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“The audience, Mr. Clyde ?” he said.
The proprietor looked up sharply. “The audience be

He did not finish the sentence, for he saw the little group about Christie slowly turning their backs on the little rider and moving away.

"I guess you'd better tell 'em it's all-over,” he said.

IT'S LENT.

Too

OO late, mon ami, do you open your lips! I can't listen to

love, Nay, nay, dear! Just now I'm denying the world and the pleasures

thereof. Speak not, mon ami! I'm forswearing the things upon which I

did dote. Your love-making's quite out of season—I'm now not coquette

but devote.

We've danced through the winter together, and now, Ned, our

dancing is done; For sins of omission, the season of penance, dear boy, is begun. So, talk not of love nor beseech me to give you my hand. All too

late You ask. Had you spoken up sooner we might have arranged on

a date.

We've danced through the winter together, and moments have

been-I confess-When, had you but seized them and asked me to marry, I might

have said “Yes.” I might have said “Yes” and found leisure, by this time, my haste

to repent; But, Ned dear, I can't think of giving my heart to you now, for

it's Lent.

HER GLOVE.

COMEDY VERSE MONOLOGUE FOR Man.

[Enters, with lady's kid-glove in hand.] CHARACTER REPRESENTED: LOVER.

I

FOUND this in my swallow-tails just now.

It's Kitty's I believe; it's just the sort
Of thing that she would wear—I wonder how

It got into my pocket? Perhaps in sport
She put it there. She might: she's such a teaze!

How like herself, this dainty, sinuous thing!
Oh! if her hand were in it, how I'd squeeze!

And here's the crease made by her turquoise ring It's not a badge of bondage that she wears,

I know as much as that. She told me so.

[Kisses glove. Looks round.] If any one should see me !—Well, who cares?

If she were mine, I'd let the whole world know. I asked her, “Did it typify a bond?

Was she engaged?” “Oh, no!” she quickly said. It was a gift from—someone who was fond

Of her. And then she hung her head. "A man?” I asked with jealousy distraught.

“Well, yes! a man,” she said, in accents coy. And when my look of misery she caught,

She laughed and said, “My Uncle, silly boy!" I wonder if she loves me? What a sight

She was for gods and men to look upon As in the whirling throng she moved last night,

And turned the fellows' heads, as, one by one, They askel her "for the pleasure of a dance."

I could have killed them, one and all, the cads!!

While one would wink, or steal a stealthy glance

Beneath his eyelids.—Pah! a lot of lads!
How could she care for them? She smiled on me,

And gave me seven dances on the spot.
And if it were not for propriety

I would have simply taken all the lot. To think her pretty hand has lain in this !

Her fairy fingers buttoned it, perhaps.
She'd surely not confer so sweet a bliss

On any blundering, butter-fingered chaps?
I wonder where she bought it? And what lout

It was sold her the precious merchandize?
Some fussy, grinning idiot, no doubt,

Who took, with tape, her tiny hand's fair size, And smiled and simpered, smirked and ogled-Ooh!!

If once I had the villain in my power, I'd take his measure in a jiff or two

And send the remnants home within an hour.
I wonder if she tried, as women will,

To beat him down in price? Most women do.
And did she with a girl's consummate skill
Get a five-shilling pair for four-and-two?

[Examines buttons.] Twelve buttons ! Each of which has lightly pressed

Her alabaster arm. Ah, would that I Might be a button! Silently to rest

Where they have rested—simply rest and die.
Compared with Kitty, what a dreadful fright

Her Aunt Selina is. An awful hag!
I had to have a dance with her last night.

'Twas just like hugging a potato-bag Across the floor! Such hands, too. And her neck!!

Smokes scented cigarettes, too, I've been told. After that waltz with her I was a wreck,

And had to fortify myself with whisky cold.

I'd like to see her glove, and just compare
Its size and shape with this petite morceau.

[Examining it.]
So small and—bless me! Well, I do declare,

It's not so tiny as I thought, you know.
And, dash it all! It smells of baccy! Why, ,

It must be Aunty's! Fancy! All this fuss
Over a dirty, baggy, ill-shaped li-

Bel on the name of Glove! Oh, hang it!! CUSS!

UMBRELLA OF JUSTICE.

TUDOR JENKS.

TH

HE old Judge leaned wearily upon his desk, listening with

quizzical expression to the impassioned summing up of counsel for prisoner. It was a murder case, but there was no direct evidence to fix the crime upon the accused; and his counsel was going through the time-honored arguments against circumstantial evidence/arguments his honor had heard many, many times.

Use had dulled the magistrate's sympathies, but there was a straight-forward look in the eyes of the man on trial that affected the Judge strongly. Was he innocent? But the Judge dismissed the thought as unworthy of legal intellect. He had always believed in circumstantial evidence. “Give me," he would say, "the incorruptible testimony of facts, cold facts-that cannot be silenced.” His face assumed its usual judicial severity as counsel for prisoner closed with an impassioned appeal.

The Judge glanced at the clock, and saw that he might adjourn the morning session.

“Gentlemen, the court is adjourned. Be promptly in your seats at half-past two."

It was one o'clock, and the usual adjournment had been for one hour, but the Judge had extended the time, that he might do

an errand for his wife. The day was rainy, and she had decided that she would not go down town if the Judge would buy a curling-iron for her during luncheon hour.

After buying this useful feminine toilet article, the Judge decided he would lunch at the first restaurant he came to. He saw a restaurant, entered, and took a seat in the rear at a table by himself. While eating, his mind turned to the case on trial before him, and he thought of his charge to the jury. He paid his check, neglecting to tip the waiter. Looking, as he arose to go, to see whether he had left anything, his eye fell upon an umbrella against the wall—a nice new black-silk, close-rolling umbrella, with bamboo handle-- just like his own umbrella then reposing in a rack in the hallway at home. The absent-minded jurist recognized the umbrella as his own, picked it up and started for the door.

The true owner of the umbrella was sitting with back to the Judge, and saw nothing of this; but, just as the Judge had reached the door and paused to open the umbrella, the owner turned, saw his umbrella was gone, recognized it in the stranger's hand, and cried out:

“Here, you! Hold on, there! Where are you going with my umbrella ? You impudent scamp!”

The Judge turned as the other came hastily forward. Such words, addressed to one used to the greatest deference, were doubly insulting

"Your umbrella!" with dignified and withering scorn). "Sir, this is not your umbrella. It is the "

But the words died on his tongue, as he suddenly remembered that he had left his own umbrella at home. Yet he went on, hardly realizing what he was saying "If this is yours, where is mine? It's just like it."

"It's nothing to me where yours is. Come, drop that" [angrily). "This umbrella-stealing is too popular for my taste. You may think yourself lucky I don't call the police !"

“Shall I get an officer?” asked the waiter the Judge had forgotten to tip.

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