has happened. Sheit isn't our baby. I have never seen it before!"

Mrs. Deworth jerked her hand away.

"It was the only one in the nursery," spoke up Billee, on the defensive.

A hubbub ran around.

"She's kidnapped," I said decisively.

With one common impulse everybody turned and hastened up the quad. Jack and I led. Straight to the nursery we flew.

It was empty, a red dress hanging on a nail. "That's not Wilma's" I exclaimed.

to

Everybody scattered, running from one room another. Jack and I rushed frantically from the parlor to the basement, high, low-everywhere.

We came to a room and Jack threw open the door. It was the laundry. We entered.

There, sitting in the middle of the floor, was a child. Over its face were smears and streaks of molasses and dirt, while it was cooing comfortably away picking feathers off one molasses covered hand only to get them. stuck on the other.

"It's Wilma," I exclaimed.

The laundress appeared. "Yes, I allers keeps 'em quiet that way," she explained. "Never hurts 'em." "That's my baby. What do you mean?" I demanded. The laundress drew up. "Well, you went and took my baby and rigged it up without ever askin' me, and left this this thing out in the hall for me to look after. An' my busy day, too. I hain't no time to set down on Thursdays and sing lullabys to strange brats."

I glowered at her, but Jack was more practical. Taking out his handkerchief he began rubbing off the molasses coating, and plucking out the feathers.

Then we heard the girls coming down the hall, talking excitedly. Jack sprang to the door and locked it. The girls twisted at the knob and demanded entrance.

"How can I get out of here?" he asked of the laundress. She pointed to a small side door. "To the alley."

Jack gathered up Wilma in his arms.

"What are you going to do?" I asked, a hand on his sleeve.

"Make my get-away. Do you think I am going to let them all those girls-see her looking like this? Never. I am going to my sister's and have her washed up. The doings can wait till I get back."

"But what shall I tell them?"

"Anything you want to-till I get back-that she fell down the coal hole-or was kidnapped by a tall, mysterious woman in black, and that I am out after her."

He dodged out the door, and running across the street, he climbed into our auto and whizzed away.

A Woman's Education

MRS. MALAPROP SPEAKS

Observe me, Sir Anthony. I would by no means wish a daughter of mine to be a progeny of learning: I don't think so much learning becomes a young woman. For instance, I would never let her meddle with Greek, or Hebrew, or algebra, or simony, or fluxions, or paradoxes, or such inflammatory branches of learning; neither would it be necessary for her to handle any of your mathematical, astronomical, diabolical instruments. But, Sir Anthony, I would send her, at nine years old, to a boarding school, in order to learn a little ingenuity and artifice. Then, sir, she should have a supercilious knowledge in accounts; and as she grew up, I would have her instructed in geometry, that she might know something of the contagious countries; but, above all, Sir Anthony, she should be mistress of orthodoxy, that she might not mis-spell, and mis-pronounce words so shamefully as girls usually do; and likewise that she might reprehend the true meaning of what she is saying. This, Sir Anthony, is what I would have a woman know; and I don't think there is a superstitious article in it.

-By Richard Brinsley Sheridan, from The Rivals.

My Wife
Wife and Child

HENRY R. JACKSON.

The tattoo beats-the lights are gone,
The camp around in slumber lies;
The night with solemn pace moves on,
The shadows thicken o'er the skies;
But sleep my weary eyes hath flown,
And sad, uneasy thoughts arise.

I think of thee, oh, dearest one,
Whose love my early life hath blest-
Of thee and him-our baby son-
Who slumbers on thy gentle breast.
God of the tender, frail and lone,
Oh, guard the tender sleeper's rest.

And hover gently, hover near,

To her whose watchful eye is wetTo mother, wife-the doubly dear,

In whose young heart have freshly met Two streams of love so deep and clear And clear her drooping spirits yet. Whatever fate those forms may show, Loved with a passion almost wildBy day-by night-in joy or woe

By fears oppressed, or hopes beguiled, From every danger, every foe,

Oh, God! protect my wife and child!

Now, while she kneels before Thy throne,
Oh, teach her, ruler of the skies,
That, while by thy behest alone,
Earth's mightiest powers fall or rise,
No tear is wept to Thee unknown,
No hair is lost, no sparrow dies!

That Thou canst stay the ruthless hands
Of dark disease, and soothe its pain;
That only by Thy stern command
The battle's lost, the soldiers slain-

That from the distant sea or land

Thou bring'st the wanderer home again.

And when upon her pillow lone
Her tear-wet cheek is sadly prest,
May happier visions beam upon
The brightening current of her breast,
No frowning look nor angry tone
Disturb the Sabbath of her rest.

Polonius to Laertes

Yet here, Laertes! aboard, aboard, for shame!
The wind sits in the shoulder of your sail,

And you are stay'd for. There, my blessing with thee!
And these few precepts in thy memory

Look thou character. Give thy thoughts no tongue,
Nor any unproportion'd thought his act.

Be thou familiar, but by no means vulgar;
The friends thou hast, and their adoption tried,
Grapple them to thy soul with hoops of steel;
But do not dull thy palm with entertainment
Of each new-hatch'd, unfledg'd comrade. Beware
Of entrance to a quarrel, but, being in,

Bear 't that th' opposed may beware of thee.
Give every man thine ear, but few thy voice;

Take each man's censure, but reserve thy judgment.

Costly thy habit as thy purse can buy,

But not express'd in fancy; rich, not gaudy;

For the apparel oft proclaims the man,

And they in France of the best rank and station

Are most select and generous, chief in that.

Neither a borrower, nor a lender be;

For loan oft loses both itself and friend,
And borrowing dulls the edge of husbandry.
This above all; to thine own self be true,
And it must follow, as the night the day,
Thou canst not then be false to any man.
Farewell; my blessing season this on thee!

Hamlet Prince of Denmark-Act I. Scene III.

Self-Independence

BY MATTHEW ARNOLD.

Weary of myself, and sick of asking
What I am, and what I ought to be,
At the vessel's prow I stand, which bears me
Forwards, forwards, o'er the starlit sea.

And a look of passionate desire

O'er the sea and to the stars I send;

"Ye, who from my childhood up have claimed me, Calm me, ah, compose me to the end!

"Ah, once more," I cried, "ye stars, ye waters.
On my heart your mighty charm renew;
Still, still let me, as I gaze upon you,
Feel my soul becoming vast like you!"

From the intense, clear, star-sown vault of heaven, O'er the lit sea's unquiet way,

In the rustling night air came the answer"Woulds't thou be as these are? Live as they.

"Unaffrighted by the silence round them, Undistracted by the sights they see,

These demand not that the things without them
Yield them love, amusement, sympathy.

"And with joy the stars perform their shining,
And the sea its long moon silver'd roll;
For self-poised they live, nor pine with noting
All the fever of some differing soul.

"Bounded by themselves, and unregardful
In what state God's other works may be,
In their own tasks all their powers pouring,
These attain the mighty life you see."

O, air born voice! long since, severely clear,
A cry like thine in mine own heart I hear-
"Resolve to be thyself; and know that he
Who finds himself loses his misery!"