FOR THE LADIES.

WIVES AND SWEETHEARTS.

Tf the husband does not altogether fulfil the promise of the lover, is it not equally true that in mnny instances the wife falls short of the possibilities of the sweetheart ? Does not her sweet-

ness of temper too frequently evapoi-ate in the atmosphere of her own home ? Do not all the litle faults which she had laboured to keep in the back ground during the days of courtship en croach one by one on the matrimonial territory, on finding that the guards are dragged at their posts 1 Does not the spotless toilette become demoi'alized, and curl-papers and slipshod shoes and crushed ruffles come to be admitted at the breakfast-table ?

If the sweetheart of Adolphus found it such, a pleasure to adorn her self for his eye, to design pretty sur prises of toilette, and bewitching arrangement of tresses, why should his wife allow herself to forget her cunning, and to obliterate the lovely image from his remembrance, when she can least afford to do so—when her bloom is vanishing and her outlines sharpening 1

Is it not as important to entertain one's husband as one's lover? Why should Araminta prefer the admiration of one to that of the other % Tt may be said that the cares of a family exoner ate her in a measure from the charge of hiding her talent in a napkin; but is it not true of all of us that we fritter away many moments that might be made mentally profitable, and that the busiest woman can find time for any thing in which she takes genuine plea sure ? To be sure, Araminta wishes to please Adolphus, and is not seldom greatly surprised that she fails to do so, laying the blame to soxne radical change in her husband much offcener than it is just, when in truth the real failure results fresh the discontinuance of the means by which she engaged his l'egard in the beginning, which is about the same thing as if one should separate hydrogen from water and yet expect to allay thirst with the residue.

A PARISIAN BUTTERFLY.

A Paris correspondent writes of the late Blanche d'Antigny : She was no nothing of an actress; she was "Cupid" in Orphee aux Unfers, and this was her highest creation. It was a pink-tight performance, including a double-shuffle and break-down a Voncle Sambo or tante Chloe. Not very intellectual but very physical. It required fine legs, fine form and a handsome face. Blanche had all these good things, and, people imagined, good health into the bargain. But that was not the case. She went off in a galloping consumption, and after a few weeks illness there is nothing of her left but her name. To tell the truth, she was not an actress at all; she was " a daughter of joy," a' heroine of the demi-monde. Well, she repented of her sins, confessed herself, and got her self buried from St. Augustine's Church, where her requiem was attended by the largest possible congregation of sinners. She had her virtues, amongst which were thoughtless generosity and kind heartedness. She was the opposite of Desclee in more senses than one. The papei-s were full of her, and delight in telling pretty anecdotes of her goodness of disposition and temper. She had no father that ever anybody knew of, and her mother said she did not know the gentleman's name. Said mother took in washing, and poor Blanche was Cupid, and wore earrings worth 10,000 francs a-piece. She had laces, carriages, poodles and a Khedive of Egypt; but envious death came after her, and she is by this time forgotten. . So is her poor old mother, who had not a red cent to bless herself with, for Blanche died in debt. Sic transit gloria mundi. Paris shed a good many crocodile tears on the sheets of her leading papers over the untimely death of this poor thing, but M'lleTeo and Mme. Angot's daughter have doubtless consoled her.

GALILEO'S DAUGHTER.

The pure and generous spirit of Sister Maria Celeste, Galileo's eldest daughter, so touched by a rational piety, so full of love for her famous and erring father, an intellect so clear and calm, a disposi tion so wholly unselfish, gleams out from the Franciscan Convent, the usual abode of envy, remorse and discontent, like an angelic apparition ; and with tender self-denial the faithful nun, in the midst of constant illness, endless toils as nurse and attendant, laboring often nearly all night with her needle, regular in her devotions, shivering with cold in the thin garb of her Order in April, or sinking beneath the heat of the Florentine Summer, became each year more than ever the sole support of Galileo's fading age, his only guide, comforter and friend. Her mind resembled her father's in its clearness of perception, surpassed it in the concep tion of moral purity. A correspond ence grew up between Galileo and his child, of which all his letters have been lost or purposely destroyed ; but those of his daughter, recently published, indicate the tender affection that linked them together. When Princes were faithless or the Inquisition frowned* Sister Marie Celeste wrote to Galileo such consolation as only a spotless intellect could give, watched over the family of her untrustworthy brother, mended with nimble fingers her father's or Vincenzio's linen; or when the plague raged over Florence, and the lonely con vent trembled at the scene of death around it, was always cheerful, and concealed tier terrors $iat she might soothe those

of others. "I look upon you as my patron saint," she wrote to Galileo "(to speak according to our custom here), to whom I tell all my joys and sorrows."

She begs Galileo to send her a new counterpane, as she had given away her own, or prepares for him two pots of electuary as a preservative from the plague. But it was the daughter who was now the guardian saint, and the great philosopher had no one to watch over him in his later years but the faithful spirit of his child.— Harper's Magazine.

WOMAN'S WALTZING WAYS.

A Put-in-Bay correspondent of the Cincinnati Times furnishes the follow ing lively description of the style in which girls from different States and localities walbz, as shown by the hops at that pleasant resort : " Peo pie may say that a waltz is a waltz, but it is a mistake, as much as to say that a dog is | a dog, for there are dogs and dogs, and there are waltzes and waltzes. With one person it is the poetry of motion ; with another it is about as awkward a performance as putting yourself upon a level and going through the motion of running up-stairs would be. A Ken tucky girl is a natural waltzer, and she does it with a charming chic and abandon. An Ohio girl's waltz is easy, graceful, and ' melodious.' If she hap pens to come from Cincinnati, and across the Rhine, she swings dreamily round and round in the endless ' Dutch waltz.' If she comes from Chicago, she throws her hair back, jumps up and and cracks heels together, and carries off her astonished partner as though a sim moon had struck him, and knocks over all intervening obstacles in her mad carreer around the room. If she is from Indiana, she creeps closely and timidly up to her partner, as though she would like to get into his vest pocket, and melts away with ecstasy as the witching strains of the ' Blue Danube ' sweep through the hall. If ?he is from Mis souri, she crooks her body in the middle like a door-hinge, takes her partner by the shoulders, and makes him miserable in trying to hop around her without treading on her No 9 shoes. If she comes from Michigan, she astonishes her partner by now and then Avorking in a touch of the double shumeor a bit of pigeon wing, with the waltz step ; and if she comes from Arkansas, she throws both arms round his neck, rolls up her eyes as she floats away, and is heard to murmur, Oh, hug me, John !' "

AN OLD-FASHIONED MOTHER.

Thank God some of us had an old fashioned mother. Not a woman of the period enammelled and painted, with her great chignon, lie cuffs and bustles, whose white jewelled hand never felt the clasp of baby fingei\s ; but a dear, old-fashioned, sweet-voiced mother, with eyes in whose clear depths the love-light shone, and brown hair just threaded with. silver, lying smooth upon her faded cheek. Those dear hands, worn withtoij, gently guided our tottering steps in childhood and smoothed our pillow in sickness; even reaching out to us in yearing tenderness when her sweet spirit was baptized in the pearly spray of the river. Blessed is the memory of an old-fashioned mother. It floats to us now like the beautiful perfume from woodland blossoms. The music of other voices may be lost, but the entrancing memory of her echoes to our soul forever. Other faces may fade away and be forgotten, but her's will shine on until the light from heaven's portals ■ will glorify our own. When the fitful pauses of busy feet wander backto the old home-

stead, and. crossing the well-worn thres hold, stand once more in the low, quaint room, so hallowed by her presence, how the feeling of childish innocence and dependence come over us, and we kneel down in the molten sunshine streaming in the western window, just where long years ago we knelt by our mother's knee, lisping "Our Father." How many times, when the tempter lures us on, has the memory of those sacred hours, that mother's words, her faith and her pray ers, saved us from plunging into the deep abyss of sin. Years have filled great drifts between her and us, but they have not hidden from our sight the glory of her pure, unselfish love.

AN AMERICAN HUSBAND ABROAD.

The Paris correspondent of the Arca dian writes as follows : "I must tell you a story which will amuse you. You have heard of Madame Judic, who was once the star of the El Dorado, aiid who, by dint of beauty, a fine voice and much talent, has pushed her way into the opera bouffe company. Well, the other night, Madame Judic was in her box, assisting at a first performance, when lo ! a tap and gentle tap, tap,tapp ing came upon her (box) door. She opened it, and there entered in unto her a man servant, with a curious present in his white cotton-gloved hands. It consisted of five red pinks stuck through a ring. Said ring was set with diamonds and cat's eyes, andis worth about £1,000. With it was a note, and the note read thus : 'Madame—l am an American. I adore, but have never spoken to you. Accept this gift from one who worships you, but is obliged to go home to his wife in Boston. An American.' How nice to be a pretty actress and get pretty ' gifts from, people who don't even know you to speak to ; but how dangerous it iis for wives in Boston to let theiv bus -1 hands go all aloo© to Favis,"

UNREASONABLE AND INJU RIOUS RESTRAINTS.

(From Titcomb'a " Letters to Young People.") ATTiarriageable young woman occu pies, or is made to occupy, a position of peculiar hardship. Our theory is that a woman should never make an advance towards tlie man she loves and would marry. Such a step is deemed incon sistent with maiden modesty. Ido not quarrel with this, but the effect has been to make young women, who posess sensitive "natures, hypocrites. Ifc ought not to do it, but it does. Every modest young woman, possessing a good degree of sagacity, plays a part, almost always, when in the society of young men. The fear is that by some word, or look, or act, she shall express such a degree of interest in a young man as shall lead him to believe that she is after him. Young women study the effect of their language, they often shun civili ties, they put on an artificial and constraind style of behavioui*, for fear that some complacent fool will miscon strue them, or some gentleman whom they wish to please will deem them too forward, and so.become disgusted. The result is, that a man rarely finds out either the best or worst points of his wife's character before he marries her. Social intercourse is carried on under a kind of protest, which places every young woman in a position absolutely false before the eyes of young men. Many a woman owes a life of celibacy and disappointment to the fact that she never felt at liberty to act out herself.

With these statements, it is very easy to understand the attractions which a young married woman has for a bache lor, and to explain the phenomenon of a young man falling in love with a woman older than himself. In the first instance, a married woman becomes agreeable because she becomes perfectly natural and unconstrained, her circumstances allowing all the more grateful forms of politeness—the cordial greeting, the complimentary attentions, and the free conversation —without the clanger of being miscontrued. In the latter instance, the woman throws off her constraint in the same manner because she is in the society of one whom she regards as. in reality, a boy. She finds, very much to her suprise. that she has won the boy's heart; but it was the most natural thing in the world. He had never had a sight of a woman's nature before. The girls with whome he had associated had always worn a mask. The real hearts behind it hud thus far failed to apprehend. There is a very general impression among the young men whose affections are not engaged that the best women are married, and that those who are left do not amount to much. They will think differently some timo or other.

Now, my idea is tliat this universal mask-wearing system should be broken up. It does injustice to all parties. If there is, in society, any poor creature in the form of a man whose vanity is so open to flattery that a young woman cannot treat him with natural, cordial politeness, without li's thinking that she would like to marry him, and is trying to ensnare him, let him think so. and trust to time and circumstances for justice. Such men are of too little account in the world to pay for carrying a deceitful face, and despoiling the intercourse of the young of its sweetest charms. If you like the society of young men, take no pains to conceal it, but treat them with frank cordiality. No true gentleman among them will misconstrue you. It is not necessarily consistent with the safety of any true woman from insult or offensive famili arity. Is your father afraid to trust you out of his sight 1 lam not. If I were, I would be ashamed to confess it, particularly if you were a daughter of mine. I believe in you, and I believe, moreover, that if this contemptible idea that are your natural enemies, and that you must cheat them and look out for them, could be got out of the way, and • a free and unconstrained social inter course established between you and them, they would be much better, and you altogether safer for it.

I trust you. I believe you are virtuous women, with pure hearts and true intentions ; and I know there is no danger to you until you cease to be such. You have an instinct —God's word in your own souls—that tells you when a man takes the first wrong step towards you : and if you do not repel that step in such a manner that it will never be repeated, do you suppose that anything that I could say to you would do you any good 1 I say this : that perfect frankness and cordiality in the treatment of young men are entirely for you to tell them that you calculate to live a maiden life. They know yon lie It will not do to indicate to any of sense that you do not like the attentions and society of gentlemen, for he knows better. He knows, at least., that you ought to like them, and that if you do not, there is something wi-ong about you. Don't pi-actice deception of any kind. A. man who is frank and open-hearted with you, deserves to be met with a frank and open heart by you ; and ninty nine cases in every hundred, men. will be honourable and manly with you, if you will lay aside suspicion, and trust them. If a man prove unworthy of your confi dence, you have your remidy Cut Min or tell him what you think of him, and bring him upon his knees. There is another subject, more or less intimately associated with this, which may as well be treated here. It is very natural for young waen. to

get in the habit of treating only those young men politely whom they happen, for various reasons, to fancy. They "don't care" what the majority of young men think of them, provided they retain the good will of their particular pets. They are whimsical, and take on special and strong likes or dislikes for the young men whom they meet. One is " perfectly hateful," and another is " perfectly splendid," and so they proceed to make fools of them selves over both parties. Now there is nothing upon which a young man is so sensitive as this matter of being treated with polite consideration by the young women of his acquaintance, and I know of nothing which will tend more certainly to make a young man hateful than to treat him as if he were so. There is a multitude of young men whose self-respect is nurtured, whose ambition is quickened, and whose hearts are warmed with a genial fire, by those considerate recognitions on the part of their female acquaintances which assure them that they have a position in the esteem of those with whom they as sociate the sweetest hopes and happiness of life. To be cut for no good cause is to receive a wound which is not easily healed.

The duty, therefore, which I would inculcate is that of systematic politeness. If you know a young man bow to him when you meet him. He will not bow to you first, for he waits for your re cognition. He does not know whether you esteem him of sufficient value to be recognised. If you pass him without a recognition you say to him, in a language which he feels with a keenness which you cannot measure, that you consider him beneath your notice. You plant in his heart immediately a preju dice against yourself. You disturb him. You hurt him, and this, too, let me admit, very frequently without design. You are sensitive yourself, and are afraid he has forgotten you. You think, perhaps, that he would not like to notice you, and would not like to have you notice him. There is a good deal of this kind of thing, doubtless, but it is all wrong. There is no man who will not return your bow, and feel the better for the smile ; and if the young man receiving the attention is poor, and has his position in the world to win, and feels that he has not as many attrac tions, personal or circumstantial, as others, you have made his heart light, and awakened towards yourself a feel i'lg of cordi d good will akin in many instances to gratitude. A young woman who is afraid of compi^omising her position by re cognising men out of her set, or out of a certain lino of genteel occupations, shows by how frail a tenure she holds her own respectability. I could name to you young women who have not only a recognised but a com manding position in the best society who are as uniformally and systemati cally polite to the clerk who sells them silks, as to the pets of their circle; who have a bow and a.smile for all with whom they have ever been thrown into personal relations, and who, by this very politeness, more than mi}* other self-expression, vindicate their placs among those whom society calls ladies. There is a kind word for them in every young man's mouth : and no young man would ever think of presuming upon such politeness for the indulgence of an offensive familiarity. Such women have a sacreduess in his eyes that no other women possess, and he would offend them in no way for the world. The advice I have given you in. these matters is partly for the benefit of your sex and partly for mine. I believe that there should be a far more rational mode of intercourse between young men and young women than at present exists. I believe that every legitimate attraction that your society has for young men should be free and uncon strained. I believe that there is no good reason why a young married woman should be more attractive to a bachelor than yourselves, and that in the degree in which they are more attractive do you wrong yourselves and the young men of your acquaint ance. I believe that it is well for you, and well for young men, that they should be attracted to you by a frank behaviour on your part, which will place them at their ease, and exercise upon them all that good influence | which a pure, strong, outspoken female nature is so well calculated to exert.

Young men and young women, to use a cant phrase of the day, are "in the same boat." But a few years will pass away before they will be the bosom companions of each other, and the fathers and mothers of the land. It matters everything to them that they understand each other, and to this end, in my judgment, an intercourse between them should be established upon a very different basis from that which is now maintained by society. It should be more simple, more ample, more natural more trustful, and more heartily con siderate. There is nothing in the history of the race to prove that any thing has ever been preserved or won to virtue by a system of essential false hood, or a policy of arbitrary constraint. Many a girl feels this, and will feel it to her dying day. To tie a young woman up to the meanly cautious con ventionalisms of the day is to prepare her as a helpless sacrifice to the first designing villian who insinuates him self into her confidence. Many a woman groans to-day in bondage to a drunkard, a libertine, or a dolt, who only »eed,ed to have b^sp allowed; to

know men better to have secured a proper companion.

I say, then, to you, young women, reform this thing altogether. It is in your hands. I give you the idea:. T leave you to carry it into practice. You do not need that I should tell you how to do it. If you are riot vicious, there is nothing for you, in your mind and heart, to conceal. Be simply your yourselves, taking all possible care to make your selves what you should be. Learn to think kindly of all young men, save those who you have reason to believe possess black hearts and foul inten tions—those who are enemies of your sex and social purity. Treat every young man well, both for his sake and your own. You shall thus be the light of many eyes, and your kind heart, thorough good manners, and transparent nature, cannot fail to attract to you those whose true nobility is the most strongly touched by that which is best in womanhood. One of those will be come your companion, I am inclined to think, if human nature, meanwhile, do not suffer some remarkable change.

I have given my advice without many qualifications, but do not misconstrue me. I write upon the supposition that you have common-sense, and know what I mean. Some people, I suppose, would present you with a formula by which to conduct all your intercourse with young men. I know a large number of fathers and mothers who will think that, upon this subject, I ought to guard my lang uage, and be more particular ; but I know very well that if you have not sense and prudence enough to take this general counsel, and use it judiciously, noqualifications that I could make would be of any service to you.

HE SLAPPED HER FACE.

BY MILO.

SCOGGS \T HOME, EXPECTtNG HIS WIFE, WHO HAS BEEN DINING AT AFRIEND's. AT 11 MRS SCOGGS RETURNS BURSTING WITH LAUGHTER. Mr Scoggs —Why, how meivy you ai© this evening, my dear Martha ; you must have had a jolly time at Mickelson's. Mrs Scoggs (still laughing)— You could never guess what makes me. laugh so ! Mr S. —Mickelson must have played his old trick, and served you some beer with goldfishes in it ? Mrs S. —No ; you can't guess. I prefer to tell it to you at once—he si ipped his wife's face! Mr. S —impossible! Mrs S. —And such a slap that it made all the windows tremble! Mickelson wished to have the lamp on the right of the table on account of his sore eye. Betsy wanted it on the left, because it showedher diamonds to more advantage. They both pulled it to their side of the table, until at last Betsy, in a fit of rage, sat it down on a platter full of mashed potatoes. It was then that her husband warmed her cheek with a slap. [Lmgh ing.] I can't help laughing at Betsy's face, but nevertheless I amindignaut at Mickelson ; for the man who slaps a woman is a coward ! Mr S. —Yes, very often. Mrs S. —How so—very often 1 You may say always. The man that slaps a woman is always; a coward ! Mr S. —Unless he has been pushed to it. Mrs. S. —Pushed to it! Do you pretend to defend Mickelson 1 Mr. S. —Oh, no ; I merely say that certain circumstances Mrs. S. —(drily) —Look here! you had better say frankly what you want to say. Mr S. —But, my clear, I have nothing to say. Mrs S. —And yet with your " circum stances," you seem to wish Mr S. —l ! Oh, no. No, indeed ! Mrs S. —What makes you laugh now 1 Mr S. —Was I laughing 1 Why, really that joke of Mickelson's— Mrs S.— What! a "joke !" You call his brutality ajoke ? Perhapsyou would like to do the same 1 I dare say you feel like it. But you dare not do it. It is true, however, that lam not so vexing a creature as Betsy. Mr S.—Oh no ! Mrs S.~ What « Oh,no!" You needn't say it so mockingly. Dare you pretend to my face that I am as vexing as Betsy 1 Mr S. (patiently)—No, my dear—no, indeed ; however ,1 must say, you do like to tease a little Mrs S.—ll ■Mr S.— Well, I retract it. Mrs S. (nervously)— Not at ail,—speak out! It is useless for you to play the silent victim. Oh, I like to tease, do 1 1 I think you would be rather embarrassed to prove what you advance. Mr 8. (softly)— Why, sweet little darling, no later than this morning you almost grew angry because I said that Iloldredge, the artist, is not a blonde.

Mrs S.—l say lie is a blonde ! Mr S—No, veally, my dear, you are mistaken —he is dark.

Mrs S. —I tell you lie a blonde ! Mr S. (giving in)— All right ; lam willing.

Mrs S.—Oh, I don't care for your ironic concessions—it is easy enough to pretend to be resigned when you don't wish to confess that you are wrong. Mr S. (patiently)— Well, then—yes, I am wrong.

Mrs S. —You say that as if you did not mean it. Any one else would have said, " My dear little wife I ask your pardon for having pretended to say that Holdredgeis dark,"

Mr S, (loosing Jus patience) •■— Yqs }

yes, yes ! But, my dear, I beg of you let us go no further. You wish Hold redge to be a blonde 1 Well, then, he is a blonde. He is yellow if you wish it, or blue ! Mrs S. (nervously)— Yellow ! blue ! I say, look here ; whom do you take me for 1 And since you take it in this manner I will say it to your face and repeat for ever, "Yes ! Holdredge is a blonde !" Mr S- (nervously)— Yes, yes ; he is a blonde. He may be aan albino for all I care. Are you satisfied ? j\£ rs S.—lt proves clearly that you never saw him, or else you would acknowledge that he is a blonde. j£ r g # —But by Jove ! I told you a thousand times that I have spoken to him time and again. ]$£ rs s.—You are there loafing about the studios instead of coming home at n ight. Mr S. (patiently)— Look here, Martha, we had better go to bed. Mrs S.—»That does not tell me where you made the acquaintance of that blonde, Mr Holdredge. ]j£ r $. —I told you already that it was at the California Theatre. I stepped on his foot and turned to ask his pardon. ]j£ rs $,—lt seems very extraordinary to me that you should precisely have stepped on Mr. Holdredge's foot. i£ Tm g. —It was a mere chance. Mrs. S. —And was it there you saw he was dark? Mr, S -(closing his fists)—Oh! [He walks the floor without answering.*! ]$£ rs . S—You needn't walk about like a drum-major and show the white of your eyes; you had better answer. jf r . g,—But, in the name of heaven, what do you wish me to answer? j£ r5 . S.—Answer that I was right. Mr. S. I told you so twice already. 2£ r g, S. —Yes j but there is a way of saying things. Mr. S. (calmly)— Look here, Martha, I am not quite well; I ask for mercy— let us rather go to bed. Mrs. S. —This is an easy way of getting out of a scrape when one is wrong. Don't you think that I'm sick, too, since an hour that you overwhelm me with reproaches % Mr. S. (impatiently) —I see that I had better go. [Leaves the room and enters parlor. After a moment Mrs. S. joins him.] Mrs. S. How long is this comedy going to last ? You know I don't like nervous and stubborn people. Is it my fault if lam right 1 Do you think I care whether Holdredge is dark or a blonde 1 Only since he is a blonde, what interest can you have in pre tending to prove that he is dark 1 Mr. S. But, my dear, since I confess that I am wrong, leave me alone? [Flies into the dining room.] Mrs. S. (pursuing him)-You might at least answer politely and go out with out slamming the doors ? [Mr. S. goes into the kitchen.] Mrs S. (following him)— Besides, I tell you that I hate spiteful people. I would much rather deal with quick tempered men. They, at least, do not pout for days over a trifling matter ; they may be too quick at times, but the moment afterwards it is all forgotten — like your friend Mickleson, for instance. Mr S. (nervously)— Yes, indeed. He did right, I think—at leas' Ido now. Mrs S.—What do you say ? Mr S. (calmly)—O, nothing —nothing But do leave me alone ! [Runs into the hall.] Mrs S. (running after him) —Oh ! you think he did well in slapping his wife, do you ? Perhaps you would like to do the same ? Perhaps you thiuk that I would stand it like Bstsy'? But just try it! you wouldn't be alive to morrow ! Just touch me ! I dare you ! [tie repulses her softly, without answer ing.] Oh ! you dare not do it! You are not brave enough to strike a woman ! Do you see these nails 1 I would tear your face with them ! Mr S. (still mastering himself) —Look out, Martha, you stuck your fiuger in my eye. Mrs S.—Let my wrist go or I shall cry murder, fire ! Mr S.—Then take care what you are doing. Mrs S. (extremely nervous) —Oh ! you wish to kill me because Holdredge is a blonde ; but just try—l dare you— try ! Mr S, (with rage)—Oh !my God ! [Goes out upon the landing.] Mrs S. (following him) —Oh ' you are one of those wlio beat women ! Just try it with me ! [He goes to the second story.].,,. Mrs S. (going after him) —Dare to touch me—why don't you 1 Yes, yes, yes, Holdredge is a blonde ! There, now ! [He mounts to the third stoiy.] Mrs S.—He is a blonde —he is a blonde—dare to touch me—he is a blonde ! [On fourth landing.] Mrs S. (extremely nervous) —He is a blonde—he is a blonde—why don'c you strike me, you big coward 1 [Mr S. tries to mount further but finds himself in the garret.] Mrs S.—l knew you would not dare to touch me! Now we are in the garret—we have no witnesses —try to strike me ! Mr S. (going mad) —Come now, Martha ! you make me crazy ! I beseech you, leave me alone. Mrs S.—He is a blonde ! Mr S.—Will you leave me alone ? Once! twice ! Mi's S* —He is a blonde—a blonde— a blonde ! Mr S.—Three times! Mrs S^Tluree times b4on.de i

Mr S. (exasperated)—TaEßEiro^ her a slap.J ' lvs« [MrS.is ashamed of his brutai'v but the commotion brought Mrs So nervous state to a crisis; she bursto^' tears.] , 3ty MrS. (ashamed;— Martha !. lUp thousand pardons for — " «a. Mrs S (sobbing)-No my darW it is I who implore your forgiv euess . /' having teased you ; I was wroag •« I remember, I mistook Holdredo* t Burnett of the California Theatr^i

OBITUARY OF A WESTERN EDITOR.

Ye editor sat in his ricketfcy c y r worried as worried could be, f or Devil was grinning before him th and l copy' ye Devil said he. re' Oh, ye editor grabbed his big quil] pen, and spluttered ye ink so free th f his manuscript looked like a war m a when—'Take this/to the Devil apake if' He scribbled and scratched tb.rou»h the live-long day, no rest nor refresh ment had he—for ye Devil kept con stantly coming that way, and howling for more 'cop-ee.' s

Day after day he scissored and wrote a slaying the whole countree; while ye Devil kept piping his single note-'i, little more outside cop-ec i' .

And when ye men in ye newsroom heard ye noise of ye fray, ye sound of ye blow and a blasphemous word, {H e ' a raising the Devil," say they.

And oft when a man with a grievance came in, ye editor man to see, he'd turn his back with a word of sin—'Go talk to ye Devil sayed he V And ever and oft, when proof of his work ye proprietor wanted to see,'Ye proof shall be shown by my personal clerk—you must go tc ye Devil" says lie And thus was he destined throagl all his life, by this spirit tormented to be; in hunger and poverty, sorrow and strife, always close to ye Devil was he,

Ye editor died. , . . . But ye Devil lived on !' And ye force of life's habits we see; for the editor's breatli no sooner was gone,'than straight to ye Devil went lie.

A BOY.

la the house turned topsyturvy! Does it ring from street to roof, Will the racket still continue Spite of all your mild reproof ? Are you often in a flutter ? Are you sometimes thrilled with joy! Then I have my grave suspicions That you have at home—a Boy. Are walls and tables hammered?, Are your nerves and ink upset ? Have two eyes, so bright and roguish Made you every care forget ? ; Have your garden beds a prowler, Who delights but to destroy. ; These are well-kn own indications That you have at home—a Boy. Have you seen him playing circus— With his head upon the mat, And his heels in mid air twinkling— For his audience, the cat ? Do you ever stop to listen, When his merry pranks annoy— Listen to a voice that whispers, You were just like—that Boy. Have you heard of broken wiudows, And with nobody to blame, Have you seen a trousered urchin ? Quite unconscious o£ the same ? Do you love a teasing mixture Of perplexity and joy ; You may have a dozen daughters, But I know you've got—a Bay.

HOLIDAY-MAKING.

Theoretically, everybody now has so many weeks of enjoyment; before him, tbe earlier cases beginning at once. It is got by the simple process of stopping work, and every body going away from home. This is the modern substitute for philosophy, fur virtue, for things higher still. The plan, rude as it is, succeeds completely in many cases;in the bulk it answers pretty well; but in some it fails. With respect to the latter instances, the worst of it is, that nothing better can possibly be offered. Observa tion of the whole of the facts seems to show that, although holiday-making is the one thing for which most people have some turn, yet they have it with great differences, while there are a few who have not it at all. There certainly are lucky persons to whome holiday making seems to come by nature. They have a genius for it, and do wonders. They can make a holiday as some cooks, it is Said, do a feast, out of next "to nothing. If a man of this sort has half a day's unexpected leisure, a snatch visit to the country freshens him for a week. To go for two hours to a flower show, or to look in on a cricket match as he passes, are gaieties theglad effects of which are still visible the next day. These persons require no hints, no helps. They need nob stand discussing whether they shall saunter at home or go abroad. They are on their legs anywhere..: f° the bulk of us, who have no aninialsph'its to spare, such instances are causey 01 envy. It is the usage to talk f itu. a light insincerity on the subject ; but the hard truth is that many can only map a decently satisfactory holiday by taking precaution. In trying to uuderstana the bright, gay exceptions, it is easy W see that these monare nearly always_a« good workers as they are players. -»tt this only very seemingly explains^ Though toil before is mostly needed;»», a holiday, the rule is far from serving both ways. It does not follow that it* man is a good workman, he is a.§°. holiday maker. The chances are w^J favour 3 and if he has the other git^ne is in a position to make the most Qt^ You cannot say more than that. -:01 j thereare individuals who can make J»o , day with a very s.nall preparation^»-. ; prior work. 4 little <|uieij tfcttfW* _

SUPPLEMENT TO THE AUCKLAND EVENING STAB