whose odors play thick about you, filling the air and 

 soothing you quickly into babe-like slumber. In the 

 morning, spryer than the sun, you leave your bed before 

 him, armed with a double-edged apppetite, so keen and 

 new you wonder where it came from. Trust me for what 

 I tell you, but even my words but faintly speak the novel 

 joys which await you. Once more I say, forget " the 

 shop" and all which that implies, and with the poet 

 Rowe you may exclaim to some purpose : 



" Begone my cares ! I give you to the winds." 



THOMAS MARTINDALE. 



148 



