glance, then walked solemnly away into a "clearing," and getting
comfortably astride a blazing heap of logs, made a barbacue of
himself!

After all, Lucille Ashtonbury Clifford, the light-headed windmill,
seems to have got the best of all this. I have observed that the
light-headed commonly get the best of everything in this world;
which the wooden-headed and the beef-headed regard as an outrage. I
am not prepared to say if it is or not. A Comforter.

William Bunker had paid a fine of two hundred dollars for beating
his wife. After getting his receipt he went moodily home and seated
himself at the domestic hearth. Observing his abstracted and
melancholy demeanour, the good wife approached and tenderly inquired
the cause. "It's a delicate subject, dear," said he, with love-
light in his eyes; "let's talk about something good to eat."

Then, with true wifely instinct she sought to cheer him up with
pleasing prattle of a new bonnet he had promised her. "Ah! darling,"
he sighed, absently picking up the fire-poker and turning it in his
hands, "let us change the subject."

Then his soul's idol chirped an inspiring ballad, kissed him on the
top of his head, and sweetly mentioned that the dressmaker had sent
in her bill. "Let us talk only of love," returned he, thoughtfully
rolling up his dexter sleeve.

And so she spoke of the vine-enfolded cottage in which she fondly
hoped they might soon sip together the conjugal sweets. William
became rigidly erect, a look not of earth was in his face, his