Part 10 (1/2)

Or if ever a painter, with light and shade, The dream of his inmost heart portrayed!

I wonder if ever a rose was found, And there might not be a fairer!

Or if ever a glittering gem was ground, And we dreamed not of a rarer!

Ah! never on earth do we find the best, But it waits for us in a Land of Rest, And a perfect thing we shall never behold, Till we pa.s.s the portals of s.h.i.+ning gold.

A WOMAN'S POCKET.

BY JAMES M. BAILEY.

The most difficult thing to reach is a woman's pocket. This is especially the case if the dress is hung up in a closet, and the man is in a hurry. We think we are safe in saying that he always is in a hurry on such an occasion. The owner of the dress is in the sitting room serenely engrossed in a book. Having told him that the article which he is in quest of is in her dress pocket in the closet she has discharged her whole duty in the matter and can afford to feel serene. He goes at the task with a dim consciousness that he has been there before, but says nothing. On opening the closet door and finding himself confronted with a number of dresses, all turned inside out and presenting a most formidable front, he hastens back to ask ”Which dress?” and being told the brown one, and also asked if _she_ has so _many_ dresses that there need be any great effort to find the right one, he returns to the closet with alacrity, and soon has his hands on the brown dress. It is inside out like the rest,--a fact he does not notice, however, until he has made several ineffectual attempts to get his hand into it. Then he turns it around very carefully and pa.s.ses over the pocket several times without knowing it. A nervous movement of his hands, and an appearance of perspiration on his forehead are perceptible. He now dives one hand in at the back, and feeling around, finds a place, and proceeds to explore it, when he discovers that he is following up the inside of a lining. The nervousness increases, also the perspiration. He twitches the dress on the hook, and suddenly the pocket, white, plump and exasperating, comes to view. Then he sighs the relief he feels and is mentally grateful he did not allow himself to use any offensive expressions. It is all right now. There is the pocket in plain view--not the inside but the outside--and all he has to do is to put his hand right around in the inside and take out the article. That is all. He can't help but smile to think how near he was to getting mad. Then he puts his hand around to the other side. He does not feel the opening. He pushes a little further--now he has got it; he shoves the hand down, and is very much surprised to see it appear opposite his knees. He had made a mistake. He tries again; again he feels the entrance and glides down it only to appear again as before. This makes him open his eyes and straighten his face. He feels of the outside of the pocket, pinches it curiously, lifts it up, shakes it, and, after peering closely about the roots of it, he says, ”How funny!” and commences again. He does it calmly this time, because hurrying only makes matters worse. He holds up breadth after breadth, goes over them carefully, gets his hand first into a lining, then into the air again (where it always surprises him when it appears), and finally into a pocket, and is about to cry out with triumph, when he discovers that it is the pocket to another dress. He is mad now; the closet air almost stifles him; he is so nervous he can hardly contain himself, and the pocket looks at him so exasperatingly that he cannot help but ”plug” it with his clenched fist, and immediately does it. Being somewhat relieved by this performance he has a chance to look about him, and sees that he has put his foot through a band-box and into the crown of his wife's bonnet; has broken the brim of his Panama hat which was hanging in the same closet, and torn about a yard of bugle tr.i.m.m.i.n.g from a new cloak. All this trouble is due directly to his wife's infatuation in hanging up her dresses inside out, so he immediately starts after her, and impetuously urging her to the closet, excitedly and almost profanely intimates his doubts of their being a pocket in the dress, anyway. The cause of the unhappy disaster quietly inserts her hand inside the robe, and directly brings it forth with the sought for article in its clasp. He doesn't know why, but this makes him madder than anything else.

MOTHER'S DOUGHNUTS.

BY CHARLES F. ADAMS.

_El Dorado, 1851._

I've just been down ter Thompson's, boys, 'N feelin' kind o' blue, I thought I'd look in at ”The Ranch,”

Ter find out what wuz new; When I seed this sign a-hangin'

On a shanty by the lake: ”Here's whar yer get your doughnuts Like yer mother used ter make.”

I've seen a grizzly show his teeth, I've seen Kentucky Pete Draw out his shooter, 'n advise A ”tenderfoot” ter treat; But nuthin' ever tuk me down, 'N made my benders shake, Like that sign about the doughnuts That my mother used ter make.

A sort o' mist shut out the ranch, 'N standin' thar instead, I seen an old, white farm-house, With its doors all painted red.

A whiff came through the open door-- Wuz I sleepin' or awake?

The smell wuz that of doughnuts Like my mother used ter make.

The bees wuz hummin' round the porch Whar honeysuckles grew; A yellow dish of apple-sa.s.s Wuz settin' thar in view.

'N on the table, by the stove, An old-time ”Johnny-cake,”

'N a platter full of doughnuts Like my mother used ter make.

A patient form I seemed ter see, In tidy dress of black, I almost thought I heard the words, ”When will my boy come back?”

'N then--the old sign creaked: But now it was the boss who spake: 'Here's whar yer gets yer doughnuts Like yer mother used ter make.

Well, boys, that kind o' broke me up, 'N ez I've ”struck pay gravel,”

I ruther think I'll pack my kit, Vamoose the ranch, 'n travel.

I'll make the old folks jubilant, 'N if I don't mistake, I'll try some o' them doughnuts Like my mother used ter make.

LITERARY ATTRACTIONS OF THE BIBLE.