with the aid of ends of cotton picked up
about the house, made wicks—and burned them
again!

There are stories which fascinate and fix the
accidental hearer against his will, sometimes for
their intrinsic interest, sometimes from an
enigmatical charm that leads one on, curious to find
out what they can possibly mean.

As an example of the latter sort, and also in
what widely differing ways the same story may
be told, take the following:

A Frenchman and an Englishman are smoking
in a balcony, close to the writer's window, each,
with fitting courtesy, using the other's native
tongue.

The Frenchman: "Hem! By Chove! A curious
thing, sir, at the Sheep—Doverre— last night. A
Monsieur de Simpsonne took him down, king's
messenger—ran with his friend, Colonel Wobbles
—Thirty-fourth of ze line, and I saw him myself
on board. I say, 'What you do here, my colonel
—eh?' For Monsieur de Simpsonne never
thought that they couldn't catch him at the
Sheep. But all right, for— ha, ha!— he went
altogether with the colonel alone, and laughed
quite hearty, and the ozer two said, 'Yes— good
nights— he will.'"

The Englishman: "Savez-vous, mosshure,vous
avez somehow got the wrong bout du bâton.
Ceci est le manière comment il tomba dehors.
Ecoutez, maintenant, marquez-me. Colonel
Wobbles—qui est, sur mon honneur, le meilleur
fellow dans ce monde, quitta le Rag and
Fam—c'est à dire, le Lambeau et— in short,
le club— à six heures— allant à France pour un
alouette."

Frenchman: "Mon pardon. Un————"

Englishman: "Alouette— lark, vous savez—
frolique! Madame sa femme, pensant qu'il allait
to fight a duel— persuada son frère— the king's
messenger, Simpson— pour le prendre after him
—et ils le caughtaient abord le steamer!"

Frenchman: "Ha! By chingo, zis is good!"

Pretty are the secrets sometimes confided to
greybeards dozing in the shade, by little men and
women at play around them, and interesting the
miniature dramas which may be followed out on
the stage of green sward or gravel terrace.
Here is one, stored, somehow, in the writer's
memory. The scene is the beautiful garden at
Kreuznach, that paradise of children. Two small
boys and a girl, at play. Two nurses sitting by,
discussing dresses and the disposition and general
behaviour of their several charges. Sickly mamma
reclining on a shady bench.

Small boy: "Now, Coralie, we'll play at
'Emperor.' I'm emperor! When I sound the trumpet
—so—you must say, 'Yes, sir.'"

(The small pretender, who had grasped the
purple, and evidently imagined it an imperial
habit to summon domestics by sound of trumpet,
retires to a neighbouring thicket, and sounds.
No reply.)

Emperor: "Why don't you answer?"

Coralie whines dissent.

Emperor (persuasively): "Why won't you
answer?"

Coralie: "I— I'm shy." (Bursts into tears.)

Hereupon, his majesty issues from the thicket,
and there ensues a grand and earnest consultation,
in which two newly-arrived children take part.
President, the emperor; subject—the precise
signification of "shy."

Suddenly, the council breaks up in great
disorder, with a whistle from the emperor, and
rush, in a cloud of dust, to the nurses— Coralie,
who has apparently been unable to explain her
own meaning, accompanying them, curious as
any.

Emperor: "I say, nurse, what's 'shy?'"

First nurse: "Ashamed— modest— my dear."

Second nurse (annoyed at the interruption):
"Not so bragian as you, Master Harry ?"

Emperor (disregarding the personality) to the
other nurse: "But what else is it, you?"

Mamma (faintly): "Come Harry, time to go
home."

Harry (for no reason on earth, except the
delight of resisting constituted authority):
"Just one minute, mamma."

Weak mother: "Well— one minute."

Harry, ex-emperor, rushes to the water, as
though suddenly resolved on self-destruction.

Second nurse: "Here, Harry! Master Harry!
Drat the child! It's no more use a-calling to
him, than I-do-know-what!" And exit in
pursuit.

Ten minutes elapse, at the expiration of
which, a faint cry is heard in the distance, and
the ex-emperor reappears in strict and far
from respectful custody— soaked, above the
knees, in mud and water. His former courtiers
assemble round him. Etiquette appears to
require that one finger should be kept in the
mouth. An awe-stricken silence prevails. At
last:

First courtier: "0! 0! E's been in the
mud!"

And the court disperses in every direction.

Moral— let emperors beware of the mud.

SUMMER AND ABSENCE.

1.

IN the sunshine there's a humming.
      'Tis the heavy honey-bee.
      What says he?
"Spring is come, and summer's coming
      After me!"
      Says the bee.
He goes humming "Coming, coming,
Are all sweet things. List and see,
Over lawn and over lea,
Where they lightly follow me!"
      And I listen, and I look,
      In the meadow, by the brook,
And still hear not, see not coming,
My Sweet One. Where is she?
Will ye break my heart with humming,
You too-happy humming-bee?