embroidered sandals and scarlet bonnet. At the
end of a good quarter of an hour I returned to
the curtain. In a clear-obscure, sat the portly
bust, still unfinished; as yet it had undergone
only preliminaries, for the artist now produced
his curling-irons. This drove me to desperation.
In another half-hour the breakfast bell
would sound.

Rushing down the street, I perceived, hanging
over a door, a miniature brass imitation
of the traditional barbers' basin. I entered.
There sat within, patiently reading a
newspaper, a gentleman "of orders grey," with a
three days' beard. No shaver was visible; but
a female overseer, in a passage, was seated on
a money-taking chair of inspection.

"Monsieur is waiting his turn?" I asked.

"Yes," replied the three-days' beard, in a
tone which implied that he had no intention of
giving up his turn.

"Tout à l'heure; before long," said the
inspectress. But as "tout à l'heure" might
compromise breakfast and bring down cold victuals
on my head, I left the gentleman in grey to
enjoy his journal alone.

On, on; still down the street, casting right
and left looks of wild inquiry. At the corner
of a house, another brass basin. A port of
refuge must be near. Verily, hard by were
fly-spotted window-panes, guarding dusty
bottles of antiquated perfumes.

The master of the magazine was alone and
languid; but he said he could, and would,
relieve me of my superabundant locks. After
seating me in front of a grey-freckled looking-
glass, he confined me in a long-sleeved cotton
straight-jacket. A pin stuck in at the throat with
clammy fingers put me entirely at his mercy.

"Same style?" he inquired, in feeble
accents.

"Yes; only shorter."

"Afraid of the heat. Been long at Amélie?
You ennuie yourself here?"

"No; I can't exactly say that I do."

"/ do. This is only the petite saison, the
dull months, the time when there's nobody,
except a few consumptive and scrofulous
bourgeois and people who can only get away from
their shops for a fortnight. Winter is the time
for folks comme il faut. Plenty of soirées, which
give me a good many coups de peigne, comb-
strokes. I have more ladies than I can attend
to; they wait for me. My garçon, just now, is
ill at Le Vernet. I shall go there to-night, to
fetch him, or another. If I don't find one, I
shall shut up the house, and retire for the
present to my property at Banyuls. You will
have your head cleared with extract of rum?"
(announced amongst the fly spots on the glass
opposite as twenty centimes additional).

"No, thank you; the bath clears it quite
enough."

"As you will. You did well to come to-day.
To-morrow I shall be absent at my
property."

After breakfast, on a map of the Pyrénées
Orientales, I found it written: "The inhabitants
are at once sober and prodigal, indolent
and impetuous, irascible and frank, love
independence, and have a high opinion of
themselves."

IN THE FALL.

THE old autumnal stillness holds the wood,
Thin mist of autumn makes the day a dream;
And country sounds fall faint, half understood
And half unheeded, as to sick men seem
The voices of their friends when death is near,
And earth grows vaguer to the tired ear.

At soft grey dawns and softer evening ends
The air is echoless and dull with dews;
And leaves hang loose, and whosoever wends
His way through woods is 'ware of altered hues
And alien tints; and oft with hollow sound
The chesnut husk falls rattling to the ground.

Now comes the faint warm smell of fresh-built ricks,
And empty fields look up at empty skies,
And smoke floats sidelong from the burning quicks,
And low across the stunted stubble flies
The whirring covey, till its wings have grown
A murmur—then, a memory alone.

Now, haply on some sunless afternoon
When brooding winds are whisp'ring to the leaves,
Shrill twitter'd half-notes fill the air, and soon
From farm-house thatch and cosey cottage eaves
The circ'ling swallows call their eager brood
And straight fly south, by unseen summers woo'd.

A certain sadness claims these autumn days—
A sadness sweeter to the poet's heart
Than all the full-fed joys and lavish rays
Of riper suns: old wounds, old woes, depart;
Life calls a truce, and nature seems to keep
Herself a hush to watch the world asleep.

A WOMAN'S RIGHTS CONVENTION.

I WAS sojourning, not very long ago, at
one of those sunny, sparkling summer
resorts, of which there are so many on the
New England coast. Politics and the
rights and wrongs in the world were quite
forgotten in this enchanting sea-side nook;
all was Arcadian in its indolence and
pleasure. But one morning a strange rumour
circulated through the great hotel, and
spread among the fashionable, amusement-
seeking colony: and the rumour soon
received confirmation in print. Placards
appeared at the street corners: a large-
typed advertisement glared from the front
page of the little paper which the guests
enjoyed every morning with their hot rolls
and coffee. There was a new sensation.
The sojourners at Highport were informed
that "a Convention to consider the Political
and Social Rights of Woman, and to adopt
measures to secure for the Downtrodden
Sex the Right of Suffrage, would assemble
at Pilgrim Hall, on Thursday, the 20th
instant. Distinguished speakers would
address the Convention, among them Reverend
Selina Sharpe, Professor Maria Stockwell,
Isaac Oddy the Philosopher, and
Mark Antony Higgs, the famous Coloured