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IUJDVlln Lingeringly, cautiously, I bring it to light and hold it out to him. Oh, how dreadful- ly pink and uncleanly it appears in the broad light of the open air! To me it seems doubly hideousâ€"the very last thinga. fastidious gentleman would dream of put- ting to his nose. ' Mr, Carrington accepts it almost tender- ly. There is not the shadow of a smile upon his face. It would be impossible for me to say how grateful I feel to him for this. v ,n LL_L 4...”..1‘1n ” CHAPTER Y. ‘ 1 I have wandered down to the river side and under the shady trees. As yet, Octo- ber is so young and mild the leaves refuseto ofl'er tribute, and still quiver and rustle gay- ly'on_ their branches. ....l,\ w... "Jumd-nrn 1'11 +119 1y uu vuvu u;u.......~_. It is a. week since my adventure in the woodâ€"five days since Mr. Carrington’s last visit. On that occasion, having failed to obtain one minute with him alone, the handkerchief still remains in my possession, and proves a very skeleton in my closet, the initials M. J. C.â€"â€"tha.t stand for Marma- duke John Carrington, as all the world knowsâ€"staring out boldly from their cor- ".AA. A... L- Auu w nâ€"nvm....b . m _ ner, and threatening at any moment to be- tray me; so that, through fear and dread or discovery, I carry it about with me, and slee with it beneath my pillow. Looking bac upon it all now, I wonder how I could have been so foolish, so wantng in inven- tion. I feel with What ease I could now dis- pose of anything tangible and obnoxious. l:..LL -\.:u :.. Hm nl'v‘ ;n affif‘n 77“VVhy are you alone?” he asks, present- ly. “Why is not the indefatigable Billy Author of “ Along Baum, ” V" The Baby, “Airy Fairy Lilian," 4316., etc. “ A11 ! Love was never yet without The pang, the agony, the doubt.” â€"â€"BYRO!\', V““ V‘ ““J o "v c: 11 There is a. slight chill in the air, in spite of the pleasant sun; and 1 half make up my mind to go-for abriak walk, instead of saun- tering idly, as I am at present doing, when somebody 'calls to me from an adjoining field. It is Mr. Carrington. He climbs the wall that separates us, ani drops into my territory, a little scrambling Irish terrier at his heels. 1‘ “erm L» “Is it’possib‘ie, you took all that trouble,” he says, a. certain gentle light, with which I am growing femiliar, coming into his eyes as they rest upon my anxious face. “ My dear child. why? Did you not understand I was only jesting when I expressed a desire to have it again ‘2 Why did you not put it; in the fire, or rid yourself of it in some other fashion long ago? So ”â€"â€"after a. pause â€"-“ you really washed it with your own hands for me?” “ One might guess that by looking at it," I answer, with a. rather awkward laugh : still, I think it would not look quite so bad~ 1y, butthat I keptitiu Iny pocket ever since, and that gives it its crumpled appear- ance._” “bh, please do not say‘thatl” I cry, dis- mayed : “ you must not keep it as a speci- men of my handiwork. Once properly washed, 3]»). will forget all about It, but if you 'keep it; before your eyes in its present stateâ€"Mr. Carrington, do put it in your clothes-basket the moment ydu go home.” no othfir washerwoman” â€"-Wifh a smileâ€"- “ shall ever touch it. I promise you that,” He places it carefully in an inside pocket as he spfiaks.‘ 1 . av “"7 1- “ I am very glad you admire her; but in- deed you would be singular if you did not do so,” I say, with enthusiasm. Her golden hair and blue eyes make her quite a picture. “ Ever since ! so near to you for five long days? What 'a. weight it must have been on your tender conscience! \Vell, at all events 1 “"11, _ He only laughs at this pathetic entreaty, and throwsa. pebble into the tiny river that runs at our feet. ‘2, Ahd so leaves you disconsolate longer than he need. Your sister, Miss Vernonâ€"â€" does she never go for a. walk with you?" Ah! now he is coming to Dora, “Dora? Oh, never. She is not fond of walkin , it does not agree with her, she says. §lou may have noticed she is not very robust, she looks so f1 agile, so difl‘erent from me in every respect.” “ Very different.” “ Yes, we all see that,” I answer, rather disconcerted by his ready acquiescence in this home View. “ And so pretty as she is, too 8 Don’t you think her very pretty, Mr. Carrington?” “ Extremely so. Even more than merely pretty. Her complexion, I take it, must be quite unrivaled. She is positively lovelyâ€"â€" in hgr own style_.”_ “ lie reads with a tutor“ three times a week. That leaves me very often lonely. I came here to-day just to pass the time un- til he can join me. He don’t seem to care much about Greek and Latin,”- I admit, in- enously; “and, as he never looks at his issons until five minutes before Mr. Cald- woou comes, you see he don’t get over them very quicklyz” B4 And now what does it bring. dear, This great love, at the end A son: for me to sing, dear, Sad days for you to spend. or all that we have said, sweet. » And all that We have done, 013‘ eyes are still afr'aid, sweet. ' fifahértomiorrow‘s Sim. We knew that this must be, love, The hour when first we met, And yet we cannot see, love, How each may each forget. To-morrow, then, we part, 10V e, And go our separate ways, And Sunder begin fyom heart love. Lovers who Are Not Happy. And Sunder faceifrrom face, PHYLLIS. BY THE DUCHESS. From the Purl-inn. :‘ NE), I don’t see it,” returns he, when he has subjected the eyes in question to aclose and lingering examination. Then he laughs a. little, and I laugh too, to encourage him, and because at this time of my life gayety 0t any sort seems good, and tears andlaugh- ter are very near to me; and presently we are both making merry over my description. of the wanderer’s production. I‘ You speak of her as though she were a woman. I don’t believe she is a. child at a-ll,”nI say, with a pout. Here? I open my blue-gray eyes to their Widest and gaze at my companion in anxious inqujgy. ' “What is she like, you mean. She is still in the land of the living. Descv'ibeher 1 don’t believe I could,” says my companion, with a light laugh. “ 11' I gave you her exact- photograph in words, I dare say I would call down your scorn on my benight- ed taste. “’ho ever grew rapturous over a description? If you cross examine me about her charms without doubt I shall fall through. To my way of thinking beauty does not lie in features, in hair, or eyes, or mouth. It is there, without one's knowing why; a look, an expression, a smile, all gone to make up the indescribable something that is perfection.” ‘7 Of course,” I answer, with surprise: “they are no use to me, and have been tossing about in my drawers six months. 'Will you have a Carson one? I really think it is the best. Though, if you put your hand over your eyes, the itinerant’s is rather like me.” ‘ ‘ \tht happened to the eyes?” “There isa faint cast in the right one. The man said it was the way 1 always looked, but I don’t think so, myself. You don’t think I have a squint, do you, Mr. Carrington?” “ \Vhat o’clock is it,” I ask, a. little later. “ It must be time for, me to go home, and Billy will be waiting.” Having told me the hour, he says : “ Have you no watch, Phyllis?” “ N0.” “ Don’t you find it awkward now and then being ignorant of the time ? ‘Vould you like one?” ' “ She is the gre‘atest child I ever met. But tell meâ€"~â€"â€"â€"” Then breakingoffsudden- ly, and turning to me, “By the bye,” he says, “ what may I call you? Miss Vernon is too formal, and Miss Phyllis I detest.” “ Yes,” ieturned I, lafighing, “ it reminds me of Martha. You may call me Phyllis if you like.” ' “Oh, would I not?”I answer promptly. “There is nothing I would like'better. Do you know it is the one thing for which I am always wishing.” » “‘ Yoix seem co‘infortabfi certain of being married, sooner or later,” he says, with a I think she has the prettiest face I ever saw: don’Lyou?” “ You-Have been so much in the work , ” I say, with some dejection, “ and of course in London and Paris and all the large cities one sees many charming faces from time to time. I should have remembered that. I suppose, away from this little village, Dora’s face would be but one in a. crowd.” It was not in London or Paris, or any large city I saw the face of which I speak. It was in a. neighborhood as smallâ€"yes quite as this. The owner of it was a mere childâ€"â€"a little country-girl, knowing nothing‘of the busy world outside her home, but I shall never again see any one so altogether sweet, and lovable.” ‘_‘ Thank you; I shall like it very much. Apropos of photographs, then, a moment ggq, lilxyllist dle yqu ever sit £01: your ppr~ tFait?” 'He is looking at me as 113 spezlks, as though desirous of photographing me up- on his brain without further loss of time. "Oh, yes, twice,” I answer, cheerfully; “ once by atravellingman who came round, and did us all very cheaply indeed (I think for fourpence or Sixpence ahead); and once in Carston. I had a. dozen taken then ; but when I had given one each to them all at home, and one to Martha, I found I had no use for the others, and had only wasted my pocket-money. Perhaps” â€"â€" diffidently â€" “you would likv one?" ‘ aw Nu“. H... mm. ‘ “Like it!” says Mr. Carrington, with most uncalled for eagerness: “ I should rather think I would. Will you really give me one, Phyllis?” “ I stare at him in silent bewilderment. Is he really in earnest? He certainly looks so: and for a moment I level in the glorious thought. Fancy! what it would be to have a. watch of my very own; to be able every five minutes to assure'myself of the exact hour! Think of all the malicious pleasure I should enjoy in dangling it before Dora’s jealous eyes! what pride in exhibiting it to Billy’s delighted ones? Probably it would be handsomer than Dora’s, whieh has seen service, and, being newer, would surely keep better time. "‘ No; nothing, Vthafik yéu. I must only wait. Mother has promised me her watch uppnlny wedding xporugqg.” “ NB; not the prettiest. I know another thgp, to meat least, is fay morqlgeautiful.” He is looking straight before him. appar- ently at nothing, and to my attentive ear there is something hidden in his tone that renders me uneasy for the brilliant future 1 have mapped out for my sister. “ \Vliat was she like?” I ask, curiously. I am not so uneasy as I was. If only a child she cannot, of course, interfere with Dora. “ Describe her to me?” “Thank you,” I said mournfully. “Thank you very, very much, Mr. Carrington, but I could not take it from you. It is very kind of you to ofl'er it, and I would accept it if I could, but it would be of no use. At home I know thev would not let me have it, and so it would be a. pity for you to spend all your money upon it fox: nothing.’_’ ' “\Vhat nonsense!” impatiently. “ Who would not let you take it?” “Papa, mamma, every one,” I answer, with deepest dejection. (I would so much have liked that watch! Why, why did he put the delightful but transcient idea, into my head?) “They would all say I acted wrongly in taking it, andâ€"and they would send it back to you again.” “ Is there anjrthing else you would like, Phyllis, that} might gi_ve you?”_ “ Phyllis,” gays Mr. Carrington, eagerly, “ 1et_me give ygg on_e.” __ Then the delight passes, and something within me whispers such joy is not for me. Of course he would only give it to me for Dora’s sake, and yet I knowâ€"I cannot say why I feel itâ€"but I know if I accepted a watch from Mr. Carringtou all at home would be angry, and it would cause a. horri- ble row. Mother laughs and passes her hand with a. light carressing gesture over his charming face. “ I don’t believe Mr. Carrington cares a pin for Dora,” says Billy, irrevelantly. “ I “ Good bye, you perverse child; and don’t try to imagine yourself mercenary. Are you angry with me?” holding my unwilling hand and smiling into my face. “ Don’t; I am not worth it. Come, give me one smile to hear me company until we meet again.” Thus adjured, I laugh, and my fingers grow quiet in his grasp. And when will that be?” continues Mr, Uarrlngton. To-morrow or next day? Probably Friday will see me at Summerloas. In the meantime, now we are friends again, I must remind you not to for- get your promise about that Carston photo.” “How did you manage to get away so soon again, Roly?” I ask, when I have em- braced him as much as he will allow. “I hardly know. Luck, I fancyâ€"and the colonelâ€"did it. The old boy, you see, has a weakness for me which 1 return by having a weekness for the old boy’s daugh- ter. Mother”â€"la.nguidly~â€"“may I marry the old boy’s daughter? She is an extreme- ly pretty little girl, young, with fifteen thousand pounds; but I would not like to engage myself to her without your full con- sent,” 2 “I will remclnbel',’ I say; and-so we separate. On my return home, to my inexpressihle surprise and delight, I find Roland. During my absence he has arrived, totally unexpect- ed by any member of the household; and the small excitement his appearance causes makes him doubly welcome, as anything that startles us out of our humdrum exis- tence is hailed with positive rapture. Even mother, whose mind is still wonderfully fresh and young, considering all the years she has passed under papa’s thumb, enters freely into the general merriment, and forgets for the time being her daily cares, “Conceited boy!” she murmurs, fondly ; “there is little chance you will ever do so mucl_1 259ml for yourself.”_ “ Doh’t be 1:60 sure. At all events, I have youggonsen’g?” “ Roland, my dear, I wish you would not speak so of your father.” puts in mumma, feebiig. “ Very well, I won’t,” returns Roly; “and he shan‘t be put under ground at all, if you don’t wish it. Cremation shall be his fate, and we will keep his precious ashes in an n urn. “ Mother, radiant, is sitting; near him, regarding him with humid eyes. If dear mother had been married to an indulgent husband she would have been a, dreadful goose. Even as it is she possesses a talent for weeping upon all occasions only to be equaled by mine.” ' “ Yes, and my blessing, too,” says mother, laughing again.“ “ And from what [have seen of husbands I think they are all. every one, each more de- testable than the other. If I were an heiress I would never marry; but, being a girl with- out a. fortune, I suppose I must.” Mr Carrington roars. “Inever heard anything so absurd,” he says, “ as such mature sentiments coming from yam lips. Why, to hear you talk, one might imagine you a, town-bred young wo- man, one who has passed through the fourth campaign; but to see you You have learned your lesson uncommonly well, though I am sure you were never taught it by your mother. And how do you know that you may not lose your heart to a curate, and find yourself poorer after your marriage than before?” - “ I hate to hear you talk like that," says Mr. Carrington, gravely. “The ideas are so unsuited to a little loving girl like you. Although I am positive you do not mean one word of what you say, still it pains me to hear you.” ‘ “I do' mean it," I anawer, defiantly; “but as my co nversation pains you, I will not in~ flict; on_ you longer. Good-bygfi' ‘TThgnkg. Then I’ll turn it over in my minq Whey I gp batckr.” “ Roly,” I Ubreak in with my accustomed graciopsxgess', “wl‘lat brought yo_u?” _ " The train and an overpowering desire to see Dora’s young man.” A laugh and a blush from Dora. “ I met him just now,” I say, ‘ down by the trout-river. \Vhat a pity he did not come with me, to satisfy your curiosity without delay!” “ I quite thought you were going to say something,” says Roland, amiably. “I was mistaken. I will therefore continue. When we have put our beloved father well under the ground 1 will then be head of this house, and natural guardian to these poor dear girls; and. with this prospect in View. Ifeel even at the present moment a. certain respon- sibility, that compels me to look after t it interests and bring this recreaut gallant to book.” laugh that still showed some vcxation. “ Do you ever think what sort of a husband you woultl likel Phyllis?» A _ * “ That I never will,” I return decisively. “ In the first place I detest curates, and in the next I would not be wife to a. poor man, even if I adored him. I will marry a, rich man, or 1 will not marry at all.” “You see, I foundvI would be here‘ al- most as soon as a. letter,” exclaims Roland ; “and, as I hate writing like a. nightmare, I-resolvefi to take you a little by surprise.” “ Mother do you think it the correct thing for Phillis to keep clandestine appointments withher brother-in-Iaw‘.’ Dora is it possible that you do not scent mischief in the air ? A person, too, of Phillis’s well-known at- tractionsâ€"” “ What was he doing at‘the trout-river ?” asks Dora, with a smile. She is_too secure in the knowledge of her own beauty to dread a rival anywhere, least of all in me. “Nothing, as far as I could see. He talked a little. and said he was Coming here next_F_‘rid_ay. ” “ No, I never think of disagreeable things, if I can help it,” is my tart reply. My merry mood is gone; I feel in some way injured, and inclined toward snappishness. “ The day after to-morrow. I shall ask him his intentions," says Rely. “ It is most fortunate I am' on the spot. One should never let an affair of this kind drag. It will doubtless he a. thankless task ; but I make a. point of never shirking duty; and when we have put our beloved father comfortably under groups! ” “ Maud,” interrupts mother, in a shock- ed tgne. _‘ There if; p, pause. CHAPTER VI. Roland’s presence. has inspihed us all with much additional cheerfulness. We have never appeared so gay,so free from restraint, as , on this afternoon, and Mr. Carrington finds it haer to tear himself away. I myself am in wild spirits, and quite outshine my- self every now and then; and Billy, who is not at any time afflicted with shyness, thinks it a safe opportunity to ask our friend before he leaves if he will some day take us for a drive in his dog~cart. Alas that October days should be so fleet! A day such as this one might have had forty hours without bringing; ennui to any of us ; but at length evening closes inâ€"the time is come when we must take our departure. Regretfully We collect our shawls and move towards the drag. “ Of course I don’t see the smallest pros- pect of it,” murmurs Dora, with downcast eyes; “but if I were to become mistress of Strangemore I would throw more light into all the rooms; I would open up windows everywhere, and take down those heavy pil- lars.” I follow him gladly; and Billy joining us, with a grim countenance, we sally forth, leaving Dora. to pour her griefs into mother’s gentle bosom. Friday brings Mr. Carrington, who is specially agreeable, and devotes himself a good deal to Roland. There is a consider- able amount of talk about shooting, hunt- ing, and so forth, and we can all see that Roly is favorably impressed. Dora’s be- havior is perfectâ€"~lier modesty and virtuous bashfulness apparent. Our visitor rather affects her society than otherwise, but he- yond listening to her admiringly when she speaks, shows no marked attention. In the country a visit is indeed a visitation, and several hours elapse before he takes his de- parture. Once finding myself alone with him in the conservatory, I bestow upon him my promised picture. which he receives with open gratitude and consigns to his pocket as heliears footsteps approaching. MnCarringtEn helps Dora carefully to the box-seat, and then springs up beside her. Billy and I sit very close to each other. Ro- land takes his place anywhere, with a view to changing it on the arrival of Miss Lenall Hasstings. The whip crackles, the bays throw up their headsâ€"we are‘ofi'! “ What a charming virtue is modesty 2” I exclaim, sotto voce. “Go on, Dora,” says Roland, in an en- couraging tone. “When you marry Mr, Carrington, what will you do then?" “ Then you would ruin it,” I. cry indig- nantly; “ its ancient appearanu is its chief chm-m. You would make it a mere modern dwelling-house; and the pillars I think mag- nificent.” “I don’t,” says dear Dom, immovany ; “ and if ever I get; the chance I will certain- ly refilove thqm,” â€" “ You won’t 'get the chance, then; you need not think it. Mr. Carrington has not the smallest idea of marrying you,” exclaims Billy whose Latin and Greek have evidently disagrged with him. “ft is a. pity your tutor cannot teach you to be a. gentlaman,” retorts Dora, casting a wifhgriug ~glance at__9ur youngest born. “ Our Vdear 'William’s temper appears slightly ruffled," remarks Roland, smoqjh- 1y. “ Evidently the gentleman of the name of Caldwood was la-vish with his birch this morning. Come with me Phyllis; I want to visit the" stables.” “ Of course I will,” says Mr. Carrington. “How unpardonable of me never to have thought of it before! But perhaps,” speak- ing to Billy, but looking at Dom and me, “perhaps you would prefer four horses and the coach? It will be a charity to give it a chance to escape from the moths.” “Oh, I say,” says Billy, “ are you in ear- nest?” and, being reassured on this point, fairly overflows with delight. Dora and I are scarcelyvless (lelighted,and Roland’s graciously pleased to say it will be rather fun, when he finds the two Hastings girls are also coming. Somehow nobody thinks of a. chaperon, which certainly heightens the enjoyment, and proves what a. reputable person Mr. Carrington must be. When the day arrives, andBur landlord, clad in a thick light overcoat, drives his four bright bays up to our door, our enthu- siasm reaches its final pitch. Imagination can no farther go: our dream is fulfilled. - I kiss‘my hands a hundred times to mam- ma. and Martha and Jane, the cook, who have all come out to the doorstep to see us start; while Brewster at the corner of the house stands agape with excited surprise. Not that he need have shown astonishment of any sort, considering our expedition and the manner of it has been ceaselessely dinnâ€" ed into his ears every hour of the day dur- ing the past week by the untiring Billy. I have succeeaed in captivating his fancy, however, or else it is his usual mode to de- vote himself for the entire day to whoever may first happen to fall into his clutches ; as, when we descend to Carlton Wood to partake of the lunch our host has provided for us, he still clings to me, and outwardly at least is almost loverlike. think he likes Phyllis twice as well." This” remark, though intended to do so, does not act as a. bombshell in the family circle; it is revarded as a. mere flash in the pan from Billy, and is received with silent contempt, What could a boy know about such mat- ters ? “ I have a month’s leave,” Roland informs us presently. “ Do you think in that time we could polish it offâ€"courtship, proposal, and wedding? Though,” reflectively, “that would be a pity, as by putting off the mar- riage for a little while I might then screw another month out of the old boy.” “Just so,” I answer, approvingly. “He is such a. desirable young man in every way,” says mother, a, propos of M Carrington; “so steady, well-tempered, an his house is really beautiful. You know it, Roland â€"â€"Stmngemoreâ€"seven miles from this?” At Rylston we take up the Hastings, and their brother, a fat, but well-meaning young man, who plants himself on my other side, and makes elephantine attempts at playful- ness. I do not mind him in the least; I find I can pour out my superflous spirits upon him quite as well as upon a more companionâ€" able personâ€"perhaps better;for with him at least I have all the conversation to myself. So I chatter and laugh and talk to Mr. Hastings until I reduce him to a comatose state leaving hiya all eyes and'little tongue. "‘1 think it Ioomy,” Dora. says uietly. “ \Vhen Iâ€"â€"if §were toâ€"thatis ’ 9’ TO BE CONTINUED. CHAPTER VII. Double doorsâ€"folding or slidingâ€"are a great social “institution.” By them two rooms may be thrown into one. A good broad hall becomes in summer an extra. room. The air circulates. There is a freedom. an openness about the house, which gives an air of superiority to even very humble dwellings. The superiority is real, too. If we invite a few friends for the evening it is not necessary to confine them to the “par- dor," but the doors are thrown wide open, our guests will fill parlor and hall, and sit- ting -room and kitchen, perhaps, and yet all are one company, for the Broad doors being open the whole house is thrown together. Music sounds through such a house delight fully, and people have a good time and love to come, because it is so cheerful and social. Another point in our home building which we too often overlook is the exposure of. the principal living and sleeping rooms to the direct influence of the sun. The effect of the sunlight 18 best gained when the house stands with its corners toward the cardinal points, for thus the sun shines with consider~ able power on all sides of the house every clear day in summer, and yet his power is broken, because at noonday the rays strike two sides obliquely, and very soon leave the southeastern side in the shade. We should not forget that the sunshine is healtbgiving; dampness and shadec if slightly in excess, injure the health of both men and ani- mals. Of course open fire-places are not econo- mical of fuel, but in the chambers fire is seldom wanted, and stoves may be used, if. preferred. As to economy of fuel, builders as well as architects and proprietors, either frequently overlook one important fact, or they do not look at it, that is, that the warmest part of any room is farthest from the floor; so if we make our room ten or eleven feet high we must heat the air in all that upper part before a person sitting at a. table begins to feel at all warm, unless he is where he gets radiation from the stove or open fire. Lew ceilings effect the greatest economy of fuel, and even make open fires economical as compared with stoves and high ceilings. Nine feet is, I think, an extreme height for the ceiling of an ordinary country house, say one in which the largest room is not more than twenty feet square, or of equivalent area. ' ‘Besides, there are other numerous consid- erations which tend to the saving of fuel and at the §ame time increase the healthfulness and comfort of a home. Some of these are One thing more is the importance of hav- ing some provision for fire in the chambers. We build for health and not for sickness, and I do not hesitate to say that many a family mourns the loss of a member simply because the sleeping room could not be easi- ly_l_1_ea.ted. the material of the walls; ihpenetra- bility to air and moisture, “deafening ” of the floors which adds greatly to their warmth, good joiner work about windows and doors, etc. I - ‘ The best mode of heating no doubt is by an open fire of some kind. It is very easy in building to make open fire-places in at least three chambers through which the chimney passes. Joe, r monkey of the London “Zoo,” could never be got back into his cage when once he was allowed his liberty outside. But he had one weaknessâ€"â€"that of curiosityâ€"and the keeper, looking down a. dark hole, at- tracted the attention of the monkey, who slowly approached him to find out the cause of the investigation. Suddenly the keeper would start hack and the monkey’s courage, deserting him, he flew to the shelter of his cage when the door would be shut. This trick was successfully played on him month after month, he never seeming to learn it. Another monkey, “Miss Jenny,” that came from India, and parted her hair in the mid- dle, smoked real tobacco. and would snatch a half-smoked cigar from a. visitor and finish it. She would also hold a bottle of ale with her hind foot and take long draughts be- tween the pufls of smoke, ACTORS playing before King Theebaw of Burmah have to take otf their boots. and make their lowest s31me to the King, every time they go on or come off the stage. A Battling Lecture for the Benefit of Those 80 Inclined. These sparkers are looked upon by parents generally as a nuisance, and often they are right. Nine-tenths of the sparking is done by boys who haven’t got their growth, and they look so green that it‘ is laughable for the old folks to look at them. They haven’t generally got a second shirt, and they are no more qualified to get married than a cow is to preach. And yet marrying is the first thing they think of. . A green boy without a. dollar, present or prospective, sparking a girl regularly and talking about marrying, is a spectacle for gods and men. He should be reasoned with, and if he will not quit it un- til he is able to support a wife, and to know whom he loves, and the difference between love and passion, he should be quarantined or put in a convent, erected on purpose for such cases. Nine-tenths of the unhap y marriages are the result of green human lye. iugs allowed to run at large in the society pasture without any yokes on them. ’ They marry and have children before they do moustaches; they are fathers of twins be. fore they are the proprietor of two pair of pants, and the little girls they marry are old women before they are twenty years old. Occasionally one of these zosling marriages turns out all right, but it is a clear case of luck. If there was a law against young galoots sparking and marrying before they have their teeth cut, we suppose they would evade it in some Way, but there ought to be a sentiment against it. It is time enough {or these bantams to think of finding a pul~ let when they have raised money enough by their own work to buy abundle of lathe to build a hen house. But they see a girl who looks cunnxng, and they are afraid there are not going to be girls enough to go round, and then they begin to get in their work real spry; and before they are aware of the sanctity of the marriage relation they are hitched for life. YOUNG FOOLS THAT HARRY. The Building of Homes. Amen-ml Agriculturm. ow». Monkeys. Moro“