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pally of hot rolls. The buttered-muffin variety is supposed to be a hybrid with the cocoa-nut palm, the
found on the milk of the cocoa-nut exuding from the hybrid in the shape of butter, just as the ripe fruit is splitting, so as to fit it for the teatable, where it is commonly served up with cold
-There,—I don't want to read any more of it. You see that many of these statements are highly improbable. No, I shall not mention the paper.—The Autocrat of the BreakfastTable.
The old Master was talking about a concert he had been to hear.
-I don't like your chopped music anyway. That woman—she had more sense in her little finger than forty medical societies-Florence Nightingale--says that the music you pour out is good for sick folks, and the music you pound out is n't. Not that exactly, but something like it. I have been to hear some musicpounding. It was a young woman, with as many white muslin flounces round her as the planet Saturn has rings, that did it. She gave the music-stool a twirl or two and fluffed down on to it like a whirl of soap-suds in a handbasin. Then she pushed up her cuffs as if she was going to fight for the champion's belt. Then she worked her wrists and her hands, to limber 'em, I suppose, and spread out her fingers till they looked as though they would pretty much cover the key-board, from the growling end to the little squeaky one. Then those two hands of hers made a jump at the keys as if they were a couple of tigers coming down on a flock of black and white sheep, and the piano gave a great howl as if its tail had been trod on. Dead stop,-so still you could hear your hair growing. Then another jump, and another howl, as if the piano had two tails and you had trod on both of 'em at once, and then a grand clatter and scramble and string of jumps, up and down, back and forward, one hand over the other, like a stampede of rats and mice more than like any thing I call music. I like to hear a woman sing, and I like to hear a fiddle sing, but these noises they hammer out of their wood and ivory anvils—don't talk to me, I know the difference between a bull-frog and a wood-thrush. The Poet at the Breakfast. Table.
THE OLD MAN DREAMS. O for one hour of youthful joy!
Give back my twentieth spring! I'd rather laugh a bright-haired boy
Than reign a gray-beard king!
Off with the wrinkled spoils of age !
Away with learning's crown! Tear out life's wisdom-written page,
And dash its trophies down!
One moment let my
life-blood stream From boyhood's fount of flame! Give me one giddy, reeling dream
Of life all love and fame!
My listening angel heard the prayer,
And calmly smiling, said, “If I but touch thy silvered hair,
Thy hasty wish hath sped.
“But is there nothing in thy track
To bid thee fondly stay, While the swift seasons hurry back
To find the wished-for day?”
-Ah, truest soul of womankind!
Without thee, what were life?
One bliss I cannot leave behind :
I 'll take-my-precious—wife !
-The angel took a sapphire pen
And wrote in rainbow dew, “The man would be a boy again,
And be a husband too!”
-“And is there nothing yet unsaid
Before the change appears? Remember, all their gifts have fled
With those dissolving years !"
Why, yes; for memory would recall
My fond paternal joys;
I 'll take-my-girl-and-boys!
The smiling angel dropped his pen,
“Why this will never do; The man would be a boy again,
And be a father too!”
And so I laughed,-my laughter woke
The household with its noise, And wrote my dream, when morning broke,
To please the gray-haired boys.
-The Autocrat of the Breakfast-Table.
I want it to be understood that I consider that a certain number of persons are at liberty to dislike me peremptorily, without showing cause, and that they give no offence whatever in so doing
If I did not cheerfully acquiesce in this sentiment towards myself on the part of others, I should not feel at liberty to indulge my own aversions. I try to cultivate a Christian feeling to all my fellow-creatures, but inasmuch as I must also respect truth and honesty, I confess to myself a certain number of inalienable dislikes and prejudices, some of which may possibly be shared by others. Some of these are purely instinctive, for others I can assign a reason. Our likes and dislikes play so important a part in the order of things that it is well to see on what they are founded.
There are persons I meet occasionally who are too intelligent by half for my liking. They know my thoughts beforehand, and tell me what I was going to say. Of course they are masters of all my knowledge, and a good deal besides; have read all the books I have read, and in later editions; have had all the experiences I have been through, and more too. In