ran like a doe. He had a record, and could easily have beaten her, but as they approached the other end, he saw that her path divided there. One fork ran off from him, the other turned into his. It flashed on him in a second: he would let her run into his arms. He waited to let her choose. She chose; and when they returned to the house he had her answer. He resolved to say nothing of it. Just afterwards the second gentleman found his opportunity. It was after the intellectual entertainment. He had easily outshone all others. She had applauded him warmly, and had afterwards congratulated him. He took her into the library. Old books were about them; beautiful pictures were on the walls; the light fell tempered to the softest glow. He recognized his opportunity. He felt his intellect strong within him. He approached her skilfully; he hinted at the delights of the union of two minds perfectly attuned; he illustrated aptly by a reference to the harmony just heard and to numerous instances in literature. He talked of the charm of culture; spoke confidently of his preferment; suggested, without appearing to do so, his fortunate advantages over others, and referred, with some contempt, to commonplace men like the fourth gentleman. He praised her intellect. Her eye kindled; her form trembled; he felt his influence over her. He repeated a poem he had written her. It was good enough to have been published in a magazine. face glowed. He glanced up, caught her eyes, and held his hand ready to receive her. She lifted her hand, looked into his eyes, and he had his answer. They strolled back, and he determined to keep it all a secret. ing, they happened upon the third gentleman, who spoke to her; and No. 2 a moment later left her with him. Her Pass He led the way into a little apartment just by. It seemed to have escaped the notice of the guests. It was sumptuously fitted up for a tête-à-tête. Wealth and taste had combined to make it perfect. She exclaimed with pleasure at its beauty. After handing her a chair as luxurious as art could make it, the gentleman began. He told of his home; of his enterprise; of his success; of his wealth. It had doubled year after year. It was hers. He laid before her his plans. They were large enough to be bewildering. She would be the richest woman in her acquaintance. She could be an angel with it. With mantling cheek and glowing face she bent towards him. "It is yours," he said; “all yours. You will be worth" He paused, then stated the sum. She leaned towards him with an earnest gesture, her voice trembling. He had his answer. As they passed out through the corridor they met the fourth gentleman. He did not speak. He stood aside to let them pass. He glanced at her lover, but if he looked at her, she did not see it. He was evidently leaving. "Are you going?" she said casually as she passed. Good-by." The wedding-cards of the young lady were issued within a few weeks, and ten days later she was married. In the press accounts of the wedding the bride was spoken of as "beautiful, accomplished, clever, wise, and good." And the groom was described as "handsome, stylish, intellectual, and wealthy.” Some people said they always thought she would have married differently; some said they always knew she would marry just as she did. (These were mostly women.) She herself said that she made up her mind that evening." THOMAS NELSON PAGE. * With acknowledgments to F. R. S. WHERE ARE THEY? That covered Will Shakespeare's back? What has become of the mutton bones That came with Sam Johnson's meat? What has become of the cobble-stones That must have bruised Milton's feet? Where are the scarfs that Lord Byron wore? Where are poor Shelley's cuffs? What has become of that wondrous store Where are the slippers of Ferdinand? I do not search for the ships of Tyre- I'm tempted to give a store of gold A glass Earth's mysteries to unfold, NOT HIMSELF. MANY a Scot has laughed at the tale of that heavy-headed Scottish carrier who, falling asleep one night in the straw at the bottom of his cart, slumbered till the well-trained horse stopped at his own door, when his wife, seeing nothing of her husband, unhitched and led away the horse, leaving the cart in the road. Sandy awoke a few moments later, and sitting up, began to soliloquize: "Noo, is this me, or is it no me? If it's me, I hae lost a horse; and if it's no me, I hae found a cairt!" But among the legends of the Russian peasantry occurs a similar tale, recording a confusion of identity even more hopeless than this. A Cossack villager, having gone to the nearest town to buy himself a pair of new boots, celebrated the acquisition with a hearty dinner, the result of which was that on his way home he lay down in the middle of the road and fell fast asleep; and while he slept, some enterprising "conveyancer of property pulled off his new boots and ran away with them. Presently a teamster came jogging along the road where the sleeper was lying, and catching sight of him barely in time, pulled up and shouted: "Hey, brother! take your legs out of the way, or you'll be run over!" The prostrate man awoke, and seeing his bare feet glistening in the moonlight, replied, in a tone of perfect conviction, "Those are not my legs; mine had boots On!" A FISH-STORY. DAVID KER. MR. JAMES BABSON was a famous fisherman. He returned from every fishing excursion with a longer string of fish and a longer story of his exploits than any other man in Skowhegan; and if there were any doubts about his stories, there were the fish to prove his skill, if not his truthfulness. When the river froze over, James started off after frost-fish. He took an abundant lunch, the necessary lines, hooks, and bait; but upon arriving at his favorite fishing-ground he found he had forgotten the chisel with which to cut holes in the ice. "I declare to man," said Mr. Babson, as he told the story in the grocery store that evening, "I was put to it to know what I was goin' to do. It was too far from home to come back, an' I didn't lack nothin' but jest that pesky chisel. I eat my lunch an' went further up the stream; but 'twa'n't no use; I sorter drifted back to where I knew there was fish; and then, after I'd wasted most of the day, I jest happened to think about the holes I'd cut in that very spot last year. "I remembered jest where they were, an' so I went right round, an' I found every pesky one of 'em. Yes, sir, froze over, of course, but I jest hammered at 'em with my boot-heel, and 'twa'n't long 'fore I had 'em open jest as good as they were last winter. Kinder spoiled my day's fishin', though, foolin' round so long au not thinkin' of it." A WELL-MANAGED HOTEL. A RETIRED humorist who runs a hotel in the northern part of New York has issued a circular announcing the advantages of his establishment, among which are found the following items: I. Meals every minute, if desired, and consequently no second table. English, French, and German dictionaries furnished each guest to make up such a bill of fare as he may desire, without regard to bill of fare afterwards at the office. II. Every boarder will have the best seat in the dining-room and the best waiter in the house. III. Any guest not getting his breakfast redhot, or experiencing a delay of sixteen seconds after giving his order for dinner, will please mention the fact at the manager's office, and the cooks and waiters will be blown from the mouth of the cannon in front of the hotel at once. IV. Children will be welcomed with delight, and are requested to bring hoop sticks to bang the carved rosewood furniture especially provided for that purpose, and peg-tops to spin on the velvet carpets. They will be allowed to bang on the piano at all hours, fall down stairs, carry away dessert enough for a small familys in their pockets at dinner, and make themselves as disagreeable as the fondest mother can desire. V. The office clerk has been carefully selected to please everybody, and can match worsted in the village store, play billiards, is a good waltzer, can dance the German, make a fourth at euchre, amuse the children, is a good judge of horses, as a railroad or steamboat reference is far superior to any guide ever published, will flirt with any young lady and not mind being cut to death when "Pa comes down," and can answer questions in Greek, Hebrew, Choctaw, Irish, or any other polite language at the same moment without turning a hair. VI. The landlord will always be happy to hear that some other hotel is the best house in the country. With this announcement of the Eden-like qualities of the house is given a sample bill of fare, which contains among other dainties the following toothsome delicacies: COLD DISHES: Broken Ice, Baked Ice, Raw Iceberg, GAME: Dom Pedro, Old Sledge, Euchre, Casino, Old Surely a summer in a place like this must approximate the purest bliss. At a recent tournament in which one of the contestants gained several points by his "lobbing," a spectator observed that the player was weak in volleying. If you don't mind my pipe, I will picture you the drama. Robinson, an amiable man save when his shoe-lace breaks, sat alone and glum in the study. His teeth were clinched, his face was pale, and he stared hard at the fire. He welcomed me with an effort, and then forgot me. He is a business man, and I am not; so I con "Yes," returned a young woman at his side, cluded that stocks or debentures had fallen or "but he is a perfect lobster." AN EXPERIMENT WANTED. A WESTERN politician has announced himself as heartily in favor of a Prohibition government, merely as an experiment. "It would be worth while to try it," he says, "just to see if under its rule money could get as tight as it has been under the other parties." FOR PARENTS ONLY. I HAVE just returned home from an evening at the play, or rather from visiting my friends the Robinsons, which is much the same thing. risen (or whatever it is these things do to plunge those who know what they are in despair). I tried the drawing-room, and there found the two little girls crying, and Mrs. Robinson on the couch with her face to the wall. This was serious, and seemed to me to mean, at the least, a "corner" in stocks. It was not stocks, however, my hostess told me from behind a handkerchief, it was Bobby. Had not her husband shown me "the letter"? Bobby is the heir, aged seven, and I concluded from his mother's tragic tones that he had run off to be a pirate or an engine-driver, leaving a written statement to that effect on his dressing-table. I softly withdrew from the drawing-room, and returned to Robinson, who, with trembling arm, handed me "the letter." It was from the master of a school to which Bobby goes by train daily, except during the birdnesting season, when other matters claim his attention. The letter read thus: "DEAR SIR,-I regret to have to apprise you of the fact that I had to-day to cane your son severely. He is the youngest boy I have ever caned, but his delinquencies have of late been so frequent that no other course was open to me. This communication will doubtless cause you pain, but the punishment will have a beneficial effect not only on him, but on the other boys of his age whose leader in mischief he has been. They will no longer make a hero of one whom they have seen publicly chastised. The disgrace of the punishment, indeed, is greater than the punishment itself. That Robert may feel his shame more keenly I have read this letter to him, and he shall be the bearer of it to you." "And where is Bobby at present?" I asked, when I had read this terrible letter. "Crying his eyes ont in the nursery, no doubt," answered Robinson. "Of course I should have him here, but I can't face him-I can't face him. I don't blame his master, butMy dear friend, think of it! The youngest boy ever caned in the school! The marks won't wear off his hands for a week, and think of his agony of mind every time he looks at them! Bobby is a sensitive boy, otherwise I should not take it so much to heart." "Why not bring him here," I said, "and tell him that if he turns over a new leaf all will be forgotten?" "Forgotten! How can I expect him to believe that? I know that if I had ever been caned in my school-days I could not have got over the shame for years. Besides-" "Besides what?" "I must not seem to take his part against his master, who is, I know, a most conscientious man. No, Bobby must bear the disgrace. But that does not make me feel less keenly for him. My hands, I assure you, are tingling as if I had been caned myself." I found the two little girls still moaning at the drawing-room window-the younger lest Bobby should die, and the other because his friends would tell their sisters, who could never again be expected to esteem the name of Robinson. Mrs. Robinson was for the moment not on speaking terms with Robinson, because he seemed to think that Bobby should continue to go to "such a school." If Bobby had misconducted himself, surely the blame lay with a master who did not understand that he was a boy who could best be ruled by kindness. She had never had the least trouble with Bobby. No, he was not in the house. He had run out immediately after delivering the letter, and she had searched for him everywhere in vain. His pride had been broken. He would never be the same boy again. He was afraid to be looked at. He was no doubt hiding somewhere in the cold night; and he had not even on his great-coat, and he would catch his death of cold. "If he does, mamma," asked the older girl, brightening, "will the master be hanged? And, oh, do you think we could get tickets?” At The night was dark, so we lit a lantern, and set off to look for the unhappy Bobby. last we found him--in Mr. Mackinnon's stable. We looked through crevices in the wood-work, and this is what we saw: Bobby, in tremendous spirits, was the centre of a group of envious and admiring youths, some of them school-fellows, others ragged lads of the village. If they began to brag, Bobby stopped them short with, "That isn't nothing; you didn't never get caned." 66 'Yes, I did, though," insisted one. "Let me see your hand," retorted Bobby. "Oh ho! he won't; and 'cause there's not no marks on it." "Let us see your hands again, Bobby." Bobby held out his hands as proudly as if they contained a diamond. "By gum! I say, Bobby, come and play with me to-morrow." "Let me walk beside you, Bobby, and I'll give you my crossbow. It's broke, but—” "Bobby, I'm the one you like best, ain't I?” "I'm the youngest he ever licked!" cried Bobby, in a transport of delight. He began to strut up and down the stable. "Well, then, you needn't bounce about it like that." "So would you bounce if it had been you." "I'll be caned to-morrow." "So will I, and then I'll be as good as Bobby." "No, you won't," thundered Bobby. "Though you was all caned twelve times twelve is a hundred and forty-four, I would always be the first, I would. I'm the youngest he ever caned! So would you bounce if you was the youngest he ever caned." "But, Bobby" IN LITERARY NOTES. BY LAURENCE HUTTON. N the Appendix to Croker's edition of Boswell's "Life of Johnson" is a letter which has long excited the admiration of the conductor of this department of the MAGAZINE; not because of its contents, which are prosaic and Johnsonian enough, but on account of its opening and closing words. It was written by Dr. Johnson in 1755 or 1756, when its writer was forty-four years of age, and it was addressed to his friend Miss Boothby, who was nearer fifty than forty. It begins "Dearest Dear," it ends "my Dearest Lady," and in it the dearest dear is told that her correspondent coughs much and sleeps ill; but that he dined yesterday and to-day! This is one of the Letters of Samuel Johnson, LL.D.,' collected and edited by Dr. George Birkbeck Hill, and just given to the world in two volumes, uniform with the scholarly and painstaking edition of Boswell prepared by Dr. Hill, and noticed in these columns in the month of December, 1890. In a second epistle to the same lady, written a few days earlier, and overlooked by Boswell and by Croker, but preserved by Dr. Hill, Johnson calls Miss Boothby "My Sweet Angel," and informs her that she will find in a certain decoction of dried orange-peel "a very probable remedy for indigestion, and lubricity of the bowels." All of this would seem to imply that the Doctor's feeling for Miss Boothby was stronger and more romantic than the sentiment he usually entertained for the elderly ladies of his acquaintance, excepting always Mrs. Johnson herself. What Dr. Hill considers "the gem of the collection" is a letter from Johnson to his wife. It appears to be the only one now in existence, although the editor does not say so; and it is full of expressions of tenderness and of devoted attachment for the woman, who was nearly double his age when he married her in his youth, and to whom, when she was fifty-one, he wrote, "Be assured, my dear girl, that I have seen nobody in these rambles that has not contribute [sic] to confirm my esteem and affection for thee," calling her on every sheet his "Dearest Tetty," his "charming love," "the most amiable woman in the world." In the many letters to Mrs. Thrale, here reproduced, Johnson adopted many modes of address, from "Madam," "Dear Madam," "Dear 1 Letters of Samuel Johnson, LL.D. Collected and Edited by GEORGE BIRKBECK HILL, D.C.L. Two Volumes. 8vo, Cloth, Uncut Edges, and Gilt Tops, $7 50. (In a Box.) New York: Harper and Brothers. est Madam," "Dearest Lady," to "Honored Mistress"; in writing to his acquaintances of the other sex, however, he contented himself with "Dear Sir" or "Sir." Johnson was not fond of writing letters; and he confessed once to Boswell that he loved to see his friends, to hear from them, to talk to them, and to talk of them, but that it was not without a considerable effort of resolution that he could prevail upon himself to write. That he loved to talk-to anybody and to everybody-all the world knows; but how general and extensive was his correspondence is now for the first time shown. In the "Life" his talk overshadows not only the talk of everybody else, but it overshadows, as well, his own epistolary expression. Here are the "Letters" and nothing more; and they are a most valuable contribution to the literature of Johnson and of his times and his contemporaries. Dr. Hill has arranged them chronologically, and has omitted all those that the "Life" contains, contenting himself with giving, in the proper place, a brief notice of the person to whom each of these was addressed, the date upon which it was written, and the volume, chapter, and page of his own edition of the "Life" in which it may be found. His own share of the work has been most admirably done. He has gathered his "Letters" from every available source, outside of the "Life"; from the correspondence published by Mrs. Piozzi in 1788, from the "Miscellanies of the Philobiblon Society," and from Notes and Queries; and in many instances collectors of autograph letters, and dealers in autograph letters, have permitted him to use interesting specimens which have never before been printed in any form. His Notes are copious and exhaustive; and his Index leaves nothing to be desired. The temptation to linger over this work is very great. What is Johnson's charm to-day for readers and writers of English it is hard to explain. He was not very beautiful; he was not very lovable; he is not always very readable; but as Miss Marthy Hancock once said about Roweny Tuttle, "There is something or other about " him! "WHAT book of travel, sir, would you advise me to read previously to my setting ont upon a journey to Italy ?" asked a chance acquaintance once of Johuson in a stage-coach. "Why, sir, as to Italy, Baretti paints the fair |