1896_ 777/4' AAfEIi/CAN liMM-KEKl'EH 



'' THE AGE OF PERFECTION. 



289 



O •worshipers of -womanhood, 

 No nioro old shibbokths repoatt 



(You^liful hyperboles and crud»'.) 

 Thcii" fulsome praise is now effote, 

 But with H measured rnpture groet 



Nor indiscriminately strive 

 To ])rove all women young and sweet-— 



The perfect age is thirty-live. 



Time was you praised the maiden's snooili 



The timid eye, the linRering feet, 

 In modest bashfuhuss that stood 



Where rivulet and river meet. 



Now childish grace is obsolete. 

 Our modia-n apiietite would thrive 



On riper grain, matured wheat — 

 The perfect age is thirty-five. 



Tall Helen wandering in the wood. 

 And gentle Hcrmia small and neat. 



Young Rosalind in costume rude. 

 Girl .Tuliet in your winding sheet- 

 Yon all, alls, are incomplt.'te. 



Then ]iray that time may means contrive 

 Your changeless youtlil'iilness to cheat— 



The perfect age is thirty live. 



Then woman sober and discreet 

 (So men ii'ay choose yoii when they wivei 



The moment seize — for time is fleet — 

 The porfeot ago is thirty-fivel 



—St. James Gazette. 



A FAlllY 031NIBITS. 



I thiuk f'vorybody gets a touch of vo 

 mauce some time iu his life. Tht 

 green glade of olden day.s is probablj 

 rcplacotl by a busy street, your armoi 

 clad knight by a city man in a frock 

 coat and .silk hat, your disti'pssed dam.^el 

 is a practical. le\el headed, energetic 

 little typewriter, perhaps. The actors 

 are changed, the scene is changed, but, 

 believe me, ihe element of romance i.« 

 just the same as it was iu the days of 

 chivalry. 



Now, I dare say you would scarcely 

 believe that a bald headed, middle aged, 

 stout old solicitor like nse — getting ev- 

 ery day more engrossed iu business, and 

 more and more apt to be a trifle crustj 

 in my tei. - > r. owing toa tiresome livei 

 — was ever sufficiently "interesting" t( 

 play the part of a modern knight errant. 



JJet me tell you all about it, and how 

 it ended. It's commonplace enough, 1 

 know, and I dire say most of you have 

 gone through something similar, but ij 

 it does nothing else it may perhaps serve 

 to stir up pleasant memories. 



I had nearly completed my articles, 

 and was reading hard for my "final," 

 when cue.nicmmc the firm told me tc 



go to a client who was ill and ta&e'in* 



structions for lier will. 



She was an old maiden lady living in 

 Paddiugtou, and our people had trans- 

 acted all her business for her for some- 

 thing like 40 years. 



It was a w et day — one of those days 

 that we get from time to time in Lon- 

 don, when you feel as if you would like 

 to go to bed and not get up again until 

 things have changed. 



Holbovn was like a little river, and 

 the traffic slopped and splaslied along iu 

 a way that made yon feel damp even tc 

 watch. 



I stood on the curbstone waiting for 

 a chance to cross without being smoth- 

 ered with mud, when I noticed a girl 

 standing near me. She, too, was trying 

 to cross. 



It was very funny to see her. She was 

 evidently Ironi the country, and didn't 

 at all under-rand the London traffic. 

 Three times ehe started, and three times 

 she turned buck in d-esxiair. 



I watched her with interest. There 

 was an amusing expression of good tem- 

 pered misery on her face. She was pret- 

 ty — very pretty — ui'd d'lintily dressed, 

 and — well, I seized my opportunity like 

 an articled clerk who is worth his salt 

 is bound to do. 



"Excuse me," I said, raising my 

 hat, "but 1 think you want to cross the 

 road. ' ' 



She looked ratlier startled. 



"I think 1 shall get on all right," 

 she answered, "if you would kindly 

 tell me when to start. " 



"Suppose we try together? Give me 

 your arm. " 



She did not give me her arm. I took 

 it, and wo started on our pilgrimage. 

 In and out the cabs and omnibuses 1 

 guided her safely until we got to about 

 the middle of the road, which, as yon 

 know, is very wide opposite Furnival's 

 inn. Sutitleiily she limped and gave a 

 funny liltie hop. 



"I'm very sorry," she said, laughing, 

 "bat — I'm afraid my shoe has come 

 off. It stack iu the mud." 



I looked around. Sure enough, a few 

 yards behiud us was a shoe lying in 

 the mud, looking very lou^^ly and get- 

 ting horribly wet. 



"Can yon stand here for a moment," 

 I Kaid, "'while I fetch it?" 



I left her there, standing on one foot, 



