APRIL \7 
OLD TIMES, 
slowly) anil reply cheerfully, “O, certainly not, 
dear; I'll be up inasecond." Then we skin) 
frauf ically over the first few pages of our book, 
unable to enjoy It because we know the “ art¬ 
ist" is waiting above, and finally, with an in¬ 
ward scowl and outward smilp, wo present our¬ 
selves before ibe young woman who has an 
aggravating notion that she is giving us untold 
pleasure. Well, we are requested to stand "A 
lUtle inclined to the loft,"aud while every nerve 
Is strained In that way, “will we be so kind as 
to turn our head towards the right.)" We dis¬ 
tort ourself as much as possible for the sake of 
course, dear,” conies the answer, a little ab¬ 
sently, as the artist put* in, and immediately 
rubs out, according to artistic fussiness, num¬ 
berless lights and shades which may appear 
very beautiful after being engraved, but are 
certainly produced in a painrul manner by the 
“ models." 
The little one yearns for her doll, and finally 
comes a 3ort of pitched battlo between artist 
nud model, which is ended only when scowls and 
tears and chubby shrugged shoulders “spoil 
the whole thing!" as the artist petulantly ex¬ 
claims. Wo pity the model—and we pity the 
-as ner little peculiarities," her hour of tri¬ 
umph arrives when she points to the freshly- 
Issued paper or magazine and exclaims, “ Be¬ 
hold the result of my patience with you ail 1” 
Ami we glance admiringly at (he very image of 
ourselves (only that the engraver chipped olT 
a bit of our nose, or added an extra wrinkle to 
our brow) which, occupying a conspicuous po¬ 
sition in the world's literature, ought to malm 
Maple Sugar in the Woods 
ROMANCE IN REAL LIFE 
mere me great Keuies, bung In a row, 
Bursting aud heaving with foam llhe snow; 
Hanging beneath them, u long line of fire— 
Crackles the wood, and the flames rise higher. 
Beautiful, blue, through the still noon air. 
Curling, and spreading, and vanishing there. 
Goes up the smoke, where the sky looks down 
On the mighty trees with their branches brown. 
Under glistening arches anil colonnades. 
Through the last year s leaves, the gatherer wades 
And the wild birds (lit, with memories dim, 
As he pours the sap to the bucket's brim. 
At work in the ancient woods, alone. 
Crushing dead leaves, and hia youth all gone ; 
Tears! dash theta away, and dash them away, 
Burst the glad voices of children at play. 
Two boys, leaping, shouting, and singing; 
The breath and the life of a new world bringing; 
Sister, low humming, with soft, musing tread, 
And two little ones on the old ox sled. 
With “Come along. Bright,'’ and "Gee; whoa; 
haw (" 
The sled comes around by a. pile of straw, 
So soft, aud bo dry, in the rough brown shed, 
Where the tired night watcher rests his head. 
Bleak was the winter, bitter and long ; 
Sugar has come with the robin’s glad song. 
"Just one honr, aud then all will bo ready,” 
Papa says, stirring the sirup so sieudy. 
So the little ones tumble, climbing the stumps, 
With high, t wisted roots, for their matchless jumps. 
Up and down knolls, over patches nr snow. 
The boys, with the sled and the oxen go. 
Bright scarlet berries, down deep In the moss. 
Lakelets, with gnarled roots bridging across, 
Sweet-tinted blooms, and wandering bees, 
Fresh young hopes, on the fragrant breeze, 
The dream-loving sister finds all these 
Roaming alone, through the strange wild trees, 
And her future looms, Use the cloud domes, rolled, 
In their flossy haze and their wisps of gold. 
“ Sugar is ready I" where’s paddle and dish ? 
" Bat away, children, take all that, you wish.” 
"Oh so good I” and “no good!” from straw pile, and 
stumps. 
As each sips Ills sugar, or stirs it in lumps. 
Papa is too weary to oat, or scarce smile ; 
He pushes up firebrands, and muse* the while. 
" You poor simple children, gladder than kings. 
Take freely the pleasure of these littlo things.” 
With stirring and sipping, waxing and graining. 
The sugar is caked, the bright day is waning : 
Packing the sled full, and fixing the tire. 
While the sun goes down, and the moon comes 
higher, 
Off in the rosy light, glea ming, they go 
Away, through ihe woodroud darkening slow ; 
Hear, far around them, the lonesome “ peep.” 
“ poop,” 
Of the sleepy frogs, Just going to sleep. 
See the bright sugar tires, off in the woods, 
Toe stars, twinkling down, in their sleepiest moods; 
The dear little home, on the side of the hill, 
With dreamy light, nodding, on window sill. 
"Whoa!” dreaming oxen, and "Whoa!” dreaming 
sled ! 
Little ones, borne oil, go dreaming, to bed. 
By low drowsing Are, the bread, milk, and tea. 
Soon hopes and regrets but dreaming will be. 
The following romantic Incidents, which 
we find in the South Bend Tribune, will interest 
many of our Western New York readers, as the 
parties mentioned are well-known to many 
residents of Victor, N. Y„ they living about 
two miles out of that village: 
Romance In Real Life A True Story that 
Throws the Novels In the Shade. 
While in Victor, Ontario County, N. Y., re¬ 
cently, wo learned the particulars of a romance 
in real life which rivals the must Ingenious cre¬ 
ations of the fancy. We give tho story as It 
was told to us, every detail of which we believo 
to be strictly true. 
The principals, Galvin Bates and Nancy Hill, 
were born something like sixty years ago, some¬ 
where—the exact place is unimportant—in Ver¬ 
mont. They were very near of an ago, were the 
children of neighbors, and spent much of their 
youth in each others’ company, mutually divid- 
ing their joys and sorrows, us well as their 
bread and butter and sugar. But they couldn't 
tarry its children If they would. Calvin grew 
Into a stroug-limbed young man with a downy 
upper lip and a deep bass voice, and Nancy 
rounded into a comely maiden, the pride or her 
parents and the admiration of all the village 
beaux. Calvin loved her of course; hadn't he 
always loved her? and Nancy was morally sure 
that none of the young men of her acquaintance 
were more worthy of her affection than Calvin, 
and so they were engaged and were to be mar 
ried as soon as enough money could bo made to 
give them a littlo start in life. It, did seem for 
LADY’S COS'l’UME.-(Fi 
art, aud inwardly wonder how long weary na¬ 
ture will hold out, while tho sound of tho art¬ 
ist's brush or pencil seems to mock us with 
cruel solemnity. After our feet have ceased to 
have any feeling, and our head lias forgotten 
that it grows on a neck, we venture a mild re¬ 
monstrance and turn our eyes toward the art¬ 
ist, She ia sharpening her pencils and appears 
totally oblivious of our presence until we 
speak; then—"O ! I beg your pardon. I have 
been putting In that table; you might have 
rested long ago I” Speechless with Indignation 
we rise and majestically move toward the door, 
but our artist calls, “Walt a moment, please; 
I am just getting ready to put in the shadows 
about your face." We decide to give her plenty 
of shadow, if the cloud on our brow will pro¬ 
duce such effect, and turn once more to the 
pleasant task of “ helping out." A half hour of 
“ sitting"—a painful sensation of cramped neck 
and limbs, a quantity of hardly suppressed 
yawns, aud we are finally dismissed with the 
ungrateful remark ringing in our ears and sting¬ 
ing our heart—“ You might have been a little 
less fidgety 1“ 
Wo to the unlucky child of the family! If at 
peaceful play she is interrupted with, “ My dear 
little girl, come, won’t you sit for auntie a mo¬ 
ment ?—there’s a dear!” The “dear" knows 
well what her artist-auntie's " moments" are; 
so she shakes her chubby shoulders and pouts, 
“No, don’t wanter,” and is ooaxed again and 
finally threatened, until in sheer despair the 
poor young victim is led to the studio, there to 
be picked up, or laid down, or twisted out of 
shape to represent a baby in long clothes, or 
draped uncomfortably to appear like a statue. 
“ l’lease, auntie,” pipes a small voice after the 
clock has ticked wear ily in the child’s eare for 
what seems to her a " perfect age”—“ please, 
auntie, ain’t you most through?" “O yes, of 
THE ARTIST IN THE FAMILY 
BY MRS. M. D. BRINE 
“ How nice it must be to have a n artist in the 
family!” exclaims a lady friend, admiring with 
honest (though uncultivated) eyes, certain little 
specimens of drawings on wood which our 
“Artist in the family" has Intended for illus¬ 
trations to—ahem!—our authoress' (we have an 
authoress Id the family also) stories or poems. 
“ How exceedingly Bice it must be!” she re¬ 
peats, and the rest of us echo rather faintly, 
“Y-e-e-s, I suppose It is rather pleasant; but 
-" and here we pause, glancing demurely at 
our artist, who looks meanwhile the very pic¬ 
ture of meekness and innocence—the wretch! 
as if we had not secretly suffered at her hands 
the most refined of tortures and inconven¬ 
iences, getting no sympathy for our pains, but 
being informed, on the contrary—as the artist 
eyes scan us in a business way from head to 
foot—that realty "We ought to be thankful 
that we can help the cause of art incur humble 
way.” 
And this is the way we are called upon to 
“ help.” Our morning d uties finished, we take 
the last new book and prepare for a comfort¬ 
able hour. Vain expectations! A voice calls 
from the private studio, “ Sister, dear,” (persua¬ 
sive tenderness on the “dear,”) “would you 
body, our artist exclaims—“O! just the very 
attitude I want for my-. Do keep still a 
moment! I’ll get my materials and sketch you 
on the spot!” First she Miches us then, as a 
matter of course, she sketches us. So our un¬ 
lucky caller, too polite to decline the unexpect¬ 
ed honor of figuring in a woodcut, smiles like 
a seraph and groans inwardly, while we observe 
with a pleasant laugh that “ sister la so enthu¬ 
siastic !—it Is quite delightful to feel that we 
have such talent in the family I -ha! ha I” To 
which our visitor replies, faintly, “ O, yes, of 
course it must be truly lovely." Her call grad¬ 
ually lengthens, her back gradually complains 
of a strange, unusual stiffness, and we notice 
that the smile of amiability Is fast changing 
to the expression an exceedingly bored person 
is apt to put on. 
After her final departure we reproach our 
artist for her cruelty and are Iri turn reproached 
for lack of a cultivated taste. 
Around our several rooms hang numerous 
sketches in crayon, India ink or water colors. 
These we are expected to exhibit proudly to 
friends as “Our artist's work." “Mr. or Mrs. 
So-and-So! how do you like them!" And the 
compliments which the unfortunate visitors 
dare not withhold are speedily swallowed and 
digested by our family. 
Rut notwithstanding the fact that oqr artist 
