bully you, and don't forget your mother; good-by" said his Uncle.

"Thank you Uncle," Phil replied, pocketing the coin; "bet I won't, good-by; good-by Buz," and Phil was left to take care of himself.

(To be continued.)

POLLYGOLLY.

THIS pen was held suspended over a shining sheet of blank paper that seemed thirsting to receive my thoughts. I was ready to dash off with lightning speed a profound and brilliant essay on the ORIGIN OF EVIL, a subject which I proposed to make as clear as mud to all philosophical inquirers like-minded with myself. Alas! My pen was arrested in mid-career, like one of Saturn's thunderbolts when the upstart Jupiter took to business on his own account. There sounds the swift step of my dear wife on the floor. I know the meaning of that step; she is in trouble, as sure as my name is David Jones. "What is the matter, Jane ?" said I, with solemn utterance, concealing all my anxiety, and the wild scattering of my fine ideas.

"Matter!" said she, "The papers declare that the servant girls in Belgium, or Spain, or Brazil, are all joining the International Society; that they are about to revolutionize the world; that they are no longer to take any orders from their mistresses, but issue orders and make us their slaves. Will it be so with us? You, dear Jones, know everything. Tell me what you think, really and truly. Pollygolly stared at me like a wild cat when I told her she must come in to-night before eleven o'clock. Is she an Internationalist ?”

With serene face and beaming eye I responded: "The origin of evil is a problem which has never yet been solved. Adam and Eve tried it, and the result was quite disheartening and disgusting. Their eldest boy, Cain, tried it with most damaging effect. And so it has been down to the days of Kant and Comte. Happily for the future, David Jones was born in the good town of Stoneville, in the year 1820, and in due time David studied Mind and Matter, and found out the old secret. Thy husband, Mrs. Jones, is

immortal; his fame shall reach the ends of the earth and the limits of time. Happy for thee the day of thy marriage with David Jones!"

My dear wife was at that moment seized with an inordinate fit of laughter. Tears coursed down her cheeks, but whether they were tears of joy or of anxiety, or a mingling of both, one could hardly tell. She was apparently overcome with the prospect of sharing my immortal renown. But instead of saying so, she quickly suppressed her laughter, and with a gentle smile laid her hand on my arm and said in her own winning way: "Yes-Dear Jones-darling husband, I know that confounded pudding-sauce has gone to your head. It is all Pollygolly's fault; she is the origin of evil. The bread is sour; the pudding is singed; the beef is burnt; the tea is bitter. What shall we do ?"

This catalogue of practical ills, and this eloquent appeal, recalled my mind fully to terrene themes. The ORIGIN OF EVIL is indeed an urgent question; and the man who, having gained the key to the secret, delays to reveal all for the good of mankind, is much to blame. But it is said that a man is what his wife makes him, and I, Jones, am no more than a man. I'll leave my great

Essay till my wife goes to the seaside in July and August. Then, thou exalted muse of divine Philosophy, expect the ardent and undivided devotions of David Jones! Till then, let an anxious world wag on as it has done for some thousands of years. It cannot take much harm by waiting a little longer. Jane bids me talk of the Servant Question, and I must please her thus far, for it is the problem of the hour, more irrepressible than any in the range of morals and economics.

My wife, Jane Jones, had sent away her housemaid last week— for utter inefficiency. She was the twenty-second successor of Betsy Fitzfilly who struck for an advance in wages six months ago. I am a man of small means and can only keep two maid servants; and it now appears that I cannot keep any, because they will not stay, or they are not worth keeping. Our cook, who is just departing, with a thunderstorm in her face and an earthquake in her footsteps, seasoned our soup two days ago with "wormwood," and made ginger tea for herself of mustard. She has made other blunders that might endanger life, only that Jane is cautious. Worst of all, she was too wise and accomplished to receive any instruction. And so I, David Jones, fully approved of the act of my

wife in telling Pollygolly that she must leave us at the end of this

month.

Mrs. Jones was pleased to ask me my views on the Servant Question in general. I addressed her to the following effect; and she, being a good judge, said that I spoke words of wisdom that should be printed. Between ourselves, she is a woman that deserves a good husband and a crown of gold. She does not encourage my explorations in search of the ORIGIN OF EVIL, but she always tries to lessen the practical evil she finds in the world.

Pollygolly came to us fresh from Burnsbrae-was obedient and industrious, and willing to learn. She was dressed very quietly and modestly, and she took good care of the wages we gave her.

In a few weeks she found associates, caught their ideas, got a beau, became fond of finery, wasted her wages in tawdry dress, tried to appear the fine lady. She dressed much "finer" than dear Jane, and much more fashionably. She rejoices in high heeled boots, in a violent Grecian Bend, and in the Scotch Terrier style of hair dress. She devotes to her dress the thought which should be given to her duties. It is now quite impossible. that she can ever make a good servant.

As she belonged to the same Church with ourselves, we invited her to sit in our pew, and we never kept her home from a religious service. I thought that, under these circumstances, I should speak to her- remonstrate with her, ask her the reason for her conduct, and explain to her the prospect before her. She took it kindly, but assured me she could not help herself. "One must be like one's neighbours. They dresses fine, and I must dress fine. They goes out o'nights, and I must go out. They spends their money,. and so must I. I would like to send something home to my poor old mother; but I have not a cent to spare. That bonnet cost me a month's wages. I must go to Boston or New York. Jessie Maclean was not half as smart as me, but off she goes, and now she's married to Billy Sinclair, and they keeps house theirselves. Anyhows, we'll get good wages in the States, and they'll never call us "Servants" there, but " Helps." And if we are "helps" to them they are "helps" to us."

I told her how often I had found out of girls going away from the Provinces to the deepest poverty and distress-to beggary and ruin in Boston and other American cities. A considerable proportion of the poor things rush off to ruin with awful speed.

K

Those who do well save but little money, and are no better off at the end of five years than if they had staid in Halifax or St. John. My reasoning and appeals were lost on poor Pollygolly. Some of her companions were going away, and she must go too.

I told Jane how often mistresses are more to blame for bad servants than the servants themselves are blame-worthy for their badness. The ladies do not know household duties, and do not teach their servants. One good result of the present scarcity of household servants will be that our wives and daughters must study and practise housekeeping. They must understand about the washing and cooking, the sewing and the sweeping. They must be at home in the kitchen as well as in the drawing room-in the pantry as well as in the library. Americans and Provincials must, like well trained English-women, learn the whole art and science of housekeeping. They will thus be able to add immensely to the comfort of the family, and to save an unknown amount of money.

Jane had been reading John Ruskin, and she flattered me by saying that these were his sentiments exactly. She referred again to the "Internationale," which led me to say:

There is some connection after all between the Internationalists, the Communists, and the Servant Girls. It is the same grand social upheaval that manifests itself in different ways, according to circumstances, in a burning palace of the Louvre, in Petroleuse exploits in the streets of Paris, and in the burning of your roast beef under the eye of Pollygolly. Her heart was stirred with a longing for change, for improvement in her social condition, and this led to her neglect of duty. There are wild, wide movements of humanity—instinctive, irrational, and so far unaccountable—in which all have a share more or less directly. There are upheavals and revolutions, more or less swift and strong, in constant progress. We are now in the heart of one of these vast currents; but we cannot well tell whither we are drifting. The birds of passage flock from land to land over raging seas, in obedience to a general instinct. Man (including our Pollygolly) is also very largely a creature of circumstance-a slave of instinct. You see the movement in your kitchen, Mrs. Jones: well,-look abroad and you will see it in English factories, Welsh mines, Scotch shipyards, New York Crispin societies, and in Trades Unions, International Societies, and also in the great upheavals in Church and State, in the old and new world. Jane here kindly

enquired about my head, and I consoled her by the assurance that it was quite well. I proceeded to show her that

If we suffer, others suffer with us. Others have been and still are in a much worse condition than we. (This is a style of consolation that never fails to take due effect with Jane, and her sisters of womankind in general.) If the worst come to the worst we'll do all the work ourselves, and live quite as happily as if we had fifty servants to devour our substance:

"From the King

To the beggar, by gradations, all are servants;
And you must grant, the slavery is less

To study to please one than many."

I was going on to quote the views of all the poets and philosophers, when Jane said that my own wisdom was quite enough for her. "We have been slaves to our servants long enough; let us now try to serve ourselves, as you say. And I know my cousin Maggie, poor child, will be glad to come and make her home with us and be as useful as possible. In case of need we'll send for your orphan niece too, and both these children will be like our own children, and we'll toil together. And then, may be you will not write that Essay on the "Origin of Evil?"

I shook my head ominously: "The subject is fresh, brand new, inviting as summer lawns and woods. I hear the call; I must obey. David Jones is a Prophet; Mrs. David Jones shall share the immortal renown of her husband."

The prospect of a fate so brilliant affected Mrs. Jones's nerves again, but her smile was only a gleam of dawn. She instantly reverted to the Pollygolly question. Said she: "How was it with our forefathers? They had no troubles like ours? Surely servants, faithful, good and obedient, were abundant in those days, before there was any raving about "Women's Rights," or "Communism," or the "Equality of Man."

Fortunately, a book was under my hand, printed in the year of grace 1725-before my great-grandfather was born. It was filled with grievous complaints about servants. I opened it and read a few extracts to show Jane that our forefathers were not exempt from trials like our own:

"Women servants are now so scarce, that from thirty to forty shillings a year, their wages are increased of late to six, seven, nay eight pounds per annum, and upwards, so that an ordinary