''Darn paintin'!' was the reply of my visitor, as he took up his club to depart—his hat had not been removed during the whole of the visit. 'Darn paintin'! I thought you did the thing with stencils, and finished it up with a comb and a scraper. Mister, I don't want to hurt your feeling—but cordin' to my way o' thinkin', paintin' as you do it, an't a trade at all—it's nothin' but a darned despisable fine art!'

'And with this candid statement of his views, my lost pupil turned to go. I burst out laughing. He turned around squarely, and presenting an angry front not unlike that of a mad bull, inquired abruptly, as he glared at me:

''Maybe you'd like to paint my portrit?'

'I looked at him steadily in the eyes, as I gravely took up my spatula, (I knew he thought it some deadly kind of dagger,) and answered:

''I don't paint animals.

'He gave me a parting look, and abscondulated.' When I saw him last, he was among the City Fathers! GALLI VAN T.'

A SONG OF THE PRESENT

BY EDWARD S. RAND, JR

Not to the Past whose smouldering embers lie, Sad relics of the hopes we fondly nursed, Not to the moments that have hurried by, Whose joys and griefs are lived, the best, the worst. Not to the Future, 'tis a realm where dwell Fair, misty ghosts, which fade as we draw near, Whose fair mirages coming hours dispel, A land whose hopes find no fruition here. But to the Present: be it dark or bright, Stout-hearted greet it; turn its ill to good; Throw on its clouds a soul-reflected light; Its ills are blessings, rightly understood. Prate not of failing hopes, of fading flowers; Whine not in melancholy, plaintive lays, Of joys departed, vanished sunny hours; A cheerful heart turns every thing to praise. Clouds can not always lower, the sun must shine; Grief can not always last, joy's hour will come; Seize as you may, each sunbeam, make it thine, And make thy heart the sunshine's constant home. Nor for thyself alone, a sunny smile Carries a magic nothing can withstand; A cheerful look may many a care beguile, And to the weary be a helping hand. Be brave—clasp thy great sorrows in thy arms; Though eagle-like, they threat, with lifted crest, The dread, the terror which thy soul alarms, Shall turn a peaceful dove upon thy breast.

A STRANGE STORY—ITS SEQUEL

PREFACE

The often expressed wish of the American Press for an explanation of the meaning of 'A Strange Story,' shall be complied with. It is purely and simply this: Many novels, most of them, in fact, treat of the World; the rest may be divided into those vaguely attempting to describe the works of the Flesh and the Devil. This division of subjects is fatal to their force; there was need to write a novel embracing them all; therefore 'A Strange Story' was penned. Mrs. Colonel Poyntz personated the World, Doctor Fenwick the Flesh, and Margrave, alias Louis Grayle, certainly, I may be allowed to say, played the Devil with marked ability. To give a fitting morale to all, the character of Lilian Ashleigh was thrown in; the good genius, the conqueror of darkness, the positive of the electrical battery meeting the negative and eliciting sparks of triumphant light—such was the heroine.

Man, conscious of a future life, and endowed with imagination, is not content with things material, especially if his brain is crowded with the thoughts of the brains of ten thousand dead authors, and his nervous system is over-tasked and over-excited. In this condition he rushes away—away from cool, pure, and lovely feature—burying himself in the hot, spicy, and gorgeous dreams of Art. He would adore Cagliostro, while he mocked Doctor Watts! Infatuated dreamer! Returning at last, by good chance—or, rather, let me say, by the directing hand of Providence—from his evil search of things tabooed, to admiration of the Real, the Tangible, and the True; he will show himself as Doctor Fenwick does in this sequel, a strong, sensible, family-man, with a clear head and no-nonsense about him.

CHAPTER I

'I think,' said Faber, with a sigh, 'that I must leave Australia and go to other lands, where I can make more money. You remember when that Egyptian woman bore the last—positively the last—remains of Margrave, or Louis Grayle, to the vessel?'

'I do,' quoth Doctor Fenwick.

'Well, a pencil dropped from the pocket of the inanimate form. I picked it up, and on it was stamped in gilded letters:

'FABER, No. 4.'

I believe it may belong to one of my family—lost, perhaps, in the ocean of commerce.'

'Who knows? We will think of this anon; but hark! the tea-bell is rung; let us enter the house.'

CHAPTER II

'Good gracious! Doctor Faber, I am so glad to see you. Sit right down in this easy-chair. We've muffins for tea, and some preserves sent all the way from dear Old England. Now, Allen, be lively to-night, and show us how that cold chicken should be carved.'

Thus Lilian, Doctor Fenwick's wife, rattled on. She had grown very stout in the five years passed since 'A Strange Story' was written, and now weighed full thirteen stone, was red-cheeked and merry as a cricket. Mrs. Ashleigh, too, had grown very stout and red-cheeked, and was bustling around when the two doctors entered the room.

'How much do you think I weigh?' asked Fenwick of Doctor Faber.

'About fifteen stone,' answered the old doctor, while he dissected a side-bone of the chicken. 'I think you did well to begin farming in earnest. There is nothing like good hard work to cure the dyspepsia and romantic dreams.'

'Indeed, dear doctor, and you have reason, to be sure,' said Mrs. Ashleigh. 'And pray, don't you think, now, that Lilian is a great deal more comely since she has given up worsted-work and dawdling, and taken to filling her duties as housewife?'

'To be sure I do.'

The doctor here passed the muffins to Lilian. She helped herself to a brown one, remarking:

'It is such a blessed thing to have a fine appetite, and be able to eat half-a-dozen muffins for tea! Oh! by the way, Allen, I wish you would buy three or four more barrels of pale ale—we are nearly out.'

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