and that in itself is something. As to the other part, no matter how
sensible a woman is on other questions, when she falls in love she is
fool enough to believe her adored one a veritable Solomon. Cuddling?
Well, she may preside over conventions, brandish her umbrella at board
meetings, tramp the streets soliciting subscriptions, wield the blue
pencil in an editorial sanctum, hammer a type-writer, smear her nose
with ink from a galley full of pied type, lead infant ideas through the
tortuous mazes of c-a-t and r-a-t, plead at the bar, or wield the
scalpel in a dissecting room, yet when the right moment comes, she will
sink as gracefully into his manly embrace, throw her arms as lovingly
around his neck, and cuddle as warmly and sweetly to his bosom as her
little sister who has done nothing else but think, dream, and practice
for that hour. It comes natural, you see.




TEN MINUTES' MUSING.


There was a terrible noise in the school-yard at intermission; peeping
out the windows the boys could be seen huddled in an immense bunch, in
the middle of the yard. It looked like a fight, a mob, a
knock-down,--anything, so we rushed out to the door hastily, fearfully,
ready to scold, punish, console, frown, bind up broken heads or drag
wounded forms from the melee as the case might be. Nearly every boy in
the school was in that seething, swarming mass, and those who weren't
were standing around on the edges, screaming and throwing up their hats
in hilarious excitement. It was a mob, a fearful mob, but a mob
apparently with a vigorous and well-defined purpose. It was a mob that