palings, using violent exertions to get my chin above the rusty nails on top, blowing kisses at the lights in the windows and romantically calling on the night to shield my Dora,--I don't exactly know from what,— I suppose from mice, to which she had a great objection. Dora had a discreet friend whose name was Miss Mills. Dora called her Julia. She was the bosom friend of Dora. Happy Miss Mills! One day she said to me: "Dora is coming to stay with me. She is coming the day after to-morrow. If you would like to call, I am sure papa would be happy to see you." I spent three days in a luxury of wretchedness. At last arrayed for the purpose at a vast expense, I went to Miss Mills's fraught with a declaration. Mr. Mills was not at home. I didn't expect he would be. Nobody wanted him. Miss Mills was at home. And I was shown into a room where she and Dora were. Dora's little dog Jip was there. Miss Mills was copying music and Dora was painting flowers. What were my feelings when I recognized flowers I had given her! Miss Mills was very glad to see me, and very sorry her papa was not at home, though I thought we all bore that with fortitude. Miss Mills was conversational for a few minutes then got up and left the room. 66 I began to think I would put it off till to-morrow. "I hope your poor horse was not tired when he got home from that picnic," said Dora, lifting up her beautiful eyes. "It was a long way for him." I began to think I would do it to-day. "It was a long way for him, for he had nothing to uphold him on his journey." "Wasn't he fed, poor thing?" I began to think I would put it off till to-morrow. "Ye-yes, he was well taken care of. I mean he had not the unutterable happiness that I had in being so near to you." I saw now that I was in for it, and it must be done on the spot. "I don't know why you should care for being near me, or why you should call it a happiness. But of course you don't mean what you say. Jip, you naughty boy, come here!" I don't know how I did it, but I did it in a minute. I intercepted Jip. I had Dora in my arms. I was full of eloquence. I never stopped for a word. I told her how I loved her. I told her I should die without her. I told her that I idolized and worshipped her. Jip barked madly all the time, but my eloquence increased, and I said if she would like me to die for her, she had but to say the word and I was ready. I had loved her to distraction every minute, day and night, since I first set eyes upon her. I loved her at that minute to distraction. I should always love her every minute to distraction. Lovers had loved before, and lovers would love again; but no lover had ever loved, might, could, would or should love as I loved Dora. The more I raved the more Jip barked. Each of us in his own way got more mad every minute. Well, well: Dora and I were sitting on the sofa, by and by quiet enough, and Jip was lying in her lap winking peacefully at me. It was off my mind. I was in a state of perfect rapture. Dora and I were engaged. Being poor, I felt it necessary the next time I went to my darling to expatiate upon that unfortunate drawback. I soon carried desolation into the bosom of our joys-not that I meant to do it, but that I was so full of the subject-by asking Dora without the smallest preparation if she could love a beggar. 66 How can you ask me anything so foolish? Love a beggar!" "Dora, my own dearest, I am a beggar!" "How can you be such a silly thing as to sit there telling such stories? I'll make Jip bite you if you are so ridiculous." But I looked so serious that Dora began to cry. She did nothing but exclaim, Oh, dear! Oh, dear! And oh, she was so frightened! and where was Julia Mills? And oh, take her to Julia Mills, and go away, please! until I was almost beside myself. I thought I had killed her. I sprinkled water on her face; I went down on my knees; I plucked at my hair; I besought her forgiveness, and implored her to look up, which she finally did with a horrified expression which I gradually soothed until it was only loving and her soft pretty cheek was lying against mine. "Is your heart mine still, dear Dora?" "Oh, yes! Oh, yes! it's all yours. Oh, don't be dreadful." "My dearest love, the crust well earned" 66 Oh, yes; but I don't want to hear any more about crusts. And after we are married, Jip must have his mutton chop every day at twelve or he'll die." I was charmed with her childish, winning way, and I fondly explained to her that Jip should have his mutton chop with his accustomed regularity. Time passed on and Dora and I were married. I doubt whether two young birds could have known less about housekeeping than I and my pretty Dora did. We had a servant of course. She kept house for us. And an awful time of it we had with Mary Ann. She was the cause of our first little quarrel. My dearest life," I said one day to Dora, “do you think that Mary Ann has any idea of time?" Why, Doady?" 66 66 "Because, my love, it is five, and we were to have dined at four.--Don't you think, my dear, it would be better for you to remonstrate with Mary Ann?" "Oh, no, please! I couldn't, Doady!" "Why not, my love?" "Oh, because I'm such a little goose, and she knows I am!" I thought this sentiment so incompatible with the establishment of any system of check upon Mary Ann that I frowned a little. 66 My precious wife, we must be serious sometimes. Come sit down on this chair close beside me. Now let us talk sensibly. You know, my dear, it is not exactly comfortable to have to go out without one's dinner. Now is it?" “ N-n-n-no ! ” "My love, how you tremble!" "Because I know you are going to scold!" 66 My sweet, I am only going to reason!" "Oh, but reasoning is worse than scolding! I didn't marry to be reasoned with. If you meant to reason with such a poor little creature as I, you ought have told me so, you cruel boy!" "Dora, my darling!" "No, I am not your darling. be sorry you married me, or else with me!" 66 Because you must you wouldn't reason Now, my own Dora, you are childish and are talking nonsense. You must remember, I am sure, that I was obliged to go out yesterday when dinner was half over; and that the day before, I was made quite ill by being obliged to eat underdone veal in a hurry; to-day, I don't dine at all, and I am afraid to say how long we waited for breakfast. I don't mean to reproach you, my dear, but this is not comfortable." "Oh, you cruel, cruel boy, to say I am a disagreeable wife!" "Now, my dear Dora, you must know that I never said that! “You said I wasn't comfortable!" "I said the housekeeping was not comfortable!" "It's exactly the same thing! and I wonder, I do, at your making such ungrateful speeches. When you know that the other day when you said you would like a little bit of fish, I went out myself, miles and miles, and ordered it just to surprise you.' "And it was very kind of you, my own darling; and I felt it so much, that I wouldn't on any account have mentioned that you bought a salmon, which was too much for two, and that you paid one pound six, which is more than we can afford." "You enjoyed it very much, and you said I was a mouse." "And I'll say so again, my love, a thousand times! I said it a thousand times and went on saying it, until Dora was comforted and once more smiled upon me with those beautiful eves. "I am very sorry for all this, Doady," said Dora, at last. "Will you call me a name I want you to call me?" "What is it, my love?” "It's a stupid name,-child-wife. When you are going to be angry with me, say to yourself, 'It's only my child-wife.' When I am very disappointing, say, I knew a long time ago that she would make but a child-wife.' When you miss what you would like me to be, and what I should like to be, and what I think I never can be, say, Still my foolish childwife loves me.' For indeed, I do, Doady." I invoke the innocent figure I so dearly loved to come out of the mists and shadows of the past, and to turn its gentle head towards me once again, and to bear witness that it was made happy by what I answered.-Charles Dickens. HIAWATHA'S WOOING. (Prize Selection, at the North Mo. State Normal, June, 1886.) "As unto the bow the cord is, So unto the man is woman, Though she bends him, she obeys him, |