enough for that sort of work.  The judicial character is n’t captivating in females, Sir.  A woman fascinates a man quite as often by what she overlooks as by what she sees.  Love prefers twilight to daylight; and a man doesn’t think much of, nor care much for, a woman outside of his household, unless he can couple the idea of love, past, present, or future, with her.  I don’t believe the Devil would give half as much for the services of a sinner as he would for those of one of these folks that are always doing virtuous acts in a way to make them unpleasing.—­That young girl wants a tender nature to cherish her and give her a chance to put out her leaves,—­sunshine, and not east winds.

He was silent,—­and sat looking at his handsome left hand with the red stone ring upon it.—­Is he going to fall in love with Iris?

Here are some lines I read to the boarders the other day:—­

The crooked footpath

Ah, here it is! the sliding rail
That marks the old remembered spot,
—­The gap that struck our schoolboy trail,
—­The crooked path across the lot.

It left the road by school and church,
A pencilled shadow, nothing more,
That parted from the silver birch
And ended at the farmhouse door.

     No line or compass traced its plan;
     With frequent bends to left or right,
     In aimless, wayward curves it ran,
     But always kept the door in sight.

     The gabled porch, with woodbine green,
     —­The broken millstone at the sill,
     —­Though many a rood might stretch between,
     The truant child could see them still.

     No rocks, across the pathway lie,
     —­No fallen trunk is o’er it thrown,
     —­And yet it winds, we know not why,
     And turns as if for tree or stone.

     Perhaps some lover trod the way
     With shaking knees and leaping heart,
     —­And so it often runs astray
     With sinuous sweep or sudden start.

     Or one, perchance, with clouded brain
     From some unholy banquet reeled,
     —­And since, our devious steps maintain
     His track across the trodden field.

     Nay, deem not thus,—­no earthborn will
     Could ever trace a faultless line;
     Our truest steps are human still,
     —­To walk unswerving were divine!

     Truants from love, we dream of wrath;
     —­Oh, rather let us trust the more! 
     Through all the wanderings of the path,
     We still can see our Father’s door!

V

The Professor finds a Fly in his Teacup.

I have a long theological talk to relate, which must be dull reading to some of my young and vivacious friends.  I don’t know, however, that any of them have entered into a contract to read all that I write, or that I have promised always to write to please them.  What if I should sometimes write to please myself?