THE MASTER AT COTTONWOOL'S 17 



my hand as he gave me the candle." "Silly girl," 

 Mrs. Cottonwool would reply, in a pet — not knowing 

 the nature of the animal — " many squeezes go to an 

 offer." Were we a girl, however, matrimonially in- 

 clined — which they all are, unless bespoke — we would 

 rather have a squeeze of the hand from Smashgate 

 than a black and white offer from Fribbleton Brown. 

 Spite of what old mother Cottonwool says, we will 

 lay "copious odds" — as old Crockey used to say, 

 that she would give old Caudle Cottonwool a hint 

 that things were "going on right," and take all the 

 credit to herself too. Cruel Smashgate, however, has 

 not come. 



While nibbing our pen, we have been casting about 

 to see if we could recollect any instance, among our 

 numerous acquaintance, of a bad foxhunter husband, 

 and we are happy to say we have drawn the cover 

 blank. We have, to be sure, fallen in with fellows 

 in red coats, who have been anything but what they 

 ought, but we can conscientiously say that we have 

 never known any man worthy the name of a sports- 

 man, who was not a good fellow. Indeed, were we 

 a young lady, we would pick a foxhunter for prefer- 

 ence. Their coats may not be quite so glittering 

 as the laced jacket of a soldier, nor may they be 

 quite such good hands at dancing the polka, but, 

 for the real steady comfort and enjoyment of life 

 they beat them by chalks. Besides, war's alarms 

 are trying, soldiers are very apt to shut up shop 

 when they get married ; and, if they don't, why 

 even a child tires of looking at the same dressed 

 doll. 



A pleasant poet, whose name we forget — indeed 

 we are not quite sure that we ever had the pleasure 

 of his personal acquaintance — wrote something about 

 something, and 



" Unclouded ray, 



Making to-morrow pleasant as to-day." 

 2 



