University of Virginia Library

ETCHINGS.

WERE YOU EVER THERE?

WHEN a young man is in love, he becomes suspicious of his male companions; but he doesn't understand why any one similarly involved should entertain this feeling toward him. The object of the other party's choice is indifferent to him. He sees nothing especially attractive in her countenance or accomplishments; and, if he chooses to pay her an attention, it is the prompting of courtesy; and, if the other party should object, it is mean jealousy. When a man thoroughly loves a woman, he sees in her an attraction not before noticeable; and so conspicuous become these good qualities to him, that he easily imagines they are as plain to other gentlemen; and any favor they may show her is simply a desperate endeavor to gain the gem he so fondly hopes to wear. It is this simple misunderstanding which causes four-fifths of the heart-burnings and misery attendant upon loving and being loved.

A lovers' quarrel is a formidable affair while it is in progress. It shrouds the two souls in a chilling pall of impenetrable gloom; but, looked back upon from the changed circumstances worked by time, it appears so silly and ridiculous as to be really exasperating.

There was such a state of feeling existing between two of our young folks Sunday evening. They attended church. In the pew given them was a young gentleman, who sat at the opposite end. They entered without disturbing him; and she was brought next to him. They three were acquainted. He nodded to her, and smiled; then he whispered to her, and she looked wonderfully pleased, and whispered back. Her young man smiled too: he knew that he should do something of the sort, if he didn't want to appear painfully conspicuous to the public, which was ready in an instant to divine his jealousy, and gloat over his defeat. But it is a hard matter to smile when you see nothing to smile at: it makes the face tired in an incredibly small space of time. The service proceeded. The lover reached over and spoke to her. He had to speak twice before she heard him. She was apparently abstracted with thought. What thoughts? It made him sick. At the giving-out of the hymn, he leaned forward to take a book from the rack just as the young man secured one. He drew back. What

was that young man going to do? Have her sing with himself, of course. All right: he would not make a fool of himself by looking up a place, offering it to her, and running the risk of a refusal. And so the young man found the place, and extended the book to her. Poor girl! She cast a furtive glance at her lover. He had made no provision for the emergency. She didn't want to sing with this young man. She didn't love him. It was not his shoulder she wanted to press. She took hold of the book, and wondered with all her heart what was the matter with him. Was he ill? Was he a little bit jealous? Woman intuition had struck it, as was evident in the increased brightness of her eyes, in the additional flush to her face. She could not help it any more than she could ward off the fury of Vesuvius; but she was happy in the thought. It was another and a marked evidence of his love.

And he!—what of him! Well, he sat as stiff as if he had suddenly been run full of lead. To add to the pain gnawing at his heart-strings, he felt that nearly every eye in the building was bearing upon him. He looked carefully over the ceiling of the church, staring at the most trifling objects thereon with a fiery intenseness. If he could only make the people believe that he was enraptured with the beautiful and ennobling occupation of architecture, he would be satisfied. If

success is commensurate with earnestness of purpose, he was entitled to it. The service moved along. All the time, the pit of his stomach appeared to be receding away from him, and yet making itself dreadfully felt. His mind ran recklessly to death, hearses, and graveyards. He pictured her in the midst of a gay company, talking, laughing, flirting with this young man, when the news is suddenly let in upon her that he is dead. Dead! cold, stark, stiff,—the one who loved her so madly! There was a grim pleasure in his heart as the picture unfolded her in awful convulsions, calling wildly for him; and on the dark background of the ghastly spectacle was written in flame of fire, "Too late, too late!" Over and over again, this horrible phantasm was conjured up.

And she sat there, happy in her own conceit, and yet feeling pity for him.

And so the service went on; and the meeting closed, and they all passed out. He walked stiffly. She moved easily, with radiant face; and the young man was as beaming as a sun-flower. She told him she had not seen him in a dog's age, and wanted to know why he didn't come up to the house any more. He smiled cheerfully, and said he had been very busy of late, but would make all amends at once. At which she appeared quite pleased, although she secretly hoped he would continue to be too busy to come; but the words were gall and wormwood to the lover.

They got outside finally, and were moving along alone, these two pledged hearts. His face was like a stone, and the pit of his stomach was as faint as a traveller in a weary land. He was rapidly planning his future course. She was heartless: that had been satisfactorily demonstrated. She could not deny this, and also that there had been no provocation. He must leave her. Ah! he would treat her indifferently now: he would give her a little taste of the pain which he was suffering, and see how she liked it. Ah! perhaps she might like it. Oh! the perspiration stood out on his brow in great beads. Heavens! could it be possible she was already gone out to that young man? He must not be rash; and yet—she must suffer too; yes, yes, she must suffer too. He was on the alert for the first evidence of pain on her part. He hungered for it. He wanted her to droop into a despairing silence. Unfortunately, her sex rarely meets expectations.

"How did you like the sermon?" she artlessly asked.

He would have much rather that she asked him why he was so still; but he crowded down the disappointment, and determined to be as indifferent as she was.

"Oh! pretty well," he said, raising his voice a trifle more than was absolutely necessary.

"I never enjoyed a sermon any better in my

life," she maliciously observed, at the same time being quite confident she hadn't been so miserable in a week.

He winced, but promptly said,—

"That's just what I think about it. I shall go to that church every evening after this."

They talked about one thing and another during the rest of the way, the interest drooping more and more as they neared her door. Would he go in? he asked himself a hundred times and every time he said No,—at first firmly and with vigor, but at last very faintly indeed. When they reached the house, he hesitated. She walked up on the stoop, opened the door, and, turning to him, said, "Ain't you coming in?"

He wasn't; but she had not yet weakened sufficiently. So he would go in, but remain dark and stiff like a mummy, to show her what it was to suffer. But he would not give in to her. She would mutely appeal to him, and creep up close to him, and tumble his hair; but he would not melt. He would go away in a few minutes as repellant as he now felt, and she would retire with a dreadful pain in her heart. It was a bright picture he thus conjured,—so bright, that he almost smiled in its radiance.

Then he went in. Had he been a hearse in a city of two million inhabitants, he could not have entered that house with more solemn magnificence.

He didn't go near the sofa: he dropped into a chair, and stared moodily at the carpet. She arranged the lamp, and sank down on the sofa. There was an attempt on her part to shake off the gloom; but he did not respond. He only thought of his suddenly dying, and of her going into maddening convulsions. He sat there, and wanted to die, so as to see how she would take on about it; although dead men are not particularly noted for very keenly observing what takes place about them in this life.

The conversation lagged. Both of them were losing their Sunday evening, the dearest to them of all the week; and she was feeling it keenly. And yet she would persist in talking about the most foreign subjects; while he would gloomily eye the carpet, and answer in the most depressing monosyllables. Finally he got up, and said in a constrained voice that he guessed he must be going. He moved for his hat, wishing that it was a mile away, and feeling as if he would give his life if she would only speak to him. But she took up the light as if this was the farthest from her intentions, and prepared to see him to the door. There was a gloom resting on both of them now, a fearful looking forward to a woe that was to come.

He reached the door without a word being exchanged, and was turning around in an awkward

way to bid her good-night, when a peculiar look—a half-sorrowful, half-smiling look in her eyes—caused him to hesitate, and respond with the same expression.

"What is the matter with you, darling?" she asked, getting as close to him as possible.

There is no need of further accompanying them. In the short space of two minutes, they were squarely posted on the dear, familiar lounge; and it was two o'clock the next morning, as usual, when he left.

As for the other young man, he had eaten a piece of pie and gone to bed hours ago, totally unconscious of the misery he had caused and of those enduring it.

COURTING UNDER DIFFICULTIES.

THE epizootic is not entirely confined to horses, as the following will show. They had been keeping company a year. He told her Friday afternoon that he would be up early Sunday evening, as he had something of great importance to tell her, and a present to give her. With a woman's keen intuition, she knew what the something of importance would be, and she looked forward to the hour with sweet expectation. He was there on time, but hardly in the condition he desired. A heavy cold had tackled him the night before,

and his eyes were red and inflamed; and his nose was nearly twice its natural size, and shone with a lustre that would have appeared to much better advantage on a door-plate. Singularly enough, the young lady was similarly conditioned. She ushered him into the parlor; and, without any preliminary ceremony, they were on the sofa together. He took out his handkerchief, and, finding a dry section, wiped his nose, This reminded her of a duty she owed herself; and she attended to it at once. He held one of her hands in one of his, and his handkerchief in the other. Then he spoke:—

"Susad, I cub do nide do dalk do you of subdig dearer—ah-ah-ooh (a prompt application of the handkerchief cuts off the sneeze in its bud), dearer do me thad my libe—ah-ah—thad id—ooh-ooh-ker chew, ker chew, ker chew!" A moment's pause. "I'be god an awvul code," he explains with due solemnity.

"Sobe I," she sympathizingly replies.

A moment is devoted to a silent use of the handkerchiefs; and then he continues:—

"Darlig, you musd hab seed all de tibe how mudge—ooh-ooh-ker (the handkerchief again saves him)—how mudge I hab dhought ob you. Ebry hour ob de day or nide—ah-ah-ooh—ooh-ch-ch-ker chew, KER CHEW, KER CHEW!"

"Thid id awvul," he protested, walking around the room; for the final explosion had raised him to

his feet. She wiped her eyes, and then her nose, and made an honest endeavor to look languishing; but owing to the watery condition of the former, and the fiery glow of the latter, she appeared to an unhappy advantage. But he did not notice it. He felt of his proboscis tenderly for a moment, and then returned to her side.

"Darlig, I cad no loger lib widoud you. Widoud you, libe would indeed be a widderness; wid"—

She impulsively raised her hand.

"Ker-ker-ker chew!" she shouted.

He paused, and gazed tenderly out of his inflamed eyes upon her convulsed features.

"Darlig," he softly continued, seeing she was through, "you cad neber know how mudge—ah-ooh-ooh-ah-ker chew, ker—wish—sh-sh-er-r-r, ker chew, ker chew—Ooh, my!—oh, dear!" he wailed, impetuously grabbing for his handkerchief, while the tears ran down his cheeks.

She took advantage of the lull to unobtrusively apply her handkerchief.

"Susad," he began again, grasping her hand with fervor, and clutching his handkerchief with equal earnestness, "what id libe widoud lub? Noddig. Darlig, do yoo, cad yoo, lub me enough to be my—ah-ah-ooh-ker-chew! Heavigs, thid id awvul." He mopped the perspiration from his troubled countenance, and then waited until she re-appeared from behind her handkerchief, when he resumed;—

"I ask aged, darlig, cad yoo lub me enough to be me wibe?"

The young girl dropped her head upon his breast, put her arm around his neck, and was just about to speak the glad answer, when a sudden spasm shook her frame, and she went off into a series of sneezes which fairly endangered the safety of her fair neck. "O my lub! O my brechious!" he sympathizingly exclaimed, "sbeak, oh, sbeakd!—abooh-ooh-ker-chew, ker-chew, ker-chew!" he roared.

She fell into his arms again, perfectly exhausted.

"You'll be mide, all mide!" he gasped.

"I will, Hedry, I will!" she hoarsely whispered.

He drew her to him with all his strength, and slipped the ring upon her trembling finger; and there they stood together, their reddened and half-closed eyes, blinking in sweet, holy ecstasy upon each other, while their exhausted nostrils shone with a dim refulgence.

"My boor darlig has got sudge a bad code," he sympathizingly murmured.

"So id my Hedry," she softly whispered back.

"I dode gare for myseld. I"—he suddenly put her away, recovered his handkerchief, and instantly went off in a paroxysm of sneezes.

"Oh!" he sighed, as he regained a perpendicular again, and mopped off his face, which was now almost purple in hue.

"You must dake sub medicid for that code to-nide," she said,

"Both ob us," he added.

"Yes, a'd you'll zoak your feed in hod wader."

"I will, a'd you'll zoak yours?" he eagerly asked.

"I will," she solemnly replied.

"Hevig bless you, my darlig, my brecious darlig!" he murmured, clasping her again tightly to his breast. And then he stole out into the darkness; and she lingered a moment at the door, and heard his dear voice ring out on the night-air as he passed away,—

"Ker chew, ker chew, KER C-H-E-W!"

THE BAD BROTHER.

HE got two pounds of cream caramels for her (he got two pounds of them, because it's a confection she adores); then he overhauled her young brother, who was scooting around on the street with characteristic aimlessness, and got him to take the package up to the house. He gave the young man a nickel for the performance of the errand, and made security doubly secure by telling him, with an air of unblemished confidence, that it was a package of worsted, and that he must be very careful to deliver it. The young brother started briskly for home; but, as soon as he was out of sight of the donor, he paused, and, with a perplexed expression of countenance, began to

carefully weigh and press the package. His perplexity increasing, he carefully poked a hole in the wrapper; then he smiled such a wholesome smile, that it was really delightful to see it; then he quickened his pace.

When our hero called in the evening, he looked anxiously for marks of the caramels on his beloved's chin; but he looked in vain: there was not even the faintest indication at the corners of her lovely mouth that any thing in the line of cream caramels had travelled that way for some time. He waited all the evening for some mention of the refreshment; but not a word: he was non-plussed. Nearly the third of a week's salary had gone in this purchase; and he might as well have dropped it into the crater of Vesuvius, as far as satisfaction was concerned. The mystery appalled him. Before morning, there was another mystery in that house. It took a doctor and one-third of an aroused neighborhood to subdue young Johnny's stomach-ache. Such an astonishing ache was never before crowded into such narrow limits. The doctor couldn't understand it; neither could anybody else. Johnny's nose doesn't mar the plate-glass of confectionery windows now; and the man who went to see Johnny's sister has taken to drink.

HE was on his knees to her. His face was flushed; his eyes gleamed passionately into her's; he talked rapidly:—

"Nothing shall separate us evermore, my darling. For your sake I will beard the lion in his den; I will face death on the battle-field; I will skim the seas; I will endure all hardship, all suffering, all misery."

He paused, and looked eagerly to her, with his whole soul quivering in his eyes.

"Will you do all this for the sake of my love?" said she, gazing earnestly into the burning eyes.

"Yes, yes, a thousand times yes!"

"And if we wed," continued she, flushing slightly, "will you get up first and build the fire?"

With a shriek of despair he fled.

A PRUDENT YOUNG MAN.

ONE of the Danbury young men who has occasionally escorted a young lady home on Sunday evenings, and went in for lunch, after performing both services last Sunday night, suddenly said to her,—

"Do you talk in your sleep?"

"Why—no," she answered in surprise.

"Do you walk in your sleep?" he next inquired.

"No, sir."

He moved his chair an inch closer, and with increased interest asked,—

"Do you snore?"

"No," she hastily replied, looking uneasily at him.

At this reply his eyes fairly sparkled; his lips eagerly parted; and, as he gave his chair another hitch, he briskly inquired,—

"Do you throw the combings from your hair in the wash-basin?"

"What's that?" she asked with a blank face.

He repeated the question, although with increased nervousness.

"No, I don't," she answered in some haste.

Again his chair went forward; while his agitation grew so great, that he could scarcely maintain his place upon it, as he further asked,—

"Do you clean out the comb when you are through?"

"Of course I do," she said, staring at him with all her might.

In an instant he was on his knees before her, his eyes ablaze with flame, and his hands outstretched.

"Oh, my dear miss! I love you," he passionately cried. "I give my whole heart up to you. Love me, and I will be your slave. Love me as I love you, and I will do every thing on earth for you. Oh! will you take me to be your lover, your husband, your protector, your every thing?"

It was a critical moment for a young woman of her years; but she was equal to the emergency, as a woman generally is, and she scooped him in.

HE wanted her; but she would not give her consent until he had consulted her parents: so he went into the room where they were, and modestly stated the case.

"And you really think you love her enough to marry her?" said the father, after he had finished.

"Oh, yes, sir!" said the youth in fervent eagerness: "I love her with all my soul. I love her better than I do my life. She is my guiding-star, the worshipped object of my every thought, every hope, every aspiration." He stood there with clasped hands, his face radiant with the strength of his devotion. There was a moment of pause; and then the mother softly asked,—

"What do you think of that, old man?"

"That sounds like business, old woman," replied the satisfied father.

And so it was arranged that the daughter should accept her suitor.

A PRACTICAL SUGGESTION.

THEY had a quarrel Sunday evening. He got mad, and swore he'd leave her; then she got vexed, and told him he could do as he pleased. He left. The next night he came around again. He asked to see her alone. She readily complied. She was all of a tremor. Her heart went out to him in a gush of sympathetic love. She stood ready to throw both arms about his neck, and cry out her joy. There was not much color in his face, and his voice was husky. He said,—

"I have been with you six months, Matilda; and I tried in all that time to do what was right." He paused an instant to recover the voice which was faltering rapidly, while her trembling increased. "I know that I have got considerable temper, and that I do not control it always as I ought: but I have tried to be faithful to you,—tried to do every thing that I thought would tend to make you happy; and, feeling this, I have called to-night to see if you wouldn't be kind enough to give me a sort of testimonial to this effect, so that I could show it to any other young lady I might want to go with. It might help me."

He looked at her anxiously. All the color left her face in a flash. She made a great effort to swallow something which threatened to suffocate her. Then she spoke:—

"You get out of this house as quick as you can, you miserable whelp, or my father shall kick you out!"

He didn't toy with time. He left without the testimonial.

PHOTOGRAPHING HER MA.

HE is a young photographer, just starting in business and love. The other afternoon, his girl's mother called for a sitting. He desired to make a most favorable impression upon that portion of her mind which could appreciate photography, and so he became a trifle nervous in the work. But he got her fixed finally, with her eyes fixed glassily on a certain object, as is the custom; then he drew the cloth, took out his watch, and counted off thirty seconds, restored the cloth, and drew out the case.

"Gracious!" he unintentionally ejaculated, "I forgot to put in the plate."

The old lady had to sit again, and she prepared for the ordeal, but with confidence in the operator considerably abated. He was more nervous now than before, and it was some few minutes before he had her arranged to suit the focus. Then the cloth was again removed, the watch again pulled out. He counted off the thirty seconds, removed the cloth, and drew out the case.

"Great heavens!" he groaned in a frightened voice, "I forgot to pull out the slide!"

The prospective mother-in-law sprang to her feet, snatched up her hat and shawl, and, pausing long enough to inquire if he was drunk, shot out of the door, leaving the pallid-faced artist grasping a chair for support.

ALMOST A MISUNDERSTANDING.

HE called Sunday night, as had been his custom for several weeks. After they got together alone in the parlor, he plucked up his courage to the proper point, and proposed to her, telling her of the days when every thought was of her, and only her. Then he said,—

"Dearest, will you be mine?"

And she said,—

"I will."

Then he caught her in his arms, and pressed her drooping face close to his yearning breast.

Tighter still he drew his arms about her.

"My darling," he started to whisper, bending his face close to hers; when her head flew up so suddenly as to catch him under the chin with sufficient force to almost amputate his tongue.

"Oh!" he gasped.

"Phew!" she ejaculated: "why, how you smell!"

"Smell!" he repeated, while his smarting tongue forced the tears into his eyes.

"Yes," she replied, bending her face again to his breast, and sniping expectantly, "Oh, my! it is awful!" she added as she drew back her head.

He dropped his own nose into the infected neighborhood, and took a sniff; and then, as his face lighted up, he cheerfully explained:—

"Oh! that is my plaster. I put it on for a cold."

"Oh!" said she in a tone of relief. And again she dropped her head on his yearning breast, only a little higher up, and a little more to one side; while he ran out his tongue, and tenderly caressed the wound with his handkerchief.

TEN YEARS AFTER.

SHE was at a party. He had not yet arrived; but she was momentarily expecting him. The hum of conversation through the room had no significance for her: all her faculties were bent on the front-door. Every time it opened, at every step in the hall-way, she would start, while her face would flush, and her eyes light up with feverish expectation. Then the color would go back from her cheeks, her eyes would dull, and her heart sink, when another than he came into the room. Finally he arrived, and took a seat by her; and she leaned over his shoulder, and joyously murmured,—

"My darling, my darling!" She was too happy to say aught more.

Ten years later, and she again waits: it is in their own home now. His step is on the stoop; he opens the door. She springs quickly to the hall.

"Clean your feet!" she screams.

Ten years ago they were not married: now they are.

THE NINETEENTH CENTURY.

FITZ HENRY, who goes with Arabella, was on hand as usual Sunday evening, when high words ensued between the two. Fitz Henry is a man of the period, and Arabella is a full-stop woman. We don't know how the trouble originated; but this is what was said by the twain:—

HE.—You told — you wouldn't go.

SHE.—If I did, I don't know myself.

HE.—Well, that's what he said.

SHE.—I ain't the girl to give myself away like that, you bet.

HE.—What would the galoot say it for, then? That's what's the matter.

SHE.—Because he found somebody soft enough to scoop it in, I guess.

HE (agonizingly).—Are you codding me, Arabella?

SHE (softening).—Why should I cod you?

HE.—I don't know why you should, when I love you bang up.

SHE (very softly).—Then, Hen, why should we let this rooster get us on our ear! If we are going to mind every liar that comes around, we are going to keep in hot water all the time; but, if we keep a stiff upper lip, they'll soon get tired of shooting off their mouths at us.

This view must have struck him favorably, as there was a sound of upper lips undergoing a strengthening process, preceded by a signification on his part to "paste the rooster back of the ear."

HE had gone up to her house with her from a shopping-excursion the other afternoon. While he was there, such a flood of tenderness came over him, that he impulsively dropped on his knees before her, and, giving her a glance that spoke volumes, huskily said, "I can no longer keep my feelings back. I love you. Oh! will you, oh! will you be"—

"—SHAD! ten cents!" rang out the clarion voice of a street-vender before the house.

She made a clutch for her handkerchief to cover up her emotion; but she was too late. The ludicrousness of the combined sentiments was too

much for her intellect, and she melted into a prolonged giggle. His face flushed scarlet; and, for an instant, he was too profoundly impressed to realize his position. Then he shot up on his feet, and, with a howl of rage, departed. Really, ought not more intelligent and more discriminating people to be employed on fish-wagons.