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DON’T STAY TOO LATE. 
BY AUNT JEMIMA. 
One of the advantages of being “ about thirty” is 
that one now and then can put in a word of good, , 
motherly advice to the other sex. So I’ll begin at 
once, and say to any single gentleman reader who 
chooses to listen—Don’t stay too late. 
At the store or office ? No. You know very well 
I don’t mean that. I am not fighting imaginary dan¬ 
gers, but real ones, I mean simply, don’t stay too late 
when you go to spend a quiet evening with a young 
lady. It is not fair; it is short-sighted, and it is pretty 
sure to wear out your welcome. Even if the poor 
thing is eventu¬ 
ally to allow you 
to stop until death 
doth part, that is 
n o reason why 
you should be¬ 
stow too much of 
your tediousness 
upon her at the 
outset. When 
she really wishes 
your visits to be 
longer, you’ll 
know it; even 
then be chary of 
the moments af¬ 
ter eleven. At 
any rate, don’t 
suffer yourself to 
be misled by the 
usual common¬ 
place forms of de¬ 
tention that, in 
nine cases out of 
ten, arise from a 
sudden con¬ 
sciousness on the 
lady’s part that 
she may have 
been betraying 
her weariness 
rather too plain¬ 
ly- 
It won’t hurt 
you at all to be 
longed for after 
you are gone; 
but beware o f 
ever causing a 
girl to give a sigh 
of relief when the hall door closes after you. There 
is a sandman for the parlor as well as for the nursery; 
and after a certain hour, except in special cases, when¬ 
ever he finds the eyes too well drilled to succumb to 
his attacks, he sprinkles his sand around the hearth. 
After that, your best efforts to please are wasted. 
Every word will grate, every winning attempt be met 
only with the silicate of emotion. 
I know' all about it. I’ve received young gentle¬ 
men visitors in my day ; yes, and enjoyed receiving 
them, if ever a girl did. I’d think all day that per¬ 
haps John, for instance, might come in the evening; 
and on these occasions I’ve come down to tea wuth a 
rosebud in my hair, and a happy flutter in my heart. 
Yes, and I’ve started at the knock at the front door, 
and w'hen at last he came in, smiling and bowing, I’ve 
looked just as if I didn’t care a single bit. There 
were others, too—not Johns, by any means, but friends 
who w'ere always welcome, and whom it was right 
good and pleasant to see. But that fact did not make 
null and void all somnific law; it didn’t make father 
and mother v'illing that the house should be open till 
midnight: it didn’t make it desirable that I should '■ 
feel a rebuke in everybody’s “ Good morning ! ” when, 
with throbbing head, I came down late to breakfast. 
No, you may be sure it didn’t. 
Therefore, I learned soon to honor those who knew 
that it w'as time to go when half-past ten came; w'hile 
those who didn’t know were the bane of my existence. 
Now, never think that these friends stayed from kind¬ 
liness to their w'eary hostess—not at all. They stayed 
probably because they had not the taste to go. They 
So, dear single gentlemen, w'hoever and w'herever 
you are, the next time you go out to spend a quiet 
evening with a lady, remember my w'ords. Young 
girls are human; they require rest and sleep; they 
are amenable to the benefits of domestic system and 
order; they have a precious heritage of strength, 
health, and good looks to guard. 
Don’t go too late, and don’t go by inches. “ Good¬ 
bye ” is the flow'er of a welcome. If you wish it to 
retain its aroma, the few'er leaves it sheds the better. 
Grandpa’s Chair. 
liked the warm room, perhaps, and dreaded the cold 
street; but beyond that they lacked the simple grace 
of taking themselves off promptly and handsomely. 
Ah ! what a gift that is in a man or woman, to know' 
when to go, and knowing it, to stand not upon the 
order of going, but go at once. I know a few such 
persons. They radiate peace and restfulness, or they 
sparkle and scintillate, or they arouse and inspire you, 
as the case may be. 
An hour glides aw T ay, then another, and in the midst 
of another you are conscious only of a gentle “ Good¬ 
bye” flash and they are gone. Then a hundred things 
rush upon you—you w'ish you had asked them this, or 
told them that; you think how pleasant it w'as to meet 
them, and you long to see them again. 
Pretty Speeches. —To be able readily, and with¬ 
out premeditation, to say the right thing is an envia¬ 
ble gift, and may be made a wonderful instrument of 
conciliation and pacification. Ladies are the fair and 
proper recipients of pretty speeches. The Due de 
Nievernois made an ingenious one to Madame du 
Barri, who was 
endeavoring t o 
persuade him to 
withdraw' his op¬ 
position to some 
measure she had 
set her heart on. 
“ It is of no 
use, Monsieur lo 
Due,” she said, 
“you are only 
injuring your in¬ 
fluence, for the 
king has made up 
his mind, and I 
myself heard him 
say that lie will 
never change.” 
“Ah, madame, 
he was looking 
at you,” replied 
the duke. Could 
any but a French¬ 
man have ever 
conveyed deter¬ 
mined resistance 
in so polite a 
form ? 
There was an 
ingenious amount 
of devotion im¬ 
plied in the re¬ 
mark of a love¬ 
sick millionaire, 
when the object 
of his affections 
became ecstatic 
over the beauty 
of the evening 
star. 
“ Oh, do not praise it like that! ” he cried, “ I can¬ 
not get it for you.” 
It is no w'onder that Tom Moore was such a general 
favorite, if he often said such charming little things as 
he wrote. We think the very prettiest, quaintest quip 
ever penned is in one of his love-songs. 
“The lesson of sweet enrapturing lore 
I have never forgot. I’ll allow: 
I have had it by vote very often before, 
But never by heart until now . 11 
Irishmen generally do manage to say prettier things 
than others can. They have a certain confidence or 
assurance which enables them to blurt out whatever 
comes uppermost in their minds; that is why they 
make bulls. A man W'ho is alw'ays shooting must 
miss sometimes. 
