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he dosn't want them en train, but that isn't satisfactory. It would have been well, too, if he had been more specific about light work.

There are many varieties of light work. I have seen work so light that a tired sigh would blow it away. Then I have seen the incandenscent light work. I can't tell whether he would enjoy a job in the gas works or not. Changing the carbons on an arc light or two each day might be pleasing to him. Counting cash for a man who doesn't believe in advertising might strike his fancy. Running a newspaper, perhaps, might relieve his ennui. Waiting on a boarding house table or on a street corner might fill his desire for labor.

I want to get the young man a good position, where there will be plenty of room, so he can move without feeling cramped. It ought to be an easy position, not too recumbent, but one in which he could lie down and die if he got tired moving his breath in an out. A position of trust, where they don't give credit, or sell on tic might do. He might prefer an upright position, with a counter in front, to rest his hands upon when they got aweary of his pockets. Perhaps serving frothy soda water would be light enough. A position as doorkeeper in a receiving vault might meet

his tastes.

I don't know.

I think he is ambitious and anxious to rise in the world, when he gets too much sitting down. He might be pleased to personally conduct a blast when it goes off without notice. Perhaps if I could get him a good position.

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on some railroad-right across the track say, it would do until the coroner arrived, and then, if I worked it right, he might get an easy position in the morgue, or stay where he is. In either case he wouldn't have much to do after he once got fixed.

His tastes may run to the dramatic, and possibly a position as scene shifter on the Columbia river would make him happy. That reminds me, that occasionally there is a very fine opening for a young man on the Morrison street bridge, which he might get into when the draw swings around. If I thought he was musical, I might get him a place in a church choir, to keep the wind out of the organ bellows. If he likes traveling, I wonder how a nice berth in a Pullman would suit? But he might not like to travel. Travel gets pretty heavy on some of the roads. He wants something light. There are so many young men who don't know what they want, that I

always take to those who do. But I only know this one through his father. His parent cut our grass with his sickle and shampooed our lawn with his feet, while the young man sit on the fence and drew the flies off his father. The flies seemed to prefer the young man, and accompanied him homeward. I don't think they were on him while he was writing me. He had a good position on our fence while his father was abbreviating the grass, and we thanked him when he got off. Perchance it was as good a thing as he ever got off.

In the drama of life, I think the young man makes a good appearance, but from what his father said to him in my presence and our front yard, I judge he doesn't appear in the first act. He doesn't appear in the wood scenes, I know, especially the winter wood scenes. He makes a strong appearance in the banquet hall scene and never misses a cue. He is well reared, and built in proportion. You can see at the first glance that he lives well-lives on the very best and his parents.

I think if he got a good position, he wouldn't change it, unless it was automatic or worked with a slot. He would leave it just as he found it. It wouldn't show many signs of wear, and I believe you could get another young man to fill it without repairs, aside from upholstering it a little.

Some young men get too big for their position. He wouldn't. If he couldn't fill it with ability, he'd try to fill it with time. He'd try to hold on until some one came along who could at least rattle around in it. Yet, you can't always tell. I have seen a mouse not over two inches from stem to tail fill a large room full of ladies-with dismay. I have seen mice of the dimensions named, raise more disturbance, hullabaloo and dry goods in a minute than you could put down in an hour.

Now I want to get a position for this young man. If any of my friends can find one and will kindly send it up C. O. D., or, as usual, 5 per cent. off I'll see that the young man gets it. He may not be able to fill it in a day or an hour. He should be given at least a month. If he doesn't fill it in that time there's a leak in it somewhere. You see, he uses small sized hours and it will take him longer.

If I succeed in this case, I will then be ready to assist the young man who is willing to exert his moral influence and example in a household, in return for room, board, washing and the social palaver of the hired girl. I give fair warning, however, that this case, like the first, is one in which too much should not be expected. He may be an orphan, with nothing to put up against your board, but his moral influence. Any one who would expect a cent out of a young man, whose parents deceased, leaving him a few second-hand examples and some righteous indignation, ought to suffer the consequences.

In making the dicker with this second young man the head of the house, whether it be husband or wife, should fix the quid pro quo, mark all the silver and chain the dog, if he is worth stealing. A copper-riveted prayer gauge of your own selection should be attached to the young man the moment Mary Ann rings the breakfast bell and says, "All set!" A young man who is willing to barter his moral iufluence for the interior wherewithal should use good English, and not lacerate the ear of Providence with tautology or bad grammar. He should be a thorough linguist,

so that if he asks a blessing upon any particular dish he won't give a Missourian pronunciation to it when he grapples with the French.

If you have a household pet in the shape of daughters, just emerging from their teens and brief frocks, and about to vault into the vortex of society, do not permit the sanctity of morning prayer to be tarnished by too much familiarity with their names on the part of the young man. There can be no need of his speaking to the Lord about "Nellie" and "Katie." The two Misses Scaraborough will be just as easily understood above, especially if they have been christened when young. If your son is a chump or a dafodil, the moral young man need not be too fresh in posting the Lord upon your boy's shortcomings or latestayings. He who noteth the fall of a sparrow does not lose sight of your bird.

Nor must you allow the moral exerter to be too personal. If you do this and anything should happen, such as the mysterious disappearance of your daughter the same week that he visits his grandmother's tomb, your belief in a personal devil will be revived. At night I wouldn't expect much from him, aside from keeping his mouth shut while you're advising Nellie as to her tennis suit. If just before retiring, and while around the family altar, he wants to refer to you all, as worms of the earth, but asks that you may be spared to crawl some more next day, let him. He doesn't feel very well. Standing behind a drug counter selling spts. fermenti and juniper extracts done up in alcohol, is torture to a young man addicted to setting examples when he doesn't know the first principles of setting a hen.

There are several others who want positions, or situations or places; but few seem to want work. I offered one of these seekers a situation every whit as good as that which Portland occupies, but on his arrival at the East Side he saw a sign or two, such as "Willamette Iron Works," "Soap Works," and he stood in awe. As he was crossing the bridge he saw "Brass Works." That settled it, and he took the next train back. Portland, Ore. ROBERT W. MITCHELL.

("RABELAIS.")

AN ESSAY ON CALF'S HEAD.

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AVE you ever eaten that delectable dish known as Calf's Head? If so, have you ever contemplated in your leisure moments the four-footed creature, whose head has afforded such a delightful repast? Go, look at him in his pasture and you will see

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estly apart and that beautiful tongue emerging

constantly from under his soft nose and curling

upwards with such grace, that tongue which is shortly to be yours. Then comes the cruel butcher and leads him to the slaughter, where he is unmerci

the luscious morsel promised you, than have such a kind, gentle creature deprived of his young gaysome life by such a cruel death? But that is not all, for they take that dear head and gourge out those beautiful eyes which have contemplated the green pastures with a soft resolve to eat to the last in innocent contentment. And then they proceed to shave off his whiskers that have browsed over countless stems of grass. Furthermore, they mutilate him by cutting out his tongue with which he made the welkin ring and last of all they tear rudely from its socket his lower jaw containing his teeth, those beautiful shining eburnean molars, yet immature, with which his dear mama had councelled him to chew the choicest timothy, that in so doing

fully strung up by the heels

and thus it is he receives the coup de grace which ends his dying struggles. If you have any finer feeling does not your heart go out in pity for this poor calfy, thus tormented, and would you not rather forego

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he might wax fatter and sleeker than all his brethren. But for what cause? Not that he might grow rich in understanding and fill with wholesome advice his fellows, or that he might become an ornament to the bovine race, no, but that he might be basely slaughtered at the hand of

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some ill-conditioned ghoul to be anon prepared, so that he might rigate mortals who had not appreciated his living beauty.

There we see him for the last time, in his dish, redundant with melted butter, parsley and a lemon in his mouth. Think of him gently, kindly, and do not utter false words of such a sweet beast, such a chaste Mock Turtle. LIONEL H. LEADAM, Chicago.

252

DREAMING.

In

T must have been an exceedingly wise man who could truthfully say: "After vainly striving to win a woman. whom I wanted, I turned my attention to winning one who wanted me, and success crowned my efforts." And yet, and yet, I may still be foolish, but though I can only say: "Fool, it served thee right," as I think how lonely I have been ever since that night in May, years ago, yet, caustic as the memory of my witlessness has ever been, I would fain keep it rather than seek such balm even in Gilead. Yet my case fits not his, but the rather reminds one of what even in his wisdom may have been the hidden truth. What true-hearted man can know awoman's heart, even though she wear it on her sleeve? But such philosophy cures not my bitterness. At least I can dream it o'er and o'er. But, alas, my vision is but the fabric of a baseless dream. Valient knights, and stately dames around me thronged; the guerdon won, unclaimed. words that to all the rest seemed but disdainful jest, a willful renouncing of the glittering prize, a secret, passionate meaning swept. I caught the hidden flash from her eyelids dashed with haughty grace, swiftly noted the tremor of the uplifted hand. Naught was worth the winning, save what she could give. But I am dreaming. The age of chivalry has fled. 'Twas not a stately revel. 'Twas not a daughter of the King, in her heart half astounded, bewildered, pleased by the daring of my love. All fades, wavers, like shadows to darkness drifting, and yet, yet, I hear her voice and catch her wonder how far my love will lead my prudence captive. She bids me since the guerdon of the King I scorn-to name the prize I seek. She knows, and in her voice some hidden measure of questioning"Thou lovest me? Who art thou that thou darest this." What's this? I awaken in the firelight's soft glow, a kiss upon my lips and a voice not unlike my dream asks for the thought that in my sleep made me mutter so. For answer I ask her if she remembers the little village green and the country fair and my stolen kiss-the first. She made a feint to box my ears, and bade me remember the social at the church when she demanded pence and I promised more than all she had as yet received, if a fair and pretty lassie she would find to take me home again. 'Midst the ringing laughter of her mates she boxed my ears and left me all forlorn, but, relenting, back she came and sweetly whispered: "I'll bring you a little old lady who is here alone and, for my sake, you'll see her safe 'home' again." With chary wisdom I queried who the same might be. With merry laughter she bade me guess, and in a sudden inspiration I guessed her beauteous self. She bade me blush, and asked for pence, which most joyfully I paid. In a maze I wandered thinking, daring, hoping. One by one the old folks went, all but al little old crone in the corner. One by one the young folks went, all but a foolish little man who wandered dreaming. I awakened to find myself alone with the old crone in the moonlight amidst great shadows, and was enraged to think that I had been cheated and made the gibe of all her mates and, in tearful wrath I homeward fled. But it is dark and cold, and I have been dreaming again. I strike a light and sit and wonder who that little old lady could have been, that in the corner sat so still.

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San Francisco.

R. S. GRAY.

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