notions that come into his head.  If fate had allotted him a helpful companion in the shape of a loving and intelligent wife, he might have been half cured of his eccentricities, and we should not have had to say, in speaking of him, “Poor fellow!” But since this cannot be, I am pleased that he should have been so kindly treated on the occasion of the reading of his paper.  If he saw Number Five’s tear, he will certainly fall in love with her.  No matter if he does Number Five is a kind of Circe who does not turn the victims of her enchantment into swine, but into lambs.  I want to see Number Seven one of her little flock.  I say “little.”  I suspect it is larger than most of us know.  Anyhow, she can spare him sympathy and kindness and encouragement enough to keep him contented with himself and with her, and never miss the pulses of her loving life she lends him.  It seems to be the errand of some women to give many people as much happiness as they have any right to in this world.  If they concentrated their affection on one, they would give him more than any mortal could claim as his share.  I saw Number Five watering her flowers, the other day.  The watering-pot had one of those perforated heads, through which the water runs in many small streams.  Every plant got its share:  the proudest lily bent beneath the gentle shower; the lowliest daisy held its little face up for baptism.  All were refreshed, none was flooded.  Presently she took the perforated head, or “rose,” from the neck of the watering-pot, and the full stream poured out in a round, solid column.  It was almost too much for the poor geranium on which it fell, and it looked at one minute as if the roots would be laid bare, and perhaps the whole plant be washed out of the soil in which it was planted.  What if Number Five should take off the “rose” that sprinkles her affections on so many, and pour them all on one?  Can that ever be?  If it can, life is worth living for him on whom her love may be lavished.

One of my neighbors, a thorough American, is much concerned about the growth of what he calls the “hard-handed aristocracy.”  He tells the following story:—­

“I was putting up a fence about my yard, and employed a man of whom I knew something,—­that he was industrious, temperate, and that he had a wife and children to support,—­a worthy man, a native New Englander.  I engaged him, I say, to dig some post-holes.  My employee bought a new spade and scoop on purpose, and came to my place at the appointed time, and began digging.  While he was at work, two men came over from a drinking-saloon, to which my residence is nearer than I could desire.  One of them I had known as Mike Fagan, the other as Hans Schleimer.  They looked at Hiram, my New Hampshire man, in a contemptuous and threatening way for a minute or so, when Fagan addressed him: 

“‘And how much does the man pay yez by the hour?’

“‘The gentleman does n’t pay me by the hour,’ said Hiram.