MELCHIOR’S DREAM.

“Melchior is my hero.  He was—­well, he considered himself a young man, so we will consider him so too.  He was not perfect; but in these days the taste in heroes is for a good deal of imperfection, not to say wickedness.  He was not an only son.  On the contrary, he had a great many brothers and sisters, and found them quite as objectionable as my friend Richard does.”

“I smell a moral,” murmured the said Richard.

“Your scent must be keen,” said the story-teller, “for it is a long way off.  Well, he had never felt them so objectionable as on one particular night, when, the house being full of company, it was decided that the boys should sleep in ‘barracks,’ as they called it; that is, all in one large room.”

“Thank goodness, we have not come to that!” said the incorrigible Richard; but he was reduced to order by threats of being turned out, and contented himself with burning the soles of his boots against the bars of the grate in silence:  and the friend continued:—­

“But this was not the worst.  Not only was he, Melchior, to sleep in the same room with his brothers, but his bed being the longest and largest, his youngest brother was to sleep at the other end of it—­foot to foot.  True, by this means he got another pillow, for, of course, that little Hop-o’-my-Thumb could do without one, and so he took his; but, in spite of this, he determined that, sooner than submit to such an indignity, he would sit up all night.  Accordingly, when all the rest were fast asleep, Melchior, with his boots off and his waistcoat easily unbuttoned, sat over the fire in the long lumber-room which served that night as ‘barracks’.  He had refused to eat any supper downstairs to mark his displeasure, and now repaid himself by a stolen meal according to his own taste.  He had got a pork-pie, a little bread and cheese, some large onions to roast, a couple of raw apples, an orange, and papers of soda and tartaric acid to compound effervescing draughts.  When these dainties were finished, he proceeded to warm some beer in a pan, with ginger, spice, and sugar, and then lay back in his chair and sipped it slowly, gazing before him, and thinking over his misfortunes.

“The night wore on, the fire got lower and lower, and still Melchior sat, with his eyes fixed on a dirty old print that had hung above the mantelpiece for years, sipping his ‘brew’, which was fast getting cold.  The print represented an old man in a light costume, with a scythe in one hand and an hour-glass in the other; and underneath the picture in flourishing capitals was the word time.

“‘You’re a nice old beggar,’ said Melchior, dreamily.  ’You look like an old hay-maker who has come to work in his shirt-sleeves, and forgotten the rest of his clothes.  Time! time you went to the tailor’s, I think.’

“This was very irreverent; but Melchior was not in a respectful mood; and as for the old man, he was as calm as any philosopher.