token of the obedience which is paying to my
hint at the luncheon table. A tomato consigned
to the stewpan by the beloved hand! A
cigarette; Boswell by my side; the shady side of
the garden; forty winks; and a light waking
dream. The shadows of the elms stretch across
the turf. The cow is waiting at the yard gate.
I steal to my lady's window, and cast some
gravel at it. The golden curls are being put
in order for dinner. I am asked whether I am
going to sit at table that fright? I am bidden
to make myself respectable directly. Suppose
somebody should call!  Whoever heard of dining
in slippers!  Men are such untidy creatures!

I remain firm in my slippers, and effect a
compromise by passing through my dressing-
room. When I am told that I am the very
laziest man in the whole country, my pride is
aroused. The rising sun greeted a certain
person who vowed that he would do a day's
idleness, and that person is now strolling into
the dining-room, guiltless of one useful act since
the sun rose. He is told that he should have
taken a long walk to get him an appetite; that
he might have spent his afternoon in balancing
the household expenses. But he has done
nothing—absolutely nothing —and he is honestly
proud of the achievement.

Pleasant dinner, when order and taste are of
the company! Few dishes, but each stamped
with the learned approval of Mrs. Goldencurls
before they appear. Bright eyes watching the
pleasure with which the proprietor (or slave)
of Mrs. Goldencurls commends the preparation
of the pet delicacy, the tomato.

"The coffee is my business." Such, the
observation of Mrs. Goldencurls; one, I
expect, the sly puss stole from Brillat Savarin.
Liqueur, some Benedictine I brought from
Normandy. Gossip about the monks turned
liqueur merchants, and gathering herbs upon
the flowery downs round about Fécamp for
their exquisite strong water, carries the sunset
quite out of the room, and the fingers that
picked the strawberries, and stewed the tomato,
and roughened my hair in the morning, are
busy at the lamp.

         LITTLE WITCH AND THE MISERS.

         IN TWO CHAPTERS. CHAPTER I.

"CAW!  caw!" cried an old rook, turning
out of his nest in the wood, sweeping
down the street, and dashing his wings
against little Witch's window-pane. Just
at the same moment the sun, very red in
the face, struggled above the heads of the
trees and shot a furious glance after the
rook, who had dared to get up before
him. Between the rook and the sun
little Witch was well wakened:  and she
got up too.

"What noise is that?" cried the elder
of the two old Miss Scarecrows, sitting up
in her bed with her dreadful curl-papers on
end. She was shouting into the next room
to her sister. You see the rooms were
rather empty, and the walls were thin, and
the voices could be heard quite well calling
from one chamber to the other; which was
very convenient in a house where there was
no servant to answer the bell.

"It is nothing," replied the voice of the
other Miss Scarecrow, "nothing but the
little wench next door raking out the
kitchen-grate. Very wasteful of her to
be lighting fire so early. It happens every
morning. Can't you get accustomed to it,
Tabitha?"

"No, I can't!" returned Tabitha.
"Troublesome busybody that the girl is!"

When the Scarecrow family met that
day to eat what they called their breakfast,
it was found that the Brother Scarecrow
had also been startled out of his
sleep by a noise in the next house. And
he complained of it bitterly.

"Sleep," he said, "is a luxury which
one may indulge in with safety. It costs
nothing. Once you have invested money
in a bed and covering there is no more
expense. It is as cheap to sleep twelve
hours as three, and the more sleep you
take the less food you require. You are
not hungry when you are unconscious.
Therefore I hold it a criminal thing to
disturb the rest of others by untimely
rising. Something must be done to check
our neighbours in a dangerous career.
They run the risk of robust health, with its
ruinous accompaniment—a keen appetite
for meals. It is pitiable to see young people
rushing thus headlong to destruction."

"Besides, being up so early leaves a
great deal of time on their hands," said Miss
Tabitha; " and if they should take to climbing—
young people are fond of climbing—
and should begin to dig in our garden!"

Brother Scarecrow turned pale and his
head drooped.

"How foolish!" squeaked Miss Seraphina.
"Those tall young women climb
walls!"

"The youngest is not so tall," said the
gruff Tabitha, " and she's as nimble as a
kid. I saw her in her own garden the
other morning digging up the earth with a
spade. It is she who rises so early. I am
sure there is something in it."

"This is too dreadful!" said Brother
Scarecrow, faintly. And he immediately
became so ill that they were obliged to put
him to bed.

It was generally believed by the
inhabitants of the street that the Scarecrow