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THE PARTING LOVERS. NOOD-NIGHT, sweetheart! It can't be ten, I know; U That clock had better “go a little slow!” I do not see how it can have the face To take “new deals” at such a rapid pace. Full well I know ten minutes have not flown Since it struck nine! Good-night, my love, my own!

“Good-night, Charlie !"

Oh! yes; last night, while going down Broadway,
Whom do you think I met? Dick Gray !
Just home from Europe! You should hear him talk!
'Twould make a mummy laugh to see him walk!
He struts around with such a killing air. .
Ha! ha! Good-night, my love, my jewel rare!

“Good-night, Charlie !”.

O Katie! Wait, dear! I forgot to tell
You something. Let me think! That's funny! Well,
It's gone, and in a moment so am I.
My darling, how I hate to say good-bye!
Some fellows would much later stay, I know;
But “Ten,” your mother says; so I must go.

“Good-night, Charlie !"

Some time, oewitching Kate-ah! some time, sweet-
“Good-bye” shall we consider obsolete,
No more will clocks strike terror to my heart,
And in exultant tones bid me depart.
Ah! now, like Cinderella at the ball,
I fly from happiness! Good-night, my all !

“Good-night, Charlie!"

Oh! Katie dear, is't too much trouble, thiæk,
To get a match? I could not sleep a wink
Without my smoke. It is a lovely night,
So clear and sweet, and it is just as bright
As day. Well, I must tear myself away.
Thanks, dear! Good-night, once more I'll say!

“Good-night, Charlie!"

Oh! dear! How stupid of me! There's my cane-
I must come back and get it! Should it rain
To-morrow eve, will come and let you know
About the party; if not, we'll go.
Hark! Catch me ere I fall! Oh! what a shock!
It strikes again! Good-night! Confound that clock!
“Good-night, Charlie !"



(Abridged from Harper's Young People.)

COATS have broken out in our street violently, vaU riously, and promiscuously, accompanied by carts differing one from another in glory--some distinguished by reason of their real elegance and beauty, and others by the clever use of such unpromising materials as odds and ends of old lumber, and miscellaneous wheels most artfully adjusted. The epidemic has spread rapidly, and in spite of every precaution my own little man Paul has it thoroughly.

One evening in the early spring little Paul had been left at home to take care of his mother. His father had gone with sister Alice to a gay dinner-party, and we two, close friends and good comrades, had planned a happy little tea-party beside our beloved log-fire.

Deep down in the warm heart of a bed of ashes lie three potatoes, buried there by Paul himself an hour ago. From the mantel-shelf dangle two monstrous winter apples, whose stems can be relied upon, suspended by strings, the loose ends of which are in custody of two Chinese idols, grim and rigid.

A tête-à-tête tea-service, in old blue-and-white willow pattern, is on a fan-shaped tray, behind which, in due time, Paul will preside.

We have put out the gas and lighted two candles, taking care to cover them with pink shades, that they shall not rob the firelight of its value. Paul is in his low arm-chair, and I am in mine. The biscuits have arrived.

The final touches have been given to our little banquet, and Paul stands off to view the effect. He seats himself again behind the tea-tray, and addresses himself to the cares of hospitality: “Two lumps for you, two for me; lots of milk in my cup, mighty little in yours. And don't let Mary wait; I want to take all the care of you myself. If Mary will put two logs on the fire for us, and some pine-cones under to hurry up the blaze, I'll do all the rest. And please don't you open your potato, mother. You'll be sure to burn your precious fingers.”

All this my little man proceeds to do with anxious haste and a delicate touch all his own, infusing into the simple and homely dishes a flavor truly delicious. Not until I have been served with the hottest and brownest and best of everything can he be induced to eat a morsel.

In due time, however, the oysters are all eaten and the teapot is empty. To preserve the formalities, Paul has removed the first course and brought on the roasted apples, has served me with a particularly juicy and sugary one, and has just tasted his own, when, the postman's ring, and Mary appears with a letter.

“It's for you, Paul,” I exclaim. “Who writes to you from Rossville?”

“Oh! I know, mother. It's from Harry Randall. Please read it to me. I have to spell it out so.”

The boys had passed their last long vacation together, and though Harry is Paul's elder by several years, they are none the less firm friends.

Harry wrote that he was to go to Heidelberg to school, and his dear Billy must be sold at once. “And isn't it hard, Paul,” the letter went on, “just as my splendid new harness is done. And there's my sulky, all fresh painted for the spring. When I think of the dandy fun you and I have had with his dear little plow and his harrow, and how Billy minded the rein, it's too much; I just can't stand it. And some horrid, bullying fellow is bound to buy him, some dunce or other that thinks a goat is only good for beating. I'd give him to you, Paul, I'd love to; but you don't live in the country, you see, and your father would never let you have him. I thought you might happen to know of a real decent fellow who might like to buy the whole rig. I'll sell it to that kind of a boy for ten dollars, new harness and all. And you can tell him my new whip's got a daisy lash for snapping.” .

Dear little Paul! He has got a staggering blow. He takes the letter gently from my hand, folds it slowly, and then sits quite still, staring blindly at it, his brows twitching, and his under-lip quivering with the struggle to be brave. But his eyes are filling, and so are mine.

“Precious mother, I am never to have a goat, I kpow that; but if we could talk it over a little to-night, I mightn't mind so very much about it. I've been afraid to go near the front windows all day; I've kept away from 'em. For there are Murray and Maxwell and Thompson all out with their sulkies and box-wagons, and they go tearing past, slashing their whips and whooping. And if they catch me peeping through the curtains, they holloa out, “Say Paul, say! come out and have a turn.' I shake my head and say, ' I'm busy. But it's no use. Down I go and out to 'em. In I get and take the reins, and away we go lickity-split round the corner, up the next block, and home again. And then out I get and thank 'em, like the beggar that I am. But I am all shrivelled up inside with the sneaking and the shame of it, and then to-morrow I'll go and do it all over again.”

“But there isn't any shame in that, my darling. You would do just the same for them, and be glad to do it.”

He does not answer me at once. He seems to be turning over and over in his troubled mind some puzzle too deep for him. But, fighting manfully the tears that keep welling up and choking him, suddenly a bright thought sends the blood flushing over his sorrowful little face, and he finds his voice. “It costs lots and lots of money to keep a goat in the city, I know that. I've been thinking and wondering how I could earn some. I needn't eat any butter for breakfast, nor have any milk. Then I'll go to bed exactly at nine without telling. Father promised me ten cents a week for that. Then there's my month's allowance; that's half a dollar. And you can let my birthday gift and my Christmas stocking

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