THE DEFORMED. 25 an hour before commended to her attention and performance. "For pity's sake, Ellen, have you not done that work yet?" enquired the thoughtless, impatient sister, as with a scowling and reproving eye, she scanned the progress poor Ellen had been able to make in the short time allotted to the completion of her task. "Are you not done yet? I could have finished it long ago!" Well, month after month rolled by-years passed into Ellen made no answer; but she raised a pair of dark, eternity-the first love of Harry had become a deserted keen, searching gray eyes (her only good feature, alas!) and miserable wife-Fortune had bestowed golden to her sister's beautiful face; and with a glance half favors upon the Ransoms, but the sable pall of mourn-contemptuous, half humble, coldly resumed her labor; ing was never removed from their hearts. The father while the spoiled and petted Rose continued, though became gloomy and cold-some called it pride, but in a somewhat softened and gentler tone, "Well, they were mistaken-the mother became melancholy never mind it now. To-morrow will do. Put it by, and thoughtful. Their wealth was only enjoyed by the Ellen, and let us take a walk in the orchard. I prodaughters, who, from youth and pleasure, soon recover- mised Philip Moran that I would be there to receive ed their natural flow of spirit. the June Apples he wanted to send father, who you know will not be till after night, when Philip will be gone home. Come, get your bonnet, and let's go quick. I hear him singing down the meadow on his way to the trees." the cold and lifeless body of their poor Harry. Among the whole assembly there was not one dry eye, for he was beloved and respected by all. Even to her whom he had so unwisely loved, his cold lifeless form seemed but an awful embodyment of reproach. Surely, what can be more terrible than the "curse in a dead man's eye" the dead, whom living, we have injured-the dead whom we have destroyed! This is a gloomy picture of unfortunate "love," and I do hope, for the prosperity of this fair world, that such "little weaknesses" may ever be "few and far between," for, take my word for it, that however comfortable a faith it may be to live in, it is an uncomforta- Ellen still did not reply, but silently prepared to fol-ble one to die in. My "gentlemen" friends, I hope, low her lovely sister; whose supreme beauty had alwill ever have strength of mind to avoid getting des-ways given her the ascendancy in all things, over the perately in love with a pretty girl who prefers a well plain-featured and unprepossessing Ellen, whom cusfilled purse to an honest man's heart. My "lady" tom had long since taught the bitter lesson of mute. friends I dare say, have too much sense to be guilty of endurance and uncomplaining resignation and hufoolishly tampering with sincere affection. mility. The younger girl, Ellen, was disfigured from her birth; and though her face was by no means lovely, yet a deep, expressive, intensely-brilliant eye, gave to its extreme plainness, a character and an interest, independent of mere beauty and the attraction which beauty generally commands. Owing to her unfortunate deformity of person, perhaps, Ellen had early evinced a moody, retiring, unobtrusive, gentle temper and disposition, entirely in opposition to the gay, imperious, overbearing, and haughty wilfulness of her matchless and beautiful sister; whose high and aspiring nature but ill suited with the limited circumstances, and humble station of the poor, but honest farmer. It is with pleasure that we again have an opportunity of transferring to our pages another capital story from the columns of the Western Star, by S. D. G., the talented authoress of the tale published some weeks since, entitled "JUST FIFTEEN." Right glad are we that the great West owns so gifted a writer; nor shall we be surprized, if, ere long, she should take a prominent stand among the many talented authors of the present day. She holds a ready and a nervous pen, and we are apt to think that many of her most spirited touches are the result of close observation and experience. With considerable interest have we watched this lady's progress in the literary world to which she has attached herself, and have been much The grass was green beneath their feet as the sisters gratified at every improvement we have noticed. But walked onward-Rose, with the light bounding step, she has chosen a thorny path-she has imposed upon indicative of a heart as light and free-while Ellen herself a thankless task; therefore it becomes us to moved along with difficulty and restraint, the effects give her all the cheer we can, to help her onward in of her blemished figure and cramped and prisoned her lonely toil-to make more light the burden she has feelings and spirit. They might have formed a not volunteered. We would that our appreciation of her uninteresting picture for the hand of a sculptor-the talents could come more in the shape of substance; two sisters. Rose, with her beaming, radiant lovelias it is, we hope that some of our enterprizing pub-ness, her full, well-developed figure, her graceful walk, lishers will call her abilities their assistance; and and proud distinguished air, all so seemingly above her with pleasure do we offer our services to communicate station and birth; and Ellen, pale, home-like, humble between them and her for any offering they may be and sorrowful, moving by her side so meekly, and sipleased to call from her gifted pen. We speak advised-lently, and with the staid, sober, and uncertain moly. Come gentlemen, shall we introduce you? How- tion, consequent on her deformity. Poor Ellen! how ever, you may as well read her story first. It is called many a heart and nature, as good and noble as thine THE DEFORMED. own, go down to the grave unappreciated, unloved, and unnoticed, because, forsooth, they are encased in an uncouth frame, or set in a form not moulded to the fine proportions of grace, loveliness and beauty! How unjust and illiberal is the principle that forms its estimate of the human heart and character, by the expression of the human face alone! Alas! were this the standard by which we must all be weighed and judged, I much fear me that many would have just and righteous cause for discontent and murmuring! BY S. D. G., OF MAYSVILLE, KY. THE evening shades were gathering slowly over the calm, quiet loveliness of the scene around the flowerwreathed cottage of farmer Merle, as Rose Merle, the farmer's young and lovely, but not his only daughter, came bounding lightly into the room where her sister, the humble, homely, and deformed Ellen, sat quietly engaged in some coarse sewing, that her sister had The two sisters walked together for some moments in silence; until Rose, no longer able to bear so staid and sober a pace as that of her sister, bounded away, saying she would run on and meet Philip Moran at the crossing place of the little river that meandered with a wild sweet voice, along the meadow and among the mimic hills that relieved its character from a tendency to the monotonous and level, that would otherwise have destroyed much of its charm and beauty. Glad to be left alone, Ellen sat down under a tree to arrange some wild flowers that had tempted her in their ramble; and as she pursued her quiet occupation, she began warbling a low, wild melody, in a voice singularly sweet, soothing, and harmonious. As she thus sat and sang, still weaving her garland of wild-flowers, with a skilful and dexterous hand, she suddenly heard a light, hasty step close by her; and looking up, she beheld before her a tall noble youth, of some nineteen summers, perhaps, though to judge from the bronzed hue and mature expression of a face whose manly beauty is but seldom equalled, you might have deemed more years than I have named, to have pressed their stamp upon his brow, and their experience on his heart. The youth gazed on her for a moment, as he stood with flushed cheek and excited eye by her side; and there was an air of evident disappointment in his manner, almost amounting to disgust, as he asked in a cross, contemptuous tone, so humiliating to every feeling of pride in the bosom of the person addressed, "Was that you singing?" "Yes, Philip, it was me," replied the poor deformed girl, suppressing the keen and bitter pang that wrung her heart at the youth's insulting tone and manner; and leaning yet closer against the tree, she sought to conceal her form as much as possible from his view, while she continued, "did you think it was Rose?" "Yes," replied Philip Moran, for such he was, "I did think it was Rose." And the flush on his dark cheek became yet deeper as he spoke. "Rose never sings such sad songs as that was," answered Ellen, with a half-playful smile; but Philip Moran paid no heed to the words, and was turning away toward the cottage to seek the object of his day-dreams, the proud and beautiful Rose Merle, when the girl perceiving his intention, called him back, and directed him where to find her sister; adding in conclusion, "she thought she heard you singing and went down to the bridge in order to meet you." "It was not me, but James Corbin. I saw him when I was coming through the woods half an hour ago. Strange he should come here just at this time!" And the youth stood for an instant gazing in moody abstraction on the ground, a dark shade of suspicion and jealousy settling over his beautiful and most noble countenance. Whether his companion remarked that expression or not I cannot say; but after looking earnestly in his face for a little while, she timidly extended her prettily woven wreath toward him, saying with a smile half playful, half sorrowful, "will you have it?" If an adder had stung him, the boy could not have started forward with a wilder and more sudden movement; while his whole countenance wore but one expression of loathing, contempt, and abhorrence, that withered the very soul of the poor girl whose deformity and hideousness of form and feature had called those feelings into action. With an expression of contempt, the young man rudely put the flowers from him, and turned to leave the spot, when he encoun tered the full gaze of those bright, wild, dreamy, lifelike eyes fixed upon his face, as though reading his heart and thoughts. There seemed to be a spell of witchery and fascination in that gaze, for it sunk into his very soul, and deprived him of the power to leave the place; and he stood undecided and trembling in every limb, with a nameless and indescribable sensation of pain and pleasure throbbing in his heart, and thrilling throughout his frame. Ellen had ceased to hold the garland toward him; but she pressed the rejected offering for a moment to her lips, and a few warm, passionate tears fell lightly over it, as it lay now upon her heaving bosom. With an irresistible impulse, Philip Moran took the flowers, and seating himself on the grass beside Ellen, he would have twined them in the glossy waves of her luxuriant brown hair, (which he did not know till then, possessed either gloss or richness,) but the deformed girl gently withdrew his hand from her head, and vainly sought to release his clasp of her own; for the fire of a burning passion was kindling up in the bosom that till now had known only contempt, pity, and loathing, for the wretched blemished creature beside him. The more he looked into the clear depths of those strange bright eyes, the deeper grew their spell of passion in his soul! and the more he assimilated and accustomed his gaze to the lank and bowed form of the hitherto despised and neglected dwarf girl, the less hideous and hateful became the sight to his eyes. But a singular change seemed to have come over the girl herself, in the last few minutes; for though she answered his remarks kindly and even gently, yet there was a deep, intense fire in the clear depth of her restless eye, and her pale lip wore a curl of scorn, most unusual to its serene and almost humble expression; while a dark red spot on either cheek, and a strange contraction of her forehead, gave evidence of some strong and masterly emotion busy in her usually so very calm untroubled bosom. "Poor Ellen!" exclaimed the youth, in a tone of commiseration and tender pity, as he softly laid his hand on her head, and looked down into her eyesthose singular, mysterious, and soul-searching eyes, that seemed now to throw a spell of the wildest passion around his heart that ever woke the turbulent waves of feeling in the breast of man, "Poor Ellen! how very hard is you fate, now I come to reflect upon it! How cruel and ungenerous I have been to you, and how can you ever forgive me? But I will be so no more, and henceforth and forever I will befriend you, and do everything in my power to make you happy!" Were not these sweet words to the ear and the heart of the poor, deformed girl, especially when spoken in the low soft tones of him toward whom her lonely, isolated heart had turned for the only meed of affection the cold, unappreciating and soulless world could afford to her? Alas! "what deep wounds ever closed without a scar!" An hour ago the girl would have listened to those words, breathed in that voice, as to the music of heaven, when poured forth by angel voices in the eternal praises of the most High! An hour ago, and life itself would have been too small a sacrifice to make for his sake. But the golden hour had passed away when he could command the energies of her heart, its devotion, its love, and its life. She was no longer the simple, forgiving, hopeful, confiding creature, yielding in all things, ascribing the words of slight and contumely to better motives than really prompted them, that but a short time before would have received the taunt of THE DEFORMED. "A changeful thing feeling in the heart it had left a waste and arid wilderness- a desert, breathing the spirit of desolation and despair-ask of these and they will tell thee a tale in words of convincing eloquence and truth, that might Is the human heart, as a mountain spring." blanch thy cheek and chill thy veins with a more than and Ellen Merle left that spot, a changed and altered momentary horror! Oh! if we could but lift the artiwoman. All the meek humility that had before dis- ficial mantle of deception, "large and broad," that veils tinguished her manner and conduct were now forever from our eyes the bosoms of those who dance by us in gone from her nature; and no longer the same in the sunshine of life-but it matters not! I saw a person nor in heart, the deformed girl sought the young girl, erewhile, with a heart beating warm to the hitherto sedulously-avoided fellowship of the young of impulses of a nohle nature meekly repentant for errors both sexes who visited her father's house, displayed a firmly resolved on its atonement; sorrowful over the marked and tasteful care in the arrangement of her past; hopeful, timidly, trustingly-aye, tearfully hopedress and her hair, made her clothes so as to set tightly ful, for the future; but the world frowned upon her to her figure and in some degree, also, to conceal much efforts-the cold, uncharitable, bitter world; and mark of that figure's uncouthness and disproportion, and in me! she will rest beneath the sod, anon, and the world the course of a very few weeks the strange improvement will smile, and smirk, and condemn, as lightly, as if in the appearance, demeanor, and dress of Ellen Merle, she owed not her untimely doom to its heartless dewas the theme of general marvel and surprize among cree! I speak bitterly, perhaps ; but my reader, so long all who witnessed it; and by none was that astonish- accustomed to see and forgive my foibles, will not ment more greatly felt and less tamely borne with, suffer a "light word" to "part us now." He has gone than by her lovely sister; whose proud, imperious with me through so many scenes and so many changes, nature now bent to one yet more haughty and willful has seen how sedulously, in my own poor and humble than her own, in the whilome gentle, meek, and un-way, I have sought to while a lonely hour by telling assuming spirit of the deformed girl, hitherto the jest him my homely, uninteresting, ungarnished stories, of every idle tongue, the derided, scorned, ill-endured after my own plain manner and fashion, that he will. object of universal contempt; now the fierce, proud, not condemn me for this little deviation from the gay, self-confident woman of society, commanding the smooth, unruffled serenity of temper that should disadmiration of all who came within the influence of her tinguish one like me; nor will he refuse his forgiveness sparkling wit, and high and haughty superiority of to any future fault of the same nature; for "out of the mind and talent, effectually shrouding, by the two last, fullness of the heart the mouth speaketh;" and mine is often very, very full. the effects of her sister's exceeding loveliness of person, and drawing around her all the inteligence and information of the neighborhood and its villages. The air around her seemed to bear a charm not to be resisted or withstood, "The spell of her illumined eyes" had power to fix the heart of all who met their fatal gaze; and those who listened to the low, sweet, musical tones of that melodious voice, forgot the plain face and unprepossessing form to which they belonged. scorn as her due, and the jeering, bitter words and jest against her blighted figure, as a natural inevitable consequence. But "Among the rest young Philip bowed 27 and turning from the loveliness of the once-adored Rose Merle, Philip Moran bowed before the shrine of the deformed sister, with a devotedness and an intensity of passion never felt in their warmest day of affection, for the beautiful and matchless object of his first early dream of love. And, strange inconsistency of human nature! the girl, once so loving and so passionate, so devoted, and so humble in her devotedness, now refused to him alone the smile of her favor and friendship; and while that smile beamed upon all others, for him there was her word of cold indifference and contempt, her look of incredulous and undisguised scorn whenever he breathed his wild professions and extravagant praises in her unheeding ear, or told the tale of his measureless affection and burning love, in the impassioned language so entirely his own to command and hers to resist. How had she loved, to bear her part toward the loved one? Go ask the midnight vigils of unresting, feverish anxiety and care; ask the sleepless pillow, nightly dewed with the heart-wrung tears of shame, agony and love; the convulsive, but low, and unheard groan in yonder lonel chamber, whence streams the pale, solitary lamp that tells of a sleepless eye and a troubled heart within-I say, ask of these the depth and intensity of that love, the conquering of which had severed every tie of human and kindly I do not mean this-narrative, shall I call it? as a mere tale of fiction; or, indeed, scarcely is it intended as a tale, at all; but as a moral, "like," to borrow the poor boy's strongest epithet of delineation and instance; and my reader will therefore not be surprized to find a disconnected, wild, disjointed, and somewhat incoherent, recital of events and things, to tax his time and patience, when this shall fall into his hands, and claim his perusal. I said Philip Moran, the high, proud, and beautiful, bent a lowly knee to the woman he had before scorned, with all the bitterness of his haughty, ill regulated, and imperious spirit. But in proportion as he evinced the intensity and depth of his affection for the deformed girl, was the chilling, icy coldness and haughteur of her own manner and tone toward one, for whose sake she would once have poured out her heart's blood, like water, to the ground. But that rosy time was forever past away, and a proud look was in the eye, a sinister and haughty smile on the lip, that shone with joyous tenderness, and wreathed into dimpling witchery for all and every one, but him. "Ellen! stop, one moment, and listen to me!" he entreated one evening, as he encountered her in the garden; for the deformed girl was moving away when she saw him approaching the little summer-house, beneath whose flowery shade she was seated, in an attitude of deep despondency and meditation. "Stay one moment, I pray you! Why is it," he continued, as he sat down beside her, and attempted to take her hand, which, however, she calmly withdrew, "Why is it that you thus shun me? Have I not yet atoned to you for those early years of error, and the misguided ignorance of your worth and character, that led me into so henious a course of injustice and cruelty toward you, augmented, too, as the fault was, by your own | nearest and dearest kindred? If I have not convinced vengeance, for the attainment of which I have toiled you of my sincerity and truth by my past devotion, oh, day and night, is mine at last, complete, full, and en point out some sacrifice, I care not how great, and I tire-the love for which I have striven with more unwill joyfully, willingly make it, if by doing so I can varying constancy than ever galley-slave strove for the prove to you the depth and concentration of the passion meed of freedom from oar and chain! Philip Moran ! that now prompts me to offer you my hand and heart you love me! you love me! This is my revenge, and -my name and my fortune! Oh, Ellen! scorn not this the hope that has given light to the darkness of the offer unless you would drive me to distraction. my lone and dreary pathway of existence, Yes, you, Give me but one of your old-time smiles, as the guer- too, will feel as I have felt, the bitterness of a scorned don for my devotion and truth, and I shall be happy!" affection; but not like me will you ever learn to master For some moments the deformed girl answered not; that withering passion; but through every change of and if her heart ever wavered from its high and fixed thy life, amid the smiles of prosperity and the sunshine purpose of self-sacrifice and revenge, it was during that of an unclouded heaven, thou wilt turn sickening from brief and momentary silence, when the soul seemed to them all, and vainly seek to forget, and to tame the sink back within her own lightless chambers, and bring rebel heart that will mock at thy control by loving till to the altar of memory, the only ray of light not utterly it beats no more! Yes! I am revenged! ha! ha!" extinguished beneath the chilling damps of charnel And the low, wild, bitter laugh of the deformed girl pride, and the imperishable remembrance of unjust, rang in his ears, long after her form had ceased to fill and not-to-be-forgotten wrongs-and that light, the his gaze. Those words were the words of prophecy love that had filled her early years with a false, but and truth! After vainly seeking, again and again, to brilliant coloring of another and holier existence ! change the stern resolution and unbending will of Ellen But the quiver passed away from her lips, the softness Merle, Philip Moran resorted to travel, and an active from her eye, the smile from her brow; and assuming life; the novelty of which served to distract his once more the high, proud tone of haughty dignity thoughts, for a while, from the object now ever present habitual to her, and rising from her seat to the full to his mind and heart. But memory would not thus height of her figure, while all the demons of scorn be foiled; and Philip Moran, the gay, proud, high seemed enthroned on that low, white brow, she an-minded, gifted child of fortune and prosperity, died, swered, in a calm, unfaltering voice, not a tone of which varied from the clear and even modulation which long practice had rendered perfect: "Philip Moran! is it the same hand that scornfully rejected my simple offering of affection down by yonder apple tree, long, long ago one summer evening, that you now ask me to accept? Is it the same heart that then nourished for me the feelings of loathing, contempt and abhorrence, that, even in the presence of others, you made no attempt to conceal or suppress? Could such feelings be replaced with the pure and beautiful emotions of the love you affect to feel at this moment? Love! it is a profanation of the very term! Go to my lovely sister and say to her what you have now said to me, and I will believe you; for in her you will find beauty, pride, vanity, frivolity, lightness, and all, that, being most congenial to your own nature, you could esteem and love in another. But what could there be in common between you and myself? And yet I have loved you once! Nay, touch me not, speak not, and you shall hear. For years I loved you-oh, so well, so passionately! I watched your every look and tone; and though I did not try to forestall Rose in your love, yet I did seek to open your eyes to the contrast of our characters, and by constantly placing them in juxtaposition with each other, the frivolous, unmeaning, overbearing temper of my sister, and my own gentle, easy, retiring simplicity of character, and heart, (for my heart was pure then!) I cherished the wild dream of seeing you at last appreciate me, and--but why need I say it? Day by day I forgave some glaring act of cruelty and neglect, at your hands. I hoped you might even yet repent-you were young, warm, impetuous; and I still forgave every insult, every taunt, every jibe, jest and jeer, without a murmur of complaint, until the evening you rejected my flowers. From that moment a demon entered my breast! Forbearance, love, tenderness, all the soft and winning graces of affection, vanished away, and left a dull, aching, sickening sense of humiliation and shame at my heart, that revenge alone could ever overcome or obliterate. And that the inmate of a private madhouse. Rose Merle ended her career of heartless coquetry, and selfish overbearance over all who would be ruled by her, by bestowing her hand and most lovely person, (we say nothing of the heart,) on James Corbin ; whom we have casually mentioned in the earlier part of this story; and if her husband was not altogether so happy in the smiles of his beautiful wife, he was at least too well bred, if not too well trained, to betray as much to the eyes of the curious and gossipping world, that as it was, pronounced them the happiest couple in the neighborhood, almost in the village itself. Oh let us kindly draw a curtain over the after-fate of the deformed Ellen Merle! Why should we seek to penetrate the secrets of her veiled and hidden bosom, or read the mysteries therein concealed from every human ken? If she repented of her stern and bitter decree, or if she did not, was never known; nor was there anything apparent in her manner or conduct that might serve opinion to build upon, save only the fact of her retiring altogether from society and the social circles of life, on learning the wretched death of Philip Moran. But no word on the subject ever escaped her lips; and if that was indeed the true cause of her conduct, I cannot tell. My kind reader! do you perceive the moral of this tale? Can you appreciate that moral, now you do perceive it? I hope so, indeed; for there is much of good contained therein, if you can only see clearly where it lies hidden among the rubbish of the disconnected thoughts, feelings, and events, that "make up the sum" of this wild, and not altogether fabricated narrative. Maysville, August, 1843. Live, while you live, the epicure will say, I live to pleasure when I live to thee. A MARRIED MAN'S REVERIE. THE FATE OF THE OAK. BY BARRY CORNWALL. The Owl to its mate is calling, That has stood for a hundred springs. His arms from the trunks are riven- In chains, to the strong dock yard. Oh! now-with his wings outspread Like a ghost (if a ghost may be) He will triumph again, though dead, And be dreaded in every sea. The lightning will blaze about, And wrap him in flaming pride, And the thunder-loud cannon will shout In the fight, from his bold broadside. And when he has fought—and won Why, what can he ask for more? There is nought that a king can claim, Or a poet or warrior bold, Save a rhyme and a short lived name, And to mix with the common mould! A MARRIED MAN'S REVERIE. BY JOHN INMAN. WHAT a blockhead my brother Tom is, not to marry; or rather, perhaps I should say, what a blockhead he was not to marry some twenty-five years ago, for I suppose he'd hardly get any decent sort of a body to have him, as old as he is now. Poor fellow; what a forlorn, desolate kind of a life he leads: no wife to take care of him; no children to love him; no domestic enjoyment; nothing snug and comfortable in his arrangements at home; nice sociable dinners, pleasant faces at breakfast. By the way, what the deuce is the reason my breakfast does not come up? I've been waiting for it this half hour. Oh, I forgot; my wife sent the cook to market to get some trash or other for Dick's cold. She coddles that boy to death. But, after all, I ought not to find fault with Tom for not getting a wife, for he has lent me a good deal of money that came quite convenient, and I suppose my young ones will have all he's worth when he dies, poor fellow! They'll want it, I'm afraid; for although my business does very well, this housekeeping eats up all the profits, with such a large family as mine. Let me see; how many mouths have I to feed every day? There is my wife and her two sisters, that's three; and the four boys-seven; and Lucy, and Sarah, and Jane, and Louisa, four more-eleven; then there's the cook, and the house-maid, and the boy-fourteen; and the woman that comes here every day to wash and do odd jobs about the house-fifteen; then there's the nursery maid-sixteen; surely there must be another; I'm sure I made it out seventeen, when I was reckoning up last Sunday morning at church; there must be -another somewhere. Let me see again; wife, wife's 29 sisters, boys, girls-oh, it's myself! Faith, I have so many to think of and provide for, that I forget myself half the time. Yes, that makes it-seventeen. Seventeen people to feed every day is no joke! and somehow or other, they all have most furious appetites: but then, bless their hearts, it's pleasant to see them eat. What a havoc they do make with the the buck-wheat cakes, of a morning, to be sure! Now poor Tom knows nothing of all this. There he lives all alone by himself, in a boarding house, with nobody near him that cares a brass farthing whether he lives or dies. No affectionate wife to nurse him or coddle him up when he's sick; no little prattlers about him to keep him in good humor; no dawning intellects, whose developement he can amuse himself with watching, day after day; nobody to study his wishes and keep all his comforts ready. Confound it, hasn't that woman got back from market yet? I feel remarkably hungry. I dont mind the boy's being coddled and messed if my wife likes it, but there's no joke in having the breakfast kept back for an hour. Oh, by the way, I must remember to buy all those things for the children to day; Christmas is close at hand, and my wife has made out a list of the presents she means to put into their stocking. More expense-and their school-bills coming in too; I remember before I was married I used to think what a delight it would be to educate the young rogues myself; but a man with a large family has no time for that sort of amusement. I wonder how old young Tom is; let me see, when does his birth-day come? next month as I am a Christian, and then he'll be fourteen. Boys of fourteen consider themselves all but men, now-adays, and Tom is quite of that mind, I see. Nothing will suit his exquisite feet but Wellington boots at seven dollars a pair; and his mother has been throwing out hints as to the propriety of getting a watch for him, gold, of course. Silver was quite good enough for me when I was half a score years older than he is, but times are awfully changed since my younger days. Then I believe in my soul the young villain has learned to play billiards; and three or four times lately when he has come in late at night, his clothes seemed to be strongly perfumed with cigar smoke. Heigho! Fathers have many troubles, and I can't help thinking sometimes that old bachelors are not such wonderful fools after all. They go to their pillows at night with no cares on their minds to keep them awake; and when they have once got asleep, nothing comes to disturb their repose-nothing short of the house being on fire, can reach their peaceful condition. No getting up in the cold to walk up and down the room for an hour or two with a squalling young varlet, as my luck has been for the last five or six weeks. It's an astonishing thing to perceive what a passion our little Louisa exhibits for crying; so sure as the clock strikes three she begins, and there is no getting her quiet again until she has fairly exhausted the strength of her lungs with good, straight forward screaming. I can't for the life of me understand why the young villains don't get through all their squalling and roaring in the day time when I am out of the way. Then again what a pleasure it is to be routed from one's first nap, and sent off post haste for the doctor as I was on Monday night, when my wife thought Sarah had got the croup, and frightened me half out of my wits with her lamentations and fidgets. By the way, there's the doctor's bill to be paid soon; his collector always pays |