AN ESSAY UPON WIT. The Inclinations of Men, in this their degenerate State, carry them with great Force to those voluptuous Objects, that please their Appetites and gratify their Senses; and which not only by their early Acquaintance and Familiarity, but as they are adapted to the prevailing Instincts of Nature, are more esteem'd and pursu'd than all other Satisfactions. As those inferior Enjoyments, that only affect the Organs of the Body are... more...

I. PILGRIMAGE IN SEARCH OF DO-WELL. This opening satire constitutes the whole of the Eighth Passus of Piers Plowman's Vision and the First of Do-Wel. The "Dreamer" here sets off on a new pilgrimage in search of a person who has not appeared in the poem before—Do-Well. The following is the argument of the Passus.—"All Piers Plowman's inquiries after Do-Well are fruitless. Even the friars to whom he addresses himself give but a... more...

By the Inaccurate. In the account of an inaugural ceremony it was asserted that "the procession was very fine, and nearly two miles long, as was also the report of Dr. Perry, the chaplain." A Western paper says: "A child was run over by a wagon three years old, and cross-eyed, with pantalets on, which never spoke afterward." Here is some descriptive evidence of personal peculiarities: "A fellow was arrested with short hair." "I saw a... more...

Eating in Two or Three Languages On my way home from overseas I spent many happy hours mapping out a campaign. To myself I said: "The day I land is going to be a great day for some of the waiters and a hard day on some of the cooks. Persons who happen to be near by when I am wrestling with my first ear of green corn will think I am playing on a mouth organ. My behaviour in regard to hothouse asparagus will be reminiscent of the best work of... more...

Dere Mable Love Letters of a Rookie Dere Mable: I guess you thought I was dead. Youll never know how near you was to right. We got the tents up at last, though, so I got a minit to rite. I guess they choose these camps by mail order. The only place there flat is on the map. Where our tents is would make a good place for a Rocky Mountin goat if he didnt break his neck. The first day the Captin came out an says "Pitch your tents here." Then he... more...

HEARTICULTURE January One cannot begin too early, and January is the time for looking over the ground and planning the arrangement of the Heart Garden. Outside of the Hothouse few flowers are to be seen in January. The most noticeable of these is the Common Turnleaf or Resolution Plant, a sort of Neverlasting Flower. The Turnleaf abounds during the early days of January, but disappears as the month progresses. It is a showy plant, with its... more...

Title Pageillustration The kisses of an enemy are deceitful, but not as deceitful as the advice of the friend who is always counseling you for your own good.illustration The best and the worst in man respond only to woman’s touch—unfortunately for man.illustration Men reason; women do not. Woman has no logic, and judging from the use it is to man, is better off without it.illustration The present arrangement of society... more...

William Dean Howells Not squirrels in the park aloneHis love and winter-kindness own.When Literary Fledglings tryTheir wings, in first attempt to fly,They flutter down to Franklin Square,Where Howells in his "Easy Chair"Like good Saint Francis scatters crumbsOf Hope, to each small bird that comes.And since Bread, cast upon the main,Must to the giver come again,I tender now, long overtime,This humble Crumb of grateful rhyme. (See )... more...

RUDOLPH OF TRULYRURALANIA When I state that I was own brother to Lord Burleydon, had an income of two thousand a year, could speak all the polite languages fluently, was a powerful swordsman, a good shot, and could ride anything from an elephant to a clotheshorse, I really think I have said enough to satisfy any feminine novel-reader of Bayswater or South Kensington that I was a hero. My brother's wife, however, did not seem to incline to this... more...

CHAPTER I. The Dodds were dead. For twenty year they had slept under the green graves of Kittery churchyard. The townfolk still spoke of them kindly. The keeper of the alehouse, where David had smoked his pipe, regretted him regularly, and Mistress Kitty, Mrs. Dodd's maid, whose trim figure always looked well in her mistress's gowns, was inconsolable. The Hardins were in America. Raby was aristocratically gouty; Mrs. Raby, religious. Briefly,... more...