CURIOSITY.

THE curiosity of our sex is proverbial.  Proverbs are generally based upon experience, and this one, I am ready to admit, is not without a good foundation to rest upon.

Our sex are curious; at least I am, and we are very apt to judge others by ourselves.  I believe that I have never broken the seal nor peeped into a letter bearing the name of some other lady; but, then, I will own to having, on more occasions than one, felt an exceedingly strong desire to know the contents of certain epistles in the hands of certain of my friends.

The same feeling I have over and over again observed in my domestics, and, for this reason, have always been careful how I let my letters lie temptingly about.  One chamber maid in my service, seemed to have a passion for reading other people’s letters.  More than once had I caught her (sic) rumaging in my drawers, or with some of my old letters in her hands; and I could not help remarking that most of the letters left at the door by the penny post, had, if they passed to me through her, a crumpled appearance.  I suspected the cause of this, but did not detect my lady, until she had been some months in my family.

One morning, after breakfast was over, and the children off to school, I drew on a cap, and went down to sweep out and dust the parlors.  I had not been at work long, when I heard the bell ring.  Presently Mary came tripping down stairs.  As she opened the street door, I heard her say: 

“Ah! another letter?  Who is it for?  Me?”

“No, it is for Mrs. Smith,” was answered, in the rougher voice of the Despatch Post-man.

“Oh.”  There was a perceptible disappointment in Mary’s tone.  “What’s the postage?” she asked.

“Paid,” said the man.

The door closed, and I heard the feet of Mary slowly moving along the passage.  Then the murmur of her voice reached my ears.  Presently I heard her say: 

“I wonder who it is from?  Mrs. Smith gets a great many letters.  No envelope, thank goodness! but a plain, good old fashioned letter.  I must see who it is from.”

By this time Mary had stepped within the back parlor.  I stood, hid from her view, by one of the folding doors, which was closed, but within a few feet of her.

“From Mrs. Jackson!  Hum—­m.  I wonder what she’s got to say?  Something about me, I’ll bet a dollar.”

There was a very apparent change in the thermometer of Mary’s feelings at this last thought, as was evident from the tone of her voice.

“Lace collars—­stockings—­pocket han—.  I can’t make out that word, but it is handkerchiefs, of course,” thus Mary read and talked to herself.  “Breastpin—­this is too mean!  It’s not true, neither.  I’m a great mind to burn the letter.  Mrs. Smith would never be the wiser.  I won’t give it to her now, at any rate.  I’ll put it in my pocket, and just think about it.”

The next sound that came to my ears was the pattering of Mary’s feet as she went hurrying up the stairs.