picking out cards, letters, figures, and numbers,
answering questions, and apparently showing
mental powers, which were merely the results
of the animal faculties of smell and taste.

No doubt there is a degree of reasoning
power in many animals; the anecdotes of dogs,
elephants, horses, and monkeys, have long
proved this; but the replying to questions, and
the spelling of words, would imply something
far beyond what instinct or training could effect,
unless ingeniously brought about as above
described.

The pony who is shown in a circus, answering
questions by so many pawings of the leg or
so many shakes of the head, merely obeys the
recognised and consecutive signals of his master.

A PARENTHESIS OR TWO.

"LOVE me, love my dog." A wise adage, I
dare say. I don't at all mind their loving me,
but I have the strongest objection to their
loving my dog—when, as in this instance, my
dog is represented by my wife. I am an old
bachelor just returned from my honeymoon,
and I should be intensely happy under such
circumstances, were it not that the men who, until
now, have contented themselves with loving me
(and it is bare justice to them to mention that
they never made their affection for me unpleasantly
conspicuous), have now taken to loving
my wife. I can never go out without the
conviction that, on my return, I shall probably find
that Tom, Dick, or Harry, of my bachelor days,
has just dropped in to see his old friend, and
that, finding me from home (T., D., and H. cannot
be taught to remember my club nights), the
obliging visitor has remained to enjoy a gossip
with my pretty wife.

And the worst of it is, she likes it! She
laughs and pouts, and declares she is never sure
of having a minute to herself; but she doesn't
care to have a minute to herself, or she could
have it, and would have it. Is "Not at home"
so hard to say? (She has already caused it to
be said to some of my relations; I know that.)

But she is such a little humbug (I suppose all
women are to a certain extent). I believe
coquetry to be innate with her. In her infancy
she had her baby lovers, one of whom she would
always contrive to render so sulkily miserable
for an afternoon, that the unfortunate little
aspirant for her favours would be put in the
corner for "Temper" by his nurse, while the
fair cause of the fault and punishment would
play with the brother of the wretched victim
before his eyes, lavishing on his rival her
sweetest smiles, and behaving altogether with
the grace of an angel. And as she grew up,
my stars, how she grew in grace, grew in beauty
and grew in coquetry! At fifteen she was the
most finished little flirt, the most, heartless little
humbug I ever saw. (Is heartless too strong
an expression? No. I verily believe, she had
no such thing as a heart during our courtship.
She could have had none, or she could never have
witnessed my sufferings with such consummate
indifference. It was not so much that I suffered
because I could never find out whether she
really loved me or not, as that I suffered because
I could never feel sure that she did not  love
half a dozen others as well. Hateful and
heartless! Then why did I marry her? I don't
know. Don't ask me.)

But she has the prettiest and most loving ways
that ever beguiled man into matrimony; she
has the sweetest smile, the most enchanting
laugh, the most caressing voice that ever drove
man to distraction. (But these charms should
be reserved exclusively for me, and they are
not.) Her face (I love it) is as bright and sunny
when raised towards Jack as when raised
towards me. And yet Jack didn't marry her.
(I suspect Jack regrets that he didn't; or why
does he drop in so very often now?)

I put it to any one. Can it be a pleasant
thing for me, when I come home tired
and—well, suppose I say cross—to find my
wife sitting back in a low chair warming her
feet by the fire (she has uncommonly pretty feet),
with her hair done up with cherry-coloured
ribbons (she knows she looks best in cherry-
coloured ribbons, for Jack is always telling her
so), her lips parted and her blue eyes eager with
suspense, looking full up at Jack as he reads to
her? True, when I come in she beams at me,
and makes room for my chair by her side, and
the book is allowed to close, and the conversation
(I always think conversation with three so
stupid!) becomes general, till Jack finds out
(what I am convinced he would never have
discovered if I hadn't come in) that it is getting
late, and takes his departure. The instant he is
gone, up springs my wife, wheels my easy-chair
round to the fire, warms my slippers, scorching
her pretty face sadly the while, rings for tea
(I dare say she and Jack have had tea), and
then, drawing a stool close to my side, clasps her
hands before her, in the old winning attitude
that first took my heart by storm years and
years ago, when my darling was but a child (a
child, and what is she now?), and says, "And
now, dear, that that stupid bore is gone, tell me
what you have been doing all day." (Now
what, I ask, is any one to say to such a charming
little humbug?)

I had meant to talk very gravely to her about
her conduct towards my so-called friends
(particularly Jack), and I had even concocted a
sentence beginning with, "You must really think
seriously, my dear——" but it is of no use,
when things come to this pass. I can't look
at her and scold her (and she takes very good
care I shan't scold her without looking at her),
so the subject drops, as all subjects do drop
when she is by, and I luxuriate in my easy-chair
and warm slippers, and, gazing on my pretty
wife as she flits about the room like a household
fairy as she is, feel that I am blest among men.
(But this state of things is not calculated to
last. The next evening finds Jack in his old
place, his abominable face more undeniably good-
looking than ever.)