ess it to his
bosom. He shaved and primped and resolved to marry every day in the year
for forty years. But when the hour for love's duel arrived, when he
stood trembling in the presence of rosy cheeks and glancing eyes, and
beauty shook her curls and gave the challenge, his courage always oozed
out, and he fled ingloriously from the field of honor.

Far happier than the bachelor is old Uncle Rastus in his cabin, when he
holds Aunt Dina's hand in his and asks: "Who's sweet?" And Dina drops
her head over on his shoulder and answers, "Boaf uv us."

A thousand times happier is the frisky old widower with his pink bald
head, his wrinkles and his rheumatism, who

Wires in and wires out,
And leaves the ladies all in doubt,
As to what is his age and what he is worth,
And whether or not he owns the earth.

He "toils not, neither does he spin," yet Solomon, in all his glory was
not more popular with the ladies. He is as light-hearted as "Mary's
little lamb." He is acquainted with every hog path in the matrimonial
paradise and knows all the nearest cuts to the "sanctum sanctorum" of
woman's heart. But his jealousy is as cruel as the grave. Woe unto the
bachelor who dares to cross his path.

An old bachelor in my native mountains once rose in church to give his
experience, in the presence of his old rival who was a widower, and with
whom he was at daggers' points in the race to win the affections of one
of the sisters in Zion. Thus the pious old bachelor spake: "Brethren,
this is a beautiful world. I love to live in it just as well to-day as
I ever did in my life. And the saddest thought that ever crossed this
old brain of mine is, that in a few short days at best, these old eyes
will be glazed in death and I'll never get to see my loved ones in this
world any more." And his old rival shouted from the "amen corner,"
"_thank God!_"

PHANTOMS.

In every brain there is a bright phantom realm, where fancied pleasures
beckon from distant shores; but when we launch our barks to reach them,
they vanish, and beckon again from still more distant shores. And so,
poor fallen man pursues the ghosts of paradise as the deluded dog chases
the shadows of flying birds in the meadow.

The painter only paints the shadows of beauty on his canvas; the
sculptor only chisels its lines and curves from the marble; the sweetest
melody is but the faint echo of the wooing voice of music.

We stumble over the golden nuggets of co