hing
with their front ones, roll over and over, lie on their backs and kick.
They don't know what to do with themselves, they are so full of life.

Can you remember, reader, when you and I felt something of the same
sort of thing? Can you remember those glorious days of fresh young
manhood--how, when coming home along the moonlit road, we felt too full
of life for sober walking, and had to spring and skip, and wave our
arms, and shout till belated farmers' wives thought--and with good
reason, too--that we were mad, and kept close to the hedge, while we
stood and laughed aloud to see them scuttle off so fast and made their
blood run cold with a wild parting whoop, and the tears came, we knew
not why? Oh, that magnificent young LIFE! that crowned us kings of the
earth; that rushed through every tingling vein till we seemed to walk on
air; that thrilled through our throbbing brains and told us to go forth
and conquer the whole world; that welled up in our young hearts till we
longed to stretch out our arms and gather all the toiling men and women
and the little children to our breast and love them all--all. Ah! they
were grand days, those deep, full days, when our coming life, like an
unseen organ, pealed strange, yearnful music in our ears, and our young
blood cried out like a war-horse for the battle. Ah, our pulse beats
slow and steady now, and our old joints are rheumatic, and we love our
easy-chair and pipe and sneer at boys' enthusiasm. But oh for one brief
moment of that god-like life again!

ON BEING SHY.

All great literary men are shy. I am myself, though I am told it is
hardly noticeable.

I am glad it is not. It used to be extremely prominent at one time, and
was the cause of much misery to myself and discomfort to every one about
me--my lady friends especially complained most bitterly about it.

A shy man's lot is not a happy one. The men dislike him, the women
despise him, and he dislikes and despises himself. Use brings him no
relief, and there is no cure for him except time; though I once came
across a delicious recipe for overcoming the misfortune. It appeared
among the "answers to correspondents" in a small weekly journal and
ran as follows--I have never forgotten it: "Adopt an easy and pleasing
manner, especially toward ladies."

Poor wretch! I can imagine the grin with which he must have read that
advice. "Adopt an easy and pleasing manner, especially toward ladies,"
forsooth! Don't you ado