramble. I don’t mind whether
it’s in the hedge or whether it’s on the common. But it must be the
very middle. It doesn’t matter very much then whether it’s seen or not,
because no one can reach it.
 Mrs. Thrush. Very well, then, be it so; but do hurry with the
building, there’s a dear.

II
Mr. Tree-Creeper. I’ve had the most extraordinary luck. Listen. You
know that farmhouse by the pond. Well, there’s a cow-shed with a
door that won’t shut, and even if it would, it’s got a hole in it, and in
the roof, at the very top, there’s a hollow. It’s the most perfect place
you ever saw, because, even if the farmer twigged us, he couldn’t get
at the nest without pulling off a lot of tiles. Do you see?
Mrs. Tree-Creeper. It sounds perfect.
Mr. Tree-Creeper. Yes, but it’s no use waiting here. We must collar
it at once. There were a lot of prying birds all about when I was there,
and I noticed a particularly nosey flycatcher watching me all the time.
Come along quick; and you’d better bring a piece of hay with you to
look like business.

III
Mr. Wren. Well, darling, what shall it be this year—one of those
boxes at “The Firs,” or the letter-box at “Meadow View,” where the
open-air journalist lives, or shall we build for ourselves like honest
wrens?
Mrs. Wren. I leave it to you, dearest. Just as you wish.
Mr. Wren. No, I want your help. I’ll just give you the pros and
cons.
Mrs. Wren. Yes, dear, do; you’re so clear-headed.
Mr. Wren. Listen then. If we use the nest-box there’s nothing to
do, no fag of building, but we have to put up with visitors peeping in
every day and pawing the eggs or the kids about. If we use the letter-
box we shall have to line it, and there will be some of the same human
fussiness to endure; but on the other hand, we shall become famous—
we shall get into the papers. Don’t you see the heading, “Remarkable
Nest in Surrey”? And then it will go on, “A pair of wrens have chosen a
strange abode in which to rear their little fluffy brood——” and so
forth.
Mrs. Wren. That’s rather delightful, all the same.
Mr. Wren. Finally, there is the nest which we build ourselves,
running just the ordinary risks of boys and ornithologists, but feeling at
any rate that we are independent. What do you say?
Mrs. Wren. Well, dearest, I think I say the last.
Mr. Wren. Good. Spoken like a brave hen. Then let’s look about for
a site at once.

IV
Mr. Swallow. I’ve looked at every house with decent eaves in the
whole place until I’m ready to drop.
Mrs. Swallow. What do you think about it?
Mr. Swallow. Well, it’s a puzzle. There’s the Manor House: I began
with that. There is good holding there, but the pond is a long way off,
and carrying mud so far would be a fearful grind. None the less it’s a
well-built house, and I feel sure we shouldn’t be disturbed.
Mrs. Swallow. What about the people?
Mr. Swallow. How funny you are about the people always! Never
mind. All I can find out is that there’s the squire and his wife and a
companion.
Mrs. Swallow. No children?
Mr. Swallow. None.
Mrs. Swallow. Then I don’t care for the Manor House. Tell me of
another.
Mr. Swallow. This is the merest sentiment; but no matter. The
Vicarage next.
Mrs. Swallow. Any children there?
 Mr. Swallow. No, but it’s much nearer the pond.
Mrs. Swallow. And the next?
Mr. Swallow. The farmhouse. A beautiful place with a pond at your
very door. Everything you require, and lots of company. Good sheltered
eaves, too.
Mrs. Swallow. Any children?
Mr. Swallow. Yes, one little girl.
Mrs. Swallow. Isn’t there any house with babies?
Mr. Swallow. Only one that could possibly be any use to us; but it’s
a miserably poor place. No style.
Mrs. Swallow. How many babies?
Mr. Swallow. Twins, just born, and others of one and two and
three.
Mrs. Swallow. We’ll build there.
Mr. Swallow. They’ll make a horrible row all night.
Mrs. Swallow. We’ll build there.

II.—Bush’s Grievance
I am very happy for the most part. I have perfect health and a
good appetite, and They are very good to me here: let me worry them
at meals, and toss me little bits—chiefly bread and toast, I admit, but
nice bread and nice toast; and though He spends far too much time
indoors with books and things, and She doesn’t go for walks, and the
puppy-girl has a dog of her own, and doesn’t want me (nor do I want
her), yet I manage pretty well, for there is a boy who often goes to the
village, through the rabbit fields, and takes me with him, and there is a
big house near by where the servants throw away quite large bones
only half-scraped. Either they are extravagant or they don’t make that
horrid watery stuff, the ruination of good bones, which My People here
will begin their dinner with.
 So you see I don’t do badly; and, though now and then I have to
be whacked, still it doesn’t hurt much, and He only half knows how to
do it; while as for Her (when He’s away), She’s just useless.
But my grievance, you say? Oh, yes, I have one grievance, and
talking it over with other dogs, particularly spaniels (like me), I find
that it’s a very common one. My grievance is the game they will play
instead of going for a walk. In winter it’s all right, They walk then; but
in summer They will play this game. I can’t make head or tail of it
myself, but They simply adore it. It is played with four balls—blue and
red and black and yellow—and hoops. First one of Them hits a ball,
and then the other. It goes on for ever. I do all I can to show Them
what I think of it: I lie down just in front of the player; sometimes I
even stop the balls completely; but They don’t take the hint: They just
shout at me or prod me with the mallet.
That’s my grievance. Of course it was pretty bad when They got a
dog for the little puppy-girl, especially as it is not a breed I care for;
but that I can stand. It’s this wretched monopolizing game that I can’t
stand. I hate it.

III.—A London Landmark

I am the biggest of the elephants—the one that keeps on nodding
its head. Why I do that I’ll tell you later. The habit began some years
ago. You see, I am getting on. I have been here ever since 1876, and
that’s a long time. I was thinking the other day of all the things that
have happened since I moved to Regent’s Park from Ceylon, and really
it is wonderful. For I hear what’s going on. In between remarks about
how big I am, and how restless I am, and what a wicked little eye I’ve
got, the people say all kinds of things about the events of the day. Last
Sunday I heard all about the Suffragettes, for instance. There wasn’t
much talk about Suffragettes in 1876.
I read what’s going on too. Now and then some one drops a paper
or I borrow the keeper’s. It took me a long time to learn to read, but I
know now. I began with the notices about pickpockets, which are
everywhere in these Gardens. That’s an old thing, isn’t it? We four-
footed creatures, whom you all come to stare at and patronize, at any
rate have no pockets to pick, and therefore are spared one of your
weaknesses. (Except of course the kangaroo.) I mastered the
pickpocket notice first, and then I learned the meaning of the one
about smoking in my house. And so by degrees I knew it all, and it’s
now quite simple. I can read anything. I wish the people who came
here could read as well. It says as plain as can be on my little door-
plate thing, in front of the railings, that I am—that I am a lady—but
how many visitors do you suppose refer to me as “she” or “her”? Not
more than three out of the hundred. I count sometimes, just for fun.
That’s really why I nod: I’m counting. “Isn’t he enormous?” they say.
“Look at his funny little eye?” “Would you like to give him a bun,
dearie?” and so on. And all the time, if only education were properly
managed in this country, they could read my sex. It’s on the board all
right.
I have been here longer than any one except the hippopotamus,
which was born here in 1872. But to be born here is dull. I had six
years of Ceylon first; I am a traveller. Supposing that I got away I
should know what to do; but that old hippo wouldn’t. Homekeeping
hippos have ever homely wits, as the proverb has it.
Do you know that in 1876 Winston was only two years old? Think
of it. He used to be brought to see me when he was a tiny toddle with
quite a small head. I’ve given him many a ride on my back. I often
wonder what is the future of the children who put buns in my trunk
and ride on my back, but this is the only one I can remember who got
into office so young.
It’s an old place, the Zoo. Such queer creatures come and look at
me,—lean, eager naturalists, lovers, uncles with small nephews, funny
men trying to think of jokes about me. I like the Bank Holidays the
best. There’s some pleasure in astonishing simple people; and I like
Sundays the least because the clever ones come then. Schoolmasters
are the worst, because they lecture on me. My keeper hates them too,
because they ask such lots of questions and never give any tips.
There’s a fearful desire to know how heavy I am. What does that
matter? “My word, I wouldn’t like him (him, of course) to tread on my
favourite corn!”—I wonder how often I’ve heard that joke. The English
make all their jokes again. They say things, too, about my trunk—
packing it up and so on—till I could die of sheer ennui.
The Interviewer’s Bag

I.—The Autographer
HE was sitting forlornly on the shore at Swanage, toying with an open
knife. Fearing that he might be about to do himself a mischief, I
stopped and spoke.
“No,” he said, “I’m not contemplating suicide. Don’t think that. I’m
merely pondering on the illusion that England is the abode of
freedom.”
“But isn’t it?” I asked.
He laughed bitterly.
“What’s wrong?” I said.
He jerked his thumb towards the stone globe which is to Swanage
what Thorwaldsen’s Lion is to Lucerne, or the Sphinx to the desert.
“Well?” I said.
“Have you seen the tablets?” he asked.
“No,” I said.
“They’ve put up two tablets,” he explained, “with a request that
any one wishing to cut or write his name should do it there rather than
on the globe.”
“Very sensible,” I said.
“Sensible?” he echoed. “Sensible? But what’s the use of cutting
your name on a place set apart for the purpose? There’s no fun in that.
Things are coming to a pretty pass when Town Councils take to
sarcasm. Because that’s what it is,” he continued. “Sarcasm. They
don’t want our names anywhere, and this is their way of saying so.
Sarcasm has been described,” he went on, “as ‘the language of the
devil’; and it’s true.”
“But why do you want to cut your name?” I asked.
He opened his eyes to their widest. “Why? What’s the use of going
anywhere if you don’t?” he retorted. “You’ll find my name all over
England—on trees at Burnham Beeches, on windows at Chatsworth,
on stone walls at Kenilworth, on whitewash at Stratford-on-Avon, in
the turf of Chanctonbury. You’ll find it in belfries and on seats. I should
be ashamed of myself if I didn’t inscribe it—and permanently, too. But
this is too much for me. I came here only because I heard about the
stone globe; and then to find those tablets! But I haven’t wasted my
time,” he continued. “I went over to the New Forest the other day, and
to-morrow I’m going to Stonehenge.”
“That’s no good,” I said.
“No good? Why, I’ve bought a new chisel on purpose for it. I’m
told the stone’s very hard.”
“You won’t be able to do it,” I said. “It’s enclosed now, and
guarded.”
He buried his face in his hands. “Everything’s against me,” he
groaned. “The country’s going to the dogs.”

II.—The Equalizer
My friend was talking about the difficulty of getting level with life:
with the people who charge too much, and with bad management
generally; the subject having been started by a long wait outside the
junction, which made our train half an hour late.
“How,” my friend had said, “are we ever going to get back the
value of this half-hour? My time is worth two guineas an hour; and I
have now lost a guinea. How am I to be recouped? The railway
company takes my money for a train which they say will do the
journey between 11.15 and 12.6, and I make my plans accordingly. It
does not get in till 12.36, and all my plans are thrown out. Is it fair
that I am not recompensed? Of course not. They have robbed me.
How am I to get equal with them?”
So he rattled on, and the little cunning eyes opposite us became
more cunning and glittering.
After my friend had left, the little man spoke to me.
“Why didn’t he take something?” he asked.
“What do you mean?” I said.
“Something from the carriage, to help to make up?” he said. “The
window strap for a strop, for instance? It’s not worth a guinea, of
course, but it’s something, and it would annoy the company.”
“But he wasn’t as serious as that,” I said.
“Oh, he’s one of them that talks but doesn’t act. I’ve no patience
with them. I always get some, if not all, of my money back.”
“How?” I asked.
“Well, suppose it’s a restaurant, where I have to wait a long time
and then get only poor food. I calculate to what extent I’ve been
swindled and act accordingly. A spoon or two, or possibly a knife, will
make it right. I am scrupulously honest about it.” He drew himself up
proudly.
“If it’s a theatre,” he went on, “and I consider my time has been
wasted, I take the opera-glasses home with me. You know those in the
sixpenny boxes; I’ve got opera-glasses at home from nearly every
theatre in London.”
“No!” I said.
“Really,” he replied, “I’m not joking. I never joke. You tell your
friend when you see him next. Perhaps it will make him more
reasonable.”

III.—A Hardy Annual

 “You look very tired,” I said.
“Yes,” he replied, with a sigh. It was at the private view of the
Academy. “But I shall get some rest now. It is all over for a while.”
“What is over?” I asked.
“My work,” he said. “It does not begin again with any seriousness
till next February; but it goes on then till April with terrific vigour.” He
pressed his hand to his brow.
“May I know what it is?” I inquired.
“Of course,” he said. “I name pictures for the Exhibitions. The
catalogues are full of my work. Here, for example, is one of my most
effective titles: ‘Cold flows the Winter river.’ Not bad, is it?”
I murmured something.
“Oh, I know what you’re thinking,” he replied. “You’re thinking that
it is so simple that the artist could have done it himself without my
assistance. But there you’re mistaken. They can’t, not artists. They can
just paint a picture—some of them—and that’s all. You’ve no idea....
Well, well.”
“Really?” I said.
“Yes,” he continued; “it’s so. Now turn on. Here’s another of mine.
‘It was the Time of Roses.’ That sounds easy, no doubt; but, mark you,
you have not only to know it—to have read Hood—but—and this is the
secret of my success—to remember it at the right moment.” He almost
glittered with pride. “Turn on,” he said. “‘East and West.’ That’s a
subtle thing. Why ‘East and West’? you say. And then you see it’s an
English girl—the West—holding a Japanese fan—the East. But I’m not
often as tricky as that. A line of poetry is always best; or a good
descriptive phrase, such as ‘Rivals,’ ‘Awaiting Spring’s Return,’ ‘The
Forest Perilous,’ ‘When Nature Sleeps,’ ‘The Coming Storm,’ ‘Sunshine
and Shadow,’ ‘Waiting,’ ‘The Farmer’s Daughter,’ ‘A Haunt of Ancient
Peace.’”
He paused and looked at me.
 “They all sound fairly automatic,” he went on; “but that’s a blind.
They want doing. You know the saying, ‘Hard writing makes easy
reading’; well, it’s the same with naming titles. You think it’s nothing;
but that’s only because it means real work. I don’t know how to
explain the gift—uncanny, no doubt. Kind friends have called it genius.
But there it is.”
“I hope the financial results are proportionate,” I said.
“Ah,” he replied, “not always. But how could they be? It’s not only
the expense of getting to the studios—taxis, and so forth—but the
mental wear and tear. Still, I manage to live.”

IV.—Another of Our Conquerors

I used to think that the office-boy did those things. But no; it
seems that it is an industry, and a very important one.
I made the discovery at a station, where the horrible and irritating
word “Phast-phix” on the picture of a gum bottle held the reluctant
eye.
A sleek little man in a frock-coat and a tall hat, who had evidently
breakfasted on cloves, paused beside me.
“You might not think it,” he said, “to look at me; but that word that
you are obviously admiring so naturally—and I may say so justly—
originated with me. I invented it.”
“Why?” I asked. “Surely there are other things to do.”
He seemed pained and perplexed.
“It is my business,” he said. “That’s what I do. I have an office; I
am well known. All the best firms apply to me. For example,” he went
on, “suppose you were to bring out a fluid mutton——”
“Heaven forbid!” I cried.
“Yes, but suppose you were to,” he continued, “and you wanted a
name for it, you would come to me.”
“Why shouldn’t I think of one myself?” I asked.
 “You!” he cried. “How could you? It’s a special equipment. Just try
and you’ll see. What would you call it?”
“Well,” I said after a moment’s thought, “I might call it—I might
call it—— Hang it, I wouldn’t do such a thing, anyway.”
“There,” he cried triumphantly, “I knew it. You would be lost. You
would therefore come to me. I should charge you ten guineas, but in
return you would have a name that would make your fortune.”
“What would that be?” I ventured to ask.
“Oh, I don’t know,” he said, “for certain. ‘Sheep-O,’ perhaps. But
anyway it would be a good name. ‘Flock-vim,’ perhaps. Or even ‘Mut-
force.’”
I began to long for my train.
“How do you think of such things?” I inquired. “Tell me your
processes.”
He laughed deprecatingly. “I have given the subject an immense
deal of thought,” he said. “For many years now I have done little else;
I am always on the look-out for ideas. They come to me at all kinds of
odd times and in all kinds of odd places. In bed—on a ’bus—in the
train.”
“This one?” I asked.
“‘Phast-phix’?” he replied. “Oh, I thought of that instantaneously.
You see, the firm came to my office to say they were putting a new
gum or cement on the market, and they must have a good name for it
at once. I had no time. I buried my head in my hands, for a few
seconds (my regular habit) and suddenly ‘Phast-phix’ flashed into it.
They were enchanted.”
“I notice,” I said, “a tendency among advertisers to transform ‘f’
into ‘ph.’”
“Yes,” he said, “they got it from me. I was the first. It is far more
striking, don’t you think? To spell ‘fast-fix’ correctly wouldn’t be witty at
all.”
I agreed with him.
 “Tell me some more of your special inspirations,” I said. “Have you
done anything lately as good as ‘Phast-phix’? But no, how could you?”
“Let me see,” he remarked. “Yes, there is the name for the new
pen. They came to me in a great hurry for that, too. But as it
happened I had that carefully pigeon-holed, for I am always inventing
names against a rainy day. I gave it to them at once—the ‘Ri-teezi.’
You have no doubt seen it advertised.”
(Haven’t I?)
“That has been an immense success,” he went on. “It’s not a bad
pen, either; but the name! Ah!”
“Anything else out of the way?” I asked.
“Yes,” he said. “I was just going to tell you. I was approached by a
firm with new blacking. All it required was an absolutely knock-out
name. I gave them one, and only yesterday I had a visit from the
Secretary of the Company, who was present at the Board meeting
when my letter was read out. He says that the thrill that ran through
the directors—sober business men, mind you—at that moment was an
epoch in the history of commerce.”
“Indeed,” I remarked; “and what was the name?”
“The name?” he said. “Ah, yes. It was one of my best efforts, I
think. Simple, forcible, instantaneous in its message and unforgettable
in form—‘Shine-O.’”
“Yes,” I said, “that should be hard to beat. I congratulate you.” And
so we parted.
I wonder if there’s really any money in that fluid-mutton idea.

V.—A Case for Loyola

We had no introduction save the circumstance that we chanced
both to be taking refreshment at the same time—and, after all, is not
that a bond? He did not begin to talk at once, and very likely would
not have done so had not a little man come hastily in, received his
drink, laid his money on the bar without a word, also without a word
consumed it, and hurried out again.
“You might guess a hundred times before you could say what that
man does,” said my neighbour.
I gave it up at once. He might have been anything requiring no
muscle, and there are so many varieties of such professions. An
insurance agent, but he was too busy and taciturn; a commission
agent, but he was alone; a cheap oculist, but he would not be free at
this hour. I therefore gave it up at once.
“He’s a conjurer,” said the man. “Not on the stage; goes out to
parties and smokers.”
I expressed the necessary amount of surprise and satisfaction.
“Odd what different things men do,” he continued. “There’s all
sorts of trades, isn’t there? I often sit for hours watching men and
wondering what they are. Sometimes you can tell easily. A carpenter,
for instance, often has a rule pocket in his trousers that you can spot.
A lawyer’s clerk has a certain way with him. Horses always leave their
mark on men, and you can tell coachmen even in plain clothes. But
there’s many to baffle you.”
“Yes,” I said, “it needs a Sherlock Holmes.”
“And yet there’s some to puzzle even him,” said my man. “Now
what do you think he’d make of me?”
Upon my word I couldn’t say. He was just the ordinary artisan,
with a little thoughtfulness added. A small, pale man, grizzled and
neat, but the clothes were old. The shininess and bagginess of the
knees suggested much kneeling; nothing else gave me a hint.
“I give that up too,” I said.
“Well,” he replied, “I’ll tell you, because you’re a stranger. I’m a
worm-holer.”
“A worm-holer?”
“Yes, I make worm-holes in furniture to make it seem older and
fetch a better price.”
 “Great heavens!” I said; “I have heard of it, of course, but I never
thought to meet a worm-holer face to face. How do you do it?”
“It’s not difficult,” he said, “to make the actual holes. The trick is to
make ’em look real.”
“And what becomes of the furniture?”
“America chiefly,” he said. “They like old English things there, the
older the better. Guaranteed Tudor things will fetch anything ... we
guarantee all ours.”
“And you have no conscience about it?” I asked.
“None,” he said. “Not any more. I had a little once, but there, the
Americans are so happy with their finds it would be a shame to
disappoint them. I look on myself as a benefactor to the nation now. I
often lie awake at nights—I sleep badly—thinking of the collectors in
U.S.A. hugging themselves with joy to think of the treasures I’ve made
for them.”
The Letter N

A Tragedy in High Life

Extract from the copy of Harold Pippett, only reporter for “The
Eastbury Herald,” as handed to the compositor.

I
INQUIRIES which have been made by one of our representatives yield
the gratifying tidings that Kildin Hall, the superb Tudor residence
vacated a year or so ago by Lord Glossthorpe, is again let. The new
tenant, who will be a valued addition to the neighbourhood, is Mr.
Michael Stirring, a retired banker.

II

From “The Eastbury Herald,” 2 Sept.

Inquiries which have been made by one of our representatives
yield the gratifying tidings that Kildin Hall, the superb Tudor residence
vacated a year or so ago by Lord Glossthorpe, is again let. The new
tenant, who will be a valued addition to the neighbourhood, is Mr.
Michael Stirring, a retired baker.

III
Mr. Guy Lander, Estate Agent, to the Editor of “The Eastbury Herald.”
Dear Ted,—There’s a fearful bloomer in your paper this week, which
you must put right as soon as you can. Mr. Stirring, who has taken
Kildin, is not a baker, but a banker.
Yours, G. L.
 IV
The Editor of “The Eastbury Herald” to Mr. Guy Lander.
My Dear Guy,—Of course it’s only a misprint. Pippett wrote “banker”
right enough, and the ass of a compositor dropped out the “n.” I’ll put
it right next week. No sensible person would mind.
Yours, Edward Hedges.

V
Mrs. Michael Stirring to the Editor of “The Eastbury Herald.”
Sir,—My attention has been called to a very serious misstatement
in your paper for Saturday last. It is there stated that my husband, Mr.
Michael Stirring, who has taken Kildin Hall, is a retired baker. This is
absolutely false. Mr. Stirring is a retired banker, than which nothing
could be much more different. Mr. Stirring is at this moment too ill to
read the papers, and the slander will therefore be kept from him a little
longer, but what the consequences will be when he hears of it I
tremble to think. Kindly assure me that you will give the denial as
much publicity as the falsehood.
Yours faithfully,
Augusta Stirring.

VI
The Editor of “The Eastbury Herald” to Mrs. Michael Stirring.
The Editor of “The Eastbury Herald” presents his compliments to
Mrs. Stirring and begs to express his profound regret that the misprint
of which she complains should have crept into his paper. That it was a
misprint and not an intentional misstatement he has the reporter’s
copy to prove. He will, of course, insert in the next issue of “The
Eastbury Herald” a paragraph correcting the error, but he would point
out to Mrs. Stirring that it was also stated in the paragraph that Mr.
Stirring would be a valued addition to the neighbourhood.

VII
Mrs. Stirring to the Editor of “The Eastbury Herald.”
 Sir,—Whatever the cause of the slander, whether malice or
misadventure, the fact remains that you have done a very cruel thing.
I enclose a cutting from the London Press, sent me by a friend, which
will show you that the calumny is becoming widely spread. Mr. Stirring
is so weak and dispirited that we fear he may have got some inkling of
it. Your position if he discovers the worst will be terrible.
I am, Yours faithfully,
Augusta Stirring.
(The Enclosure)
From “The Morning Star”
Signs of the Times
We get the new movement in a nutshell in the report from
Eastbury that Lord Glossthorpe has let his historic house to a retired
baker named Stirring, etc., etc.

VIII
From “The Eastbury Herald” 9 Sept.
Erratum.—In our issue last week an unfortunate misprint made us
state that the new tenant of Kildin Hall was a retired baker. The word
was of course banker.

IX
Mr. John Bridger, Baker, to the Editor of “The Eastbury Herald.”
Dear Hedges,—I was both pained and surprised to find a man of
your principles and a friend of mine writing of bakers as you did this
week. Why should you “of course” have meant a banker? Why cannot
a retired baker take a fine house if he wants to? I am thoroughly
ashamed of you, and wish to withdraw my advertisement from your
paper.
Yours truly, John Bridger.

X
 Messrs. Greenery & Bills, Steam Bakery, Dumbridge.
Dear Sir,—After the offensive slur upon bakers in the current
number of your paper we feel that we have no other course but to
withdraw our advertisement; so please discontinue it from this date.
Yours faithfully,
Greenery & Bills.

XI
Mrs. Stirring to the Editor of “The Eastbury Herald.”
Sir,—I fear you have not done your best to check the progress of
your slanderous paragraph, since only this morning I received the
enclosed. You will probably not be surprised to learn that through your
efforts the old-world paradise of Kildin, in which we had hoped to end
our days, has been rendered impossible. We could not settle in a new
neighbourhood with such an initial handicap.
Yours truly, Augusta Stirring.
(The Enclosure)
From “The Daily Leader”
The Triumph of Democracy
After lying empty for nearly two years Lord Glossthorpe’s country
seat has been let to a retired baker named Stirring, etc., etc.

XII
Mrs. Michael Stirring to Mr. Guy Lander.
Dear Sir,—After the way that the good name and fame of my
husband and myself have been poisoned both in the local and the
London Press, we cannot think further of coming to live at Kildin Hall.
Every post brings from one or other of my friends some paragraph
perpetuating the lie. Kindly therefore consider the negotiations
completely at an end. I am, Yours faithfully,
Augusta Stirring.
 XIII
The Editor of “The Eastbury Herald” to Mr. John Bridger.
Dear Bridger,—You were too hasty. A man has to do the best he
can. When I wrote “of course,” I meant it as a stroke of irony. In other
words, I was, and am, and ever shall be, on your side. You will be glad
to hear that in consequence of the whole thing I have got notice to
leave, my proprietor being under obligations to Lord Glossthorpe, and
you may therefore restore your patronage to “The Herald” with a clear
conscience.
Yours sincerely, Edward Hedges.

XIV
The Editor of “The Eastbury Herald” to Mrs. Stirring.
The Editor of “The Eastbury Herald” presents his compliments to
Mrs. Stirring for the last time, and again assures her that the whole
trouble grew from the natural carelessness of an overworked and
underpaid compositor. He regrets sincerely the unhappiness which that
mistake has caused, and looks forward to a day when retired bakers
and retired bankers will be considered as equally valuable additions to
a neighbourhood. In retirement, as in the grave, he likes to think of all
men as equal. With renewed apologies for the foul aspersion which he
cast upon Mr. and Mrs. Stirring, he begs to conclude.
P.S.—Mrs. Stirring will be pleased to hear that not only the writer
but the compositor are under notice to leave.
The New Chauffeur

(An Impossible Dialogue)

EMPLOYER. And now as to wages. What do you want?

Chauffeur. Forty pounds a year and all found.
E. And what do you expect to do for that?
C. To keep the car in good order and drive you out in it.
E. Yes. You must excuse me asking so much, but you see I don’t
know you at all. What kind of a temper have you?
C. Very good.
E. Yes, of course. But I mean what kind of temper have you when
you are told suddenly, late on a wet night, to go to the station?
C. Very good.
E. Always?
C. Certainly.
E. Well, I want you to be quite sure. Is your temper so perfect that
if I were to offer you another £5 a year to secure this point about
unexpected runs in bad weather and so forth, it would make no
difference?
C. I think it might make a difference.
E. And you would stand by the bargain? Never for a moment go
back on it?
C. No.
E. Then we will say £45. And one other point. There are some
chauffeurs so poor spirited that on an open road with no danger they
will go at only, say, twelve miles an hour. You are not like that, are
you?
C. Certainly not.
E. You hate going slow?
C. Yes.
E. Ah, then, that settles it, for a chauffeur who objects to go slow
is no good to me. You see, I often want to go slow: in fact, always
when it is very dusty and we are near cottage gardens.
C. Yes; but, of course, if you wished it——
E. You said you hated it. Now, an unwilling servant is the last thing
I require.
C. But——
E. You mean that you could get over your dislike and become
willing to meet my wishes?
C. Yes.
E. But willingness must be more spontaneous than that. Suppose
we were to fix it up now absolutely, would you continue in that frame?
You would always be willing?
C. Always.
E. Then shall we say another £5 a year? That makes £50.
C. Thank you very much.
E. Oh, no, not at all. It’s a commercial transaction. I want what
you are prepared to sell. There is one other point. What kind of an
expression do you wear when you are told by your employer to take
out for a drive certain of his poorer friends who cannot afford more
than a small tip, if any?
C. I am perfectly content.
E. Perfectly?
C. Well, of course, one prefers to drive one’s own employer.
 E. Ah!—but supposing I wished all your passengers to be of equal
importance and interest to you? There is no pleasure in a drive if the
driver is sullen. Have you ever thought of that?
C. Never.
E. You see it now?
C. Yes, I see it now.
E. And if I were to add another £5 it would guarantee the smile?
C. Absolutely.
E. Very well, then, that makes it £55. We will leave it at that. You
will begin on Monday.
The Fir-tree; Revised Version

(Too Long after Hans Andersen)

ONCE upon a time there grew a fir-tree in a great Newfoundland
forest.
It had a delightful life; the rain fell on it and nourished its roots;
the sun shone on it and warmed its heart; now and then came a great
jolly wind to wrestle with it and try its strength. The peasant children
would sit at its foot and play their games and sing their little songs,
and the birds roosted or sheltered in its branches. Often the squirrels
frolicked there.
But the tree, although everything was so happy in its
surroundings, was not satisfied. It longed to be something else. It
longed to be, as it said, important in the world.
“Well,” said the next tree to it, “you will be important; we all shall.
Nothing is so important as the mast of a ship.”
But the tree would not have it. “The mast of a ship!” he said.
“Pooh! I hope to be something better than that.”
Every year the surveyors came and marked a number of the taller
trees, and then wood-cutters arrived and cut them down and lopped
off their branches and dragged them away to the ship-builders. The
tree disdainfully watched them go.
And then one day the surveyor came and made a mark on its bark.
“Ha! ha!” said a neighbour, “now you’re done for.”
But the tree laughed slyly. “I know a trick worth two of that,” he
said, and he induced a squirrel to rub off the mark with its tail, so that
when the wood-cutters came it was not felled after all.
 “Oh,” said the swallows when they came back next year, “you here
still?”
“Surely,” said the tree conceitedly. “They tried to get me, but I was
too clever for them.”
“But don’t you want to be a mast,” they said, “and hold up the
sails of a beautiful ship, and swim grandly all about the seas of the
world, and lie in strange harbours, and hear strange voices?”
“No,” said the tree, “I don’t. I dislike the sea. It is monotonous. I
want to assist in influencing the world. I want to be important.”
“Don’t be so silly,” said the swallows.
And then the tree had his wish, for one day some more wood-
cutters came; but, instead of picking out the tallest and straightest
trees, as they had been used to, they cut down hundreds just as they
came to them.
“Look out,” said the swallows. “You’ll be cut down now whether
you want it or not.”
“I want it,” said the tree. “I want to begin to influence the world.”
“Very well,” said a wood-cutter, “you shall,” and he gave the trunk
a great blow with his axe, and then another and another, until down it
fell.
“You won’t be a mast,” he added, “never fear. Nothing so useful!
You’re going to make paper, my friend.”
“What is paper?” asked the tree of the swallows as they darted to
and fro over its branches.
“We don’t know,” they said, “but we’ll ask the sparrows.”
The sparrows, who knew, told the tree. “Paper,” they said, “is the
white stuff that men read from. It used to be made from rags; but it’s
made from trees now because it’s cheaper.”
“Then will people read me?” asked the tree.
“Yes,” said the sparrows.
 The tree nearly fainted with rapture.
“But only for a few minutes,” added the sparrows. “You’re going to
be newspaper paper, not book paper.”
“All the same,” said the tree, “I might have something worth
reading on me, mightn’t I? Something beautiful or grand.”
“You might,” said the sparrows, “but it isn’t very likely.”
Then the men came to haul the tree away. Poor tree, what a time
it had! It was sawed into logs, and pushed, with thousands of others,
into a pulping machine, and the sap oozed out of it, and it screamed
with agony; and then by a dozen different processes, all extremely
painful, it was made into paper.
Oh, how it wished it was still growing on the hillside with the sun
and the rain, and the children at its foot, and the birds and squirrels in
its branches. “I never thought the world would be like this,” it said.
And the other trees in the paper all around it agreed that the world
was an overrated place.
And the tree went to sleep and dreamed it was a mast, and woke
up crying.
Then it was rolled into a long roll five miles long and put down into
the hold of a ship, and there it lay all forlorn and sea-sick for a week. A
dreadful storm raged overhead—the same wind that had once tried its
strength on the hillside—and as they heard it all the trees in the paper
groaned as they thought of the life of the forest and the brave days
that were gone.
The worst of it was that the roll in which our tree lay was close by
the foot of the mast, which came through the hold just here, and he
found that they were old friends. The mast said he could think of no
life so pleasant as that of a mast. “One has the sun all day,” he said,
“and the stars all night; one carries men and merchandise about the
world; one lies in strange harbours and sees strange and entertaining
sights. One is influencing the world all the time.”
At these words the tree wept again. But he made an effort to be
comforted. “You wouldn’t suggest,” he inquired timidly, “that a mast
was as important, say, as a newspaper?”
The mast laughed till he shook. “Well, I like that,” he said. “Why, a
newspaper—a newspaper only lasts a day, and everything in it is
contradicted and corrected the day after! A mast goes on for years.
And another thing,” he added, “which I forgot: sometimes the captain
leans against it. The captain! Think of that.”
But the tree was too miserable.
In the harbour it was taken out of the ship and flung on the wharf,
and then it was carried to the warehouse, below a newspaper office in
London. What a difference from Newfoundland, where there was air
and light. Here it was dark and stuffy, and the rolls talked to each
other with tears in their voices.
And then one night the roll in which our poor tree found himself
was carried to the printing-rooms and fixed in the press, and down
came the heavy, messy type on it, all black and suffocating, and when
the tree came to itself in the light again it was covered with words.
But, alas! the sparrows were right, for they were not beautiful
words or grand words, but such words as, “Society Divorce Case,” and
“Double Suicide at Margate,” and “Will it be fine to-morrow?” and
“Breach of Promise: Comic Letters,” and “The Progress of the Strike,”
and “Terrible Accident near Paris,” and “Grisly Discovery at Leeds,” and
“Bankruptcy of Peer’s Cousin,” and “Burglary at Potter’s Bar,” and “More
Government Lies”; and there were offers of a thousand pounds and
smaller sums to cottagers for the best bunch of Sweet Williams,
bringing to myriad simple homes in England, where flowers had been
loved for their own sake, the alloy of avarice.
“Oh, dear,” sighed the tree as it realized what it was bearing on its
surface, “how I wish I had gone to sea as I was meant to do!” And he
vowed that if ever he got out of this dreadful life he would never be
headstrong again. But alas!—
Then, cut and folded, it was, with others like it, carried away in the
cold, grey morning to a railway station bookstall, and a man bought it
for a halfpenny and read it all through, and said there was nothing in
it, and threw it under the seat, and later another man found it and
read it, and blew choking tobacco over it, and then wrapped up some
fish in it, and took it home to his family. All that night it lay scrunched
up on the floor of a squalid house, feeling very faint from the smell of
fish, and longing for Newfoundland and the sun and the rain, and the
children and the birds.
And the next morning an untidy woman lit the fire with it. It was
an unimportant fire, and went out directly.