How should she get the hogshead? How should she get any rain, if she had a hogshead? How could she keep house till she had a clothes-post? And how could she get a clothes-post till she had begun to keep house? Night after night she dreamed of hogsheads and clothes-posts. She waked cold with her efforts to plant the clothes-post in the parlor carpet, and weak with the attempt to set a lunch-table for sixteen upon the slippery surface of the hogshead. Her mind became a frightful chaos of household detail.

Corona was not of precisely what we call a domestic temperament, and this experience had some distressing effects. There, for instance, were the pincushions. One noon it occurred to her that she could not have a house without pincushions, and from that unhappy hour her tortured fancy had no rest. She had never made a pincushion in her life. It seemed to her that it would be easier to make a man-of-war. Corona was determined to keep the balance of power economical and artistic in her modest home. She would not fill even a cushion with a "dear" stuffing in a cheap house. She would not have emery and silk with matched boards and bare floors. agitated herself over these appalling questions.

She

That came, perhaps, of being a woman, she thought. Did men think about pincushions when they built houses? Six rooms-six pincushions. Six colors for six pincushions in six rooms. She tormented herself with calculations. One day she said to her friend:

"I'll tear my heart out and put it into the spare room before I will think about this any longer. The only trouble is, they might find it a little hard."

"It could be used for hairpins," said her friend absently. "I should flute it, too, and put a mock Valenciennes cover on."

"Buy your furniture at a factory in the white," telegraphed Tom, one day, from California, in the perfectly disconnected but useful manner characteristic of Tom when he gave advice. He had not written to Corona since he went away. A serial story could not have so convinced her that his busy heart remembered her. And in the moment, the worry and wear of her somewhat solitary plans dissolved like the fogs within the sunrise on her own golden harbor shore. She had almost cried, the day before, when she went out alone (her first walk since her accident) to buy her own silver. It had seemed to her a very pathetic thing to do. Now it seemed rather amusing than otherwise. How Tom would laugh! And Tom remembered her; always had. She put the foolish, extravagant telegram to her lips. She said "Dear Tom," sitting alone. Her heart lifted. She was sure she should be happy in her house.

Besides, the silver was plated. It wasn't worth a sentiment, however cheap.

"Let me catch you at it again!" said Corona, apostrophizing her wet lashes in the glass. "I'll feed you off of pewter, if I do!"

Corona was interrupted by the stage rumbling by with the afternoon mail. She dried her eyes and went over to the office, where she found two letters. One was from Susy, and ran:

DEAR CO: I hope you're coming home soon. Baby has the mumps. There are a great many express packages for you that keep coming. It will remind you how many friends you have. I have taken the liberty-I knew you wouldn't care-I opened them all. Sixteen of them are pincushions and fourteen are tidies. One is a patent nutmeg-grater.

P. S.-The tidies are all green, and fifteen of the cushions are

red.

The other letter was from the builder, and read as follows:

FAIRHARBOR.

DEAR MADAM: I should like to have you send your furniture We find it won't go up the stairs. We must build

on at once.

it into the house.

The weather has been very poor, and it has rained almost ever since we began to work.

Yours, with respect,

G. W. TIMBERS.

-"Old Maids and Burglars in Paradise."

George T. Lanigan

The Amateur Orlando

The Result of the Hunky Kid's Playing Charles the Wrestler

IT was an Amateur Dram. Ass.
(Kind reader, although your
Knowledge of French is not first-class,
Don't call that Amature),

It was an Amateur Dram. Ass.,
The which did warfare wage
On the dramatic works of this
And every other age.

It had a walking gentleman,

A leading juvenile,

First lady in book-muslin dressed,

With a galvanic smile;

Thereto a singing chambermaid,

Benignant heavy pa,

And, oh, heavier still was the heavy vill

Ain, with his fierce "Ha! ha!"

There wasn't an author from Shakespeare down

-Or up-to Boucicault,

These amateurs weren't competent

(S. Wegg) to collar and throw.

And when the winter time came round

"Season's" a stagier phrase

The Am. Dram. Ass. assaulted one
Of the Bard of Avon's plays.

'Twas "As You Like It" that they chose,

For the leading lady's heart Was set on playing Rosalind,

Or some other page's part.

And the president of Am. Dram. Ass.,
A stalwart dry-goods clerk,
Was cast for Orlando, in which rôle
He felt he'd make his mark.

"I mind me," said the president
(All thoughtful was his face),

"When Orlando was taken by Thingummy,
That Charles was played by Mace.
Charles hath not many lines to speak;
Nay, not a single length;

Oh, if find we can a Mussulman

(That is, a man of strength),

And bring him on the stage as Charles-
But, alas! it can't be did-"

"It can," replied the treasurer;

"Let's get The Hunky Kid."

This Hunky Kid, of whom they spoke,
Belonged to the P. R.;

He always had his hair cut short,

And always had catarrh.

His voice was gruff, his language rough,

His forehead villainous low,

And 'neath his broken nose a vast

Expanse of jaw did show.