jects of conversation would move a rock to tears.

This is the scene, as I recall it--a specimen scene.

The family--husband, wife, and three little children were at dinner, as I
said.

"What's been happening to-day? anything of interest?" asked the little
wife.

"Not that I know of," was the gruff reply.

Silence, broken by the occasional sound of eating implements, ensued.

"Pass the bread, will you?" he said in a short tone, directly.

"See how you like this bread; we are trying the entire wheat flour. I
think it's very nice tasting, and they claim it's rich in nutrition.
It's warranted to make blood, bone, and muscle--brain, too, I believe.
I'm going to eat several pounds a day; I may astonish the world yet."

This feeble joke was received in stolid silence, and the poor little
wife crept into her shell.

After a time she peeped out again, and made another effort.

"I went to the womans' club this afternoon; Mrs. Pierson invited me.
They had a very interesting meeting; they brought up the subject of
smoke consumers. I never realized before how much property is ruined
yearly by the smoke. It does seem as if manufacturers ought to use
consumers."

At this point Bruin openly yawned, and the little wife again retired.
But with astonishing elasticity of courage she issued from her shell
once more, this time with the hope that a more masculine theme would
meet with some response.

"They brought a petition around here to-day for us to sign. It seems
there is some talk of flooring the reservoir and using it as a beer
garden this coming summer, and the neighborhood has been called upon to
protest against it."

"I know all about that," he growled.

"Have you signed it?"

"I have."

Again silence fell as a wet cloak upon them, and the little woman sat
there racking her brains, almost depleted by this time, for the
atmosphere which such a man as that creates is warranted to dry up all
the intellectual juices.

One more despairing effort. The children had now left the table, so
anecdotes of them were in order. Probably the poor little wife thought
that this man could be wakened into attention by a story about one of
his children.

"Mamie asked me where cats went to when they died. 'They don't go
anywhere,' I said; 'when they die, that's the end of them.'

"'Do they turn to dust?' she asked.

"'Yes, just turn to dust,' I said.

"'Why, then,' she exclaimed, and her eyes grew as big as saucers, 'when
ho