IN HOT WATER. WHATEVER else "gives out," there is generally enough hot water on the premises; or water in such a forward state of preparation that one little stick added to the fire over which it simmers would bring it to the boiling point, with scalded fingers and universal confusion as the result. Just as the geysers are always fuming and spluttering between earth and sky, so do the private cauldrons of hot water by which we are surrounded boil up and over in continual disturbance; and very few of us are as careful as we might be not to add fuel to fire, and to keep the lids well fastened and the vessels in a cool place. With the characteristic carelessness of creatures who only reason in snatches, and who seldom see beyond the immediate moment, we are always doing things which get us into trouble and bring an avalance of hot water on our heads. Indeed, some of us are never out of hot water, for one cause or another. We do not know how it happens, but we do know that it does happen; and we know it to our cost; for there is no life more painful to the average peaceable citizen than the life of petty annoyances and difficulties known familiarly as being in hot water. plaints-is held as a bullet of formidable sizeand I am instantly seized on as a disturber of the public peace, a domestic malefactor of a nefarious kind, and made to suffer for my misdeeds. Why? Who can tell? Do we not see everywhere this unjust favoring of some and punishment of others?-this apportionment of crown to the right and stripes to the left? It is part of the law of life-of those mysteries of existence wherewith we have to be content that they are, rather than attempt to fathom why. One thing, however, we may say, that this uncomfortable catapult faculty which belongs to special people seems to be the result of a cer tain grave intensity and sincerity of nature of which he who possesses is the last to understand the full force. The spumy anger of a feather-head carries no weight with it. It is the momentary ebullition of water in an eggshell, cool so soon as it is hot; but the more measured blame of another is as the boiling over of a cauldron of pitch-a very few drops are sufficient to show the strength and quality of the mass whence it proceeds, and the drops are judged of not so much by themselves as by what they represent. And we may say here that one of the most common occurrences in life is the making by the frothy and the feather-headed of pellets which they induce the intense to throw, whereby the maker escapes We see this in the nursery and the schoolroom; in the graver councils of nations; and in the still graver uprisings that take place against tyranny and oppression. There are the wire pullers who hide behind the curtainthe makers of pellets which others are cajoled into throwing; the poor instruments get the guillotine and the cord for their pains, but the wire-pullers and the pellet-makers look on from their safe retreat, and laugh at the credulity which voluntarily stepped into water so hot that it took all the life out of them and scalded them to the marrow. Certain of us seem to have an odd latent force of character in the background-what schoolmen would call a dynamic quality-scot free and the thrower gets all the blame. which lends an abnormal strength to all that we say or do. Our paper pellets strike harder than other people's leaden bullets, and we need but put a green twig under the cauldrons ranged about for the water to boil over and scald us to the bare bones. It is not necessary that we should be ill-tempered people to come to this result. We are not quarrelsome, nor yet unkind-indeed, we may be rather more amiable than the mass of folk; but for all that we are forever in hot water, and forever proving sorrowfully to ourselves how uncomfortable a possession is that certain "dynamic quality" which makes pellets do the work of bullets, and brings water to the boiling point by a green twig cast accidentally among the ashes. In a family there is always at least one member with this odd kind of latent force-this catapult faculty which gives so much extra power to all that is said and done; so that he or she possessing it is forever in trouble, and, as it seems to the poor wight himself, forever being scalded unjustly. Why should I be snubbed and sat upon if I say just the same things as my brothers and sisters say with impunity? They get no blame for anything; and their hardest words are laughed at as so many harmless little pellets which it amuses them to throw and hurts no one to receive. When I launch my half-hard word-only half-hard, remember-flinging little pellets into space in imitation of them, that word, though only half-hard, does more damage than their bitterest com Some of us are born with the faculty for getting into hot water. We are never out of it, on one side or the other; and the worst of it is, we never know where the cauldron stands, nor why it boils, nor yet very often why we get into it when it does boil. But it seems as if we were dedicated to hot water from the beginning, and that, do what we will, we cannot keep out of it. That "dynamic" quality spoken of above accompanies us through life, and we find that the line and rule by which fate and fortune measures out the awards of men are certainly not made equal for all. We live in the midst of a gossiping circle, say, but we are notoriously careful and reticent, hearing all and saying nothing; for what we hear is for the most part scandal, which we are solicitous not to spread. Others, however, are not so considerate, but scatter all this poison abroad as the wind scatters the winged seeds of weeds, It is running to and fro on the earth with their budget of ill-natured comments, and more than ill-natured suggestions, and never getting tripped up by any one. If by chance we relax by one hair's breadth the caution of our daily lives, and give the most timid utterance to even a minor matter that has been discussed freely before us, we incontinently find ourselves in the hottest of hot water, and are hauled over the coals with promptitude and decision. as if we were the only persons in the whole world who had ever said an ill-natured thing since Adam cast back the blame on Eve-as if we were the fount and the flood, the source and the outfall, of all the scandal afloat. Whatever others may have said passes without comment, and there is not even an eggshell of hot water at hand to splash them. When we contribute our little mite of unguarded talk, we are pounced on as if we had built the entire structure from base to pinnacle, and are plunged into hot water by every one about us -with no refrigerator near. Few things are more disagreeable than this unintentional creation of mischief for the one part, and undue punishment for the other. It is the same thing as the pellet and the bullet of our childish days repeated in the graver matters of maturity; and we resent the partiality of the apportionment; and the left-handed compliment, implied in the greater importance to be attached to what we say than to what any one else says, is not one that makes up for the inconvenience to which it subjects us. If some of us have a faculty for getting into hot water, others have a decided liking for the process. We all know folks who are never so happy as when they are in some sort of confusion and excitement, and who take care to be continually supplied with causes for social turmoil. They cannot let well alone-that is one of their peculiarities-but must interfere in other people's affairs, and meddle where they are not wanted. And naturally the result of this is hot water to an unlimited extent. People do not like to be interfered with. What business is it of yours if A is snappish to her children, and treats them all with distressing inconsistency and still more distressing partiality? Why should you thrust your stick under the cauldron and put yourself where you will get splashed with the boiling water, which is sure to splutter over? Suppose that B is a brute to his wife, that C is living beyond his means, and so on, why should you make their affairs your own? If you will go about the world as the redresser of grievances and the bearer of a high moral standard, you must expect to come in for your share of hot water, and to be pretty sharply scalded for your pains. It certainly seems to be a waste of time and energy to take so much trouble simply to get into hot water; for no outsider ever does good by intermeddling with private affairs. But the instinct is irresistible with some; and so those cauldrons of which we spoke get boiled up to the spluttering point, and the social geyser shoots up heaven-high and brings confusion and dismay on all those who have incautiously tampered with it. Looked at rightly, one of the great arts of life is to keep out of hot water with honor and no loss of courage. There are times and seasons when, indeed, it is one's duty to boil up the cauldrons and to brave the consequences ;* but these times and seasons are rare. For the most part, the wisest thing is to stand aside from all that will bring on us scalding and confusion, and to let the people keep their own hot water for their own fingers. There is something specially undignified in perpetual turmoil, and to be in hot water is not a state wherein the best part of our nature grows. Certainly it has to come at times, for we can. not live in perpetual sunshine and smooth waters; but we may avoid excess in this direction, and only hazard a scalding when we are compelled that way by duty. And the duty comes but seldom, peaceableness and letting things alone being more to the purpose of wholesome living than getting into hot water over matters that do not concern us, and which we do no good by touching. But we fear this is preaching to deaf ears for too many of us, and that the condition of living in hot water is one which will continue to the end, so long as there are intermeddlers on the one hand and irascible objectors on the other. ON THE SHORE. BY MRS. E. M. ADAMS. THE wild winds over the sea-foam sweep Up with a swell to the shining strand, A white wreath crowning each lifted brow; For a gleaming sail, in the sun's last ray, To the father's heart is pressed the child; And bring the matron no anxious care; And the cliff and strand bright places be HER LETTERS. BY M. L. C. S. seen a good deal of each other lately), and pa doesn't like Jim-why, I don't know-and he thinks that if I go to Saratoga and meet the young man I'll come back engaged. Perhaps MISS KATE SANFORD TO HER FRIEND, MISS he is right, too, for Jim is a dear boy, at least BESSIE HOWARD. NEW YORK, June 21, 187-. DEAR BESS: I am the most disappointed girl in New York. To think, after having made all my plans and counted so much on having an elegant time, to say nothing of the new dresses made by Virot on purpose to wear to the hops; and-but dear me, I hav'n't told you what the trouble is. Well, Bess, to be brief, it is just this: I am not going to Saratoga after all. It has all come around in this way. You know we were going in a party, that is, the Parkers and Chases, and dear Mrs. Chase had promised to chaperon me and treat me just like her own daughter. You can just imagine the fun we would have had, four such girls as the Parkers, Jo Chase, and myself. Then, to crown all, those two incorrigibles, Sam Stafford and Jim Barnes, were going to join us there, and had promised to be our constant attendants, to introduce all the nice fellows, and, in a word, to make themselves generally agreeable. But alas, man proposes, but Fate disposes; and this morning papa came down to breakfast with a face unusually grave, and the air of a man who has something disagreeable to say. But of this I resolved to remain blissfully unconscious, so I poured the coffee and smiled at him in the sweetest manner imaginable. But it was all of no use, for we had only been seated a short time when he said, "Kate, I have concluded not to let you go to Saratoga. You had dissipation enough last winter. If you go there you'll dance yourself to death." And then he proceeded to unfold a plan of his own making, which is that I shall bury myself for a month at some dreadful farm-house up in the Catskills with Aunt Harriet and those horrid little wretches of boys of hers, "and get the roses back in my cheeks again," as he says. Then followed a lot of stuff, of how "sorry he was to disappoint me, but that it was for my best good," etc. etc. etc., to all of which I listened without saying a word, being in fact too much astonished to open my mouth, and, after having concluded his speech, before I could recover myself sufficiently to command my voice, the good man prudently withdrew. It took me some minutes to realize the truth, it was such a disappointment; but when I fully comprehended it I just rushed up stairs to my room and had a good cry. Yes, Bess, the dignified Miss Sanford actually cried because her papa wouldn't let her go to Saratoga. Now that looks silly on paper, but it didn't seem a bit so to me. But, my dear, the worst of it is, that it isn't Saratoga that papa dislikes. It is nothing and nobody else than Jim Barnes. He is afraid I am in love with the boy (you see we have I think he is. Of course I couldn't think of disobeying papa, who is always so kind to me (poor man, he believes he is doing it for my good), so I start next Monday. Do write me often, Bess, for I shall be dreadfully lonely. How I envy you the good times you are having at Newport. Just think of me as buried alive, and let your sympathy be extended accordingly. Your disappointed friend, KATE. P. S.-Send your letters to papa's office, and he will forward them to me, as I don't even know the name of the horrid little place I am going to. FROM THE SAME TO THE SAME. June 27, 187-. DEAR BESS: Well, here I am cooped up in the farm-house I wrote you about, miles away from any city, or even hotel, with my own thoughts for company, for Aunt Harriet is too much occupied with those obstreperous boys of hers to have any time to waste on me. We arrived here yesterday morning; since then I have spent most of my time reading novels, of which I brought a good supply, and sleeping. I did venture to take one walk, and, by the way, the walks around here are very pretty, so I shall probably spend most of my time in exploring. There are some other boarders in the house, all are married people with the exception of two young men, whom I have never seen, as they are off on a fishing excursion somewhere. I shall await their return with great impatience, for if they are eligible and nice, they may help one to while away the time with some degree of comfort. But there goes the supper-bell, so I'll finish this after tea. Later.-Well, Bess, I am in an awful rage. The impudence of the creature! But I must commence the story coherently. I went down to tea, and who should I see at table directly opposite me but two men, one of whom is no other than that Mr. Hartley Kate Powers is always raving about. I knew him at once, for I had seen his picture. Of course I was introduced, but I said very little to either of them; you know I never do rattle on at very great rate before strangers. As soon as supper was over I went into the parlor and took my seat. A few minutes afterwards I heard masculine footsteps out on the piazza, and the odor of cigars came in through the open window. I was looking over a book lying on the table, when I heard the question : "Well, Hartley, what do you think of her?” I know it is awfully mean to listen, Bess, but somehow I couldn't help it, and so I stood still. "A very fine icicle. Rather chilling, however, on a cool night like this." A low, masculine laugh followed, and the words, "It will give you a good chance to try, after I am gone, your melting powers on such a subject. You're a deucedly lucky man in that line of business." "No, I thank you. I came up here to fish, and not to waste time on any woman. I'd rather have one such day's sport as we have had to-day, than a dozen flirtations." I had heard enough, and I quietly withdrew. Bess, did you ever hear of such impudence? "Waste his time," and "flirtation." Who asked him to waste his time, and with whom does he propose to have his flirtation? But I can't write any more to-night. Good-by. KATE. P. S.-Well, if snubbing can do our friend any good, I think he will improve forthwith. You see, the other one went back to the city this morning and left Mr. Hartley here alone. This morning at breakfast he was disposed to be talkative; but I flatter myself I rather chilled any such disposition, and, before the meal was over, he relapsed into silence. After breakfast I went again into the parlor, and, seating myself at the piano, began playing some snatches of pieces, when he walked into the room. "If I do not disturb you," he said, "I should like to come in and hear you play. The piano has been unopened until you came." : I turned, and, looking him straight in the face for a moment, said :"You do not disturb me, but I must stop playing, as I have some letters to write. But, Mr. Hartley, wouldn't it be wasting your time on a woman? I thought you 'came up here to fish,'" and then I sailed very grandly out of the room. It was very foolish and silly I know, Bess, but I was awfully angry. His face was a picture, you may imagine, as I finished speaking. But my postscript threatens to be longer than my letter. Still I thought I must tell you all about it. Good-by again. Yours, K. D. S. July 1, 187-. DEAR BESS: Your letter was received, and was very welcome. I am glad you think I did right. I tell you what it is, though; it is very dreary work quarrelling with the only companionable person in the house, especially if that person is a young man and good looking. It is very lonely for me, I assure you. And then it is so uncomfortable meeting him so much, especially as he has apologized and shown himself anxious to make up, and I have rudely refused to do so. This was the way it happened: On the evening of the same day we VOL. XCIII.-22 had that stormy scene in the parlor, he came up to me as I was standing by myself on the piazza, and said : "Miss Sanford, I hope you will pardon that remark I made, which you seem to have overheard. It was one of those foolish speeches a man makes one instant and is sorry for the next. As I am rather sick of watering-places, I came here to avoid society and to spend my time quietly fishing and shooting." "I am quite sure I shall not interfere with any of Mr. Hartley's plans," I replied, as tranquilly as I knew how. "I have acknowledged my fault, and asked your pardon; I can do no more, Miss Sanford,” was the still more haughty answer; and since that time not an unnecessary word has passed between us. O Bess! I am awfully homesick. I had rather be shut up in New York, hot as it is, than to be buried in this horrid place. How I envy those girls the nice times they are having at Saratoga! Your letters are a perfect godsend, so write often. Good-by! Lovingly, THE SAME TO THE SAME. KATE. July 10, 187-. DEAR BESS: I have such lots to tell you I scarcely know where to begin, and my hand is so lame I can hardly hold a pen. But to explain. One week ago to-day I started out in making a collection. I had gathered quite a the morning to get some ferns, of which I am number, and was on my way home, when I saw one exquisitely delicate little one growing some feet above my head, out of the side of a steep bank. This I coveted at once. I am not much of a climber, but it seemed so easy to take a few steps up the bank and pick the little beauty; so, a half minute later, I was stretching out my hand to gather the flower, when the earth slipped from under my feet, and, clutching vainly at some underbrush very near, I half fell, half rolled, landing heavily on the hard ground below. I picked myself up, tried to take a step forward, when a terrible darting pain seized my right ankle, and another equally severe in my wrist. To stand or walk was impossible, so I threw myself at the foot of the nearest tree, and then the pain became so intense that everything grew black around me, and I quietly fainted. How long I remained unconscious I never knew; but when I opened my eyes, Mr. Hartley was bending over me, anxiety expressed on every feature of his face. "What has happened? Can I be of any assistance?" he said, hurriedly. "I have had a fall, Mr. Hartley, and this right foot of mine is sprained,” and just here again the pain grew so severe that I could not help crying a little. "Poor child!" he said, compassionately. "Let me see what I can do ;" and, opening a sharp knife, he began to cut away the boot; doing it, too, as gently and carefully as a woman would. This over, he said, "Now, the next question is, how you are to get home. You can't walk. I see no other alternative; it is not far; I shall have to carry you-unless you object," he added. "I shall give myself up into your hands," I said, feeling too weak to resist him. "But, stop a moment, Mr. Hartley; I have acted very rudely, and I am sorry. Will you-forgive me?" "It is I who should ask forgiveness, Miss Sanford," he replied, and there was an expression in his eyes that I had never seen there before. And so, Bess, I suffered the man whom five minutes ago I thought I hated, to take me up in his arms like a baby of two years, instead of twenty, and carry me home. I never knew just how we got there, for I fainted again, and when I came to I found Aunt Harriet, the landlady, and the doctor (who happened to be one of the boarders) bending over me. Well, to make a long matter short, I was in bed two days, but since then have been able to sit up, and, by taking Mr. Hartley's arm, I am able to get as far as the piazza. There I spend almost the entire day, while Mr. Hartley reads aloud, or we talk; and then several times he has brought out his guitar and sung for me, playing his own accompaniments. I don't think that I like to hear men in general play on a guitar, it appears rather effeminate; but no one would suspect that of him. In reading over this letter, I see a great deal of it is about Mr. Hartley. Now, Bess, don't grow prophetic, and predict a love affair. I assure you there is nothing of the kind between us, and I do not know that there ever will be. This falling in love and getting engaged seems a more serious matter to me now than it once did. But, Bess, I wish you could see him; I should like to have your opinion. He seems so much more manly than such fellows as Jim Barnes, and Stafford, and all the rest of that set. But I must close. Writing so long a letter has made my hand pain me a great deal. So goodby, dear! Write me often. young lady has been kind enough to commit her future into my hands. I have promised to care for her as God may give me strength. Now all that is wanting is your blessing. Will you give it? I am yours, with great respect, EDWARD O. HARTLEY. It is needless to say she gave it. A PREJUDICE REMOVED. BY ABBIE LEE. On the banks of the eastern shore of Virginia an elegant mansion reared its lofty height. Around and even down to the "sea-girt shore" the extensive grounds were laid out with a lavish splendor which betokened the possessor to be a person of rare taste and refinement, as well as great wealth. The winter evening had set in with a cold, windy rain. Small particles of snow fell against the window-pane, as if trying to take refuge beside the glowing hearth, which cast a ruddy light upon the costly furniture. On such a cheerless night Elford Trevis was to bring home his bride. Even the elements seemed to resent such an innovation, and the old house dog, who sat within the door-way, raised his shaggy head as the sound of the sea king lashing his turbulent subjects fell on his ear. Upon the marble mantle-piece a jewelled miniature clock, suspended between two flying cherubs, noted the lapse of time, a tiny bird sprang from some hidden niche, and, after warbling a few silvery notes, it clapped its wings, and five ringing strokes vibrated distinctly through the room. As the sound fell upon the ear of a young girl buried within the cushions of a large chair, she started up. "Five o'clock! But one hour more and the steamer will be in, and the cars leave. One look at those precious little ones, then this heart must learn to look elsewhere for love." As she spoke Enna Trevis left the room. Scarce eighteen summers of her life had passed, and but little more than two years since she had placed the first garland, wet with her bitter tears, upon her idolized mother's grave. From that day forward she turned the key against her own blighting sorrow, and was the light and comfort in the darkened home for her father and two little sisters. The affection which existed between Elford Trevis and his daughter was touching. His manner toward her was always tender, gentle, deferential; his pride all centred in her. She rode with him, sang with him, consulted with him in all business matters; she looked upon her father as the noblest work of the Creator, and truly they were as essential to each other as the sunbeam to the rose. Full soon the earth upon the grave of Elford Trevis's wife became green with the grass and |