119

Answer to Correspondents.

ROWING MAN. Having considered your question in all its lights, we answer, that it is not worth while to tilt your boat from side to side as you row, even to keep barnacles and crabs from catching hold on the bottom. For, in the first place, the catching of crabs is generally passive on their part; and secondly, should any barnacles adhere, number one's acquaintance with the bow necessitates that of scraping, and thus he can easily remove them.

IN reply to ATHLETE'S question, "What comes after swinging one Indian club?" we would suggest, Swinging with two."

46

GETTING READY.

THE ACTING-MANAGER'S LOG.

6.15. Well, has n't any one come? Guess I'll dress first and be ready to boss the others. Oh, you here, Jack? Suppose you get ready, for Frederick's waiting up stairs.

6.30. All right; but where are my mitts? And how short this dress is in front, three inches full, and I with these horrid boots? Wonder if Lucas can get me some mitts. He's off now; oh, how slowly he walks!

6.43. Frederick 's fixed me. How hideous I do look; a very ogre of a mother-in-law! Let's come down to see if any one has come. Yes, all here. What a scrimmage! But why does n't that costumer come out with the rest of the dresses? Perhaps the carriage was n't ordered. Oh, you saw him coming? All right. No, Asterisk, we can't leave out all of the third act, and you must sing that song yourself. Leave out the roughs? Well, if you don't know them. But well yes, perhaps we had better.

more.

7.00. Oh, has the costumer come? How do you do, sir? Here is your room, and we can come in one by one. You fellows brace up, there's only an hour Go up and get your wigs as soon as you can. Yes, Harry, I am rather a fright. That's right, Bill, I wish you would try that over with George; it won't hurt you any.

No, Alick, I don't want you to sing, you are hoarse already; and mind you don't howl on the choruses till after your song.

7.15 Mr. Costum, can you make my dress a little longer in front? As quick as you can, please; sorry to keep you waiting for those rosettes, Bill. (But he does wait till)

7.30. Oh, thank you, Mr. Costum, and now will you fix my shawl? Well, I'll wait till after you, Harry, — no, I should say, Enid.

Up to the green-room. Stage all set. What's this carpet down for? You did n't tell him to? I'd like to know who did. Who ever heard of a baronial hall with a carpet? Be sure it's taken up after the act. 7.45. Oh yes, when you speak you must be sure it is loud enough; look at the farthest man in the room, and if his eyes wander, speak louder. Yes, it's better to prompt too soon rather than too late. Better send out Lucas to light the footlights. Oh, that shawl! yes, that must be put on. Down stairs again. Costum, can you find my shawl? Why, hav en't you three men been fixed yet?

Mr.

8.00. Shawl all right. Be quick with those three ladies, Costum. Up stairs. Oh no, these things are

always late. We must wait for Alick and Charley and Hugh. Those three girls are always the latest. 8.15. Alick, ready at last? Glad to see you; you're really charming.

8.30. Charley, all right? Glad to see you; you 're really charming.

If all you gentlemen will take your places on the stage, ready for the first act, we'll ring up when Hugh's ready. Dick, will you tell him to make as short time as he can ?

8.45. Dick, go down and tell Hugh and Costum to come up together. He can dress him till it's time to go on. What is it, Tom? you think some one had better be sent down to Hugh. Excuse me, but are you acting manager, or I? Little fool!

Oh Hugh, you here, you look charming. Gentlemen, all ready. Ring up, Fred! 9.00. Jove! here them clap my song! What fun it is to run things!

MALLOCK and Holden are youths of great senti

ment, who delight to dissect the hidden springs of human action as they ride carelessly through the shady roads of Dustsex County. They are never so vulgar as to go to anywhere in particular, and, leaving the horse to its own sweet will, discuss with loosened rein the sarcasm of Fate and the misery of an ambition unsatisfied by the commonplace trivialities of life in America.

Thus rapt in converse one fine afternoon, their horse, spurred on by a controlling destiny, ambled over the excellent roads for which Dustsex County is so justly celebrated, turning now to the right and now to the left. He has turned a sharp corner now, into a wood road, but the two philosophers do not notice the boulders which strew the way, and jounce the dogcart so that it creaks and careens over in an alarming way. The way is choked by underbrush and scrubmaples, but the horse crashes through as conscious of his destiny as Napoleon returning from Elba.

--

The years fled by, till they brought up on a "rare" day even for our June 95° in the shade, and muggy. That irreproachable youth who so deftly steers the park-phaeton, which is sprouting with coaching umbrellas, can be none other than Holden. From the shocked titter on the back seat, it is too evident that Mallock is sentimentally cynical. He is probably exhibiting his hollow world, hinting delicately that there is but one flash of sunlight, made brighter to him by the darkness of all else.

"How quite too awfully lovely it will be at the 'Mill,' Mr. Mallock," says a low voice. "Do you

suppose it was built by the Norsemen ?”

"You're going the wrong way, Holden," cries Mallock; "I'm certain of it."

Holden turns to wither him with a glance, and nearly succeeds in upsetting the trap. The "parterre' wakes the echoes.

--

waves wildly, and a cry of alarm

Are not these the boulders over which the phaeton is crashing but the underbrush is a trifle thick — in fact, if it were not that Mallock insists that it is a clear, fine road, the Scoffer would have thought it a jungle.

"We must tie up the horses here, and walk," Mallock dolefully says. "I know we are on the right track. Here, Scoffer, take the claret, the ice-box, the ginger-beer, the hamper-'

"Of the red-haired Cobbler," retorts the Scoffer, from under his burden.

The party crashes through the brush; a bottle of ginger-beer explodes with the heat; there is a genuine tear on Scoffer's face; it has gone down his neck. "We'll soon be there. I know that boulder. How cool and green it will be! Come, wake up, Holden, and run to the crest of the hill!" cries Mallock. The breathless party reach the top. Holden and Mallock point triumphantly, grow pale, and stammer. The party turn, and behold - a dried-up brook, a score or two of freshly cut stumps on a bank, and a gravel heap; while a pile of stone-work, as poetical as a railway embankment, does duty for the old mill.

"Is ginger-beer good for such things?" inquires Holden, in dull despair, as he supports the fainting Mallock. "Or a sandwich, or a piece of frosted cake, or an olive, or a sardine?" malignantly shrieks the Scoffer, proffering the dainties" and the horses have run away!"