Charles. Yes, I told two or three boys, but I guess they did not believe it.

Frank. Well, Charles, if you are an honest fellow, you will go right to those boys, and tell them you was wrong and John White innocent.

Charles. Yes, I will go. I hope John will not hear of this, he would be so mad with me.

Frank. No, he would not be mad. He is too good a boy. He would feel grieved, but his innocence would make him happy.

William. I hope, Charles, this will be a good lesson to you. Never accuse another of any wrong, until you know he is guilty. I wish you now to say, if you really know a single bad boy in my school.

Charles. No, I do not. I was mad when I said there was a great many bad boys there. I didn't know much what 1 was saying.

William. If, then, you feel that all in our school are good children, I hope you will soon become one of our happy number.

[All go out.]

ON CHATTING.

E. A. BACON.

TWO GIRLS IRENE AND OLIVIA.

Irene. O dear, dear! this constant chit, chat, chatting, from morning till night! it wearies me to death! At home and abroad, it is constantly ringing in my ears. The very birds seem to catch the contagion, for all up and down the street they swing in their wire prisons, and keep up a constant chatting with each other. O dear! [Sighing.]

Olivia. What! is that you, Irene, crying out against your own peculiar grace ?

Irene. My own peculiar besetting sin, I would rather you would call it, if I too must be classed with the chatterer; but rather than that should come to pass, I'd hold salt in my mouth for a week.

Olivia. Why, Irene! What a mood you are in! Do clear up before I have my party, for I am depending upon your delightful chat to enliven the occasion.

Irene. Well, you will be obliged to forego that entertainment, for my mind is fully made up to indulge in it no more. How foolish it is! Here I can seem to see a whole room full

now,

buzz, buzz, buzzing, and not one of them saying anything worth remembering half a minute.

Olivia. Well, you are queer! For my part, I think chatting the very spice of life. The spice? Yes, a great deal more, - the extract double distilled.

Irene. Call it the "Otto of Rose,"

that will hit it, for

you can hardly raise the cork before it is evaporated.

Olivia. Yes, the Otto of Rose! I like that, for after it has evaporated, the phial is worth its weight in gold for months after, for its delightful fragrance.

Irene. O, you need not turn it so, for no fragrance could be gathered from a whole day full of chattering.

Olivia. Do you think so? Well, suppose I exclude from my party all chattering; no, I would not go so far as to say from my party, but from home.

Irene. Mercy me! I wish such an order of events might be brought about; then there would be such a thing as common sense in the world.

Olivia. Well, let's see. You'd rise in the morning, and go about the house mum, taking for granted that every one was well, without passing the compliment; breakfast would pass silently, unless some one had wisdom enough to discourse on the steam and the philosophy of cooking; you'd go to school looking grim to everybody; con your lessons because you had to get them; go home, mope about, and then in the evening - O, I can't think of that! deliver me from the evening circle where small talk is excluded! O, the delightful fireside chat! it makes my heart warm to think of it.

Irene. Well, sometimes, perhaps, it is well; but to your party now; why can't you get along without this continual small talk?

Olivia. Small talk! Why, it's like the small rain, which the good-natured poet says

Loves to come at night,

To make you wonder, in the morn,

What made the earth so bright.

Irene. O dear, how sentimental! I'm sure you will not find me very bright after your party, if you 're going to have the small rain of chit-chat there.

Olivia. Suppose I exclude it? You will all walk stiffly in, sit stately round the room, looking as though fresh from a hydropathic establishment, encased in a sheet of ice. A row of mummies! Occasionally, a safe remark would be made, or a few speeches, cut and dried for the occasion, and then the awful pauses!

Irene. O, then refreshments would fill them up, and even if we had to endure a little silence, and if we should sit and look so very mummy like, we could have something to think of.

Olivia. Not even the refreshments would fill up the space. No jokes would be cracked with the nuts, no sentiments sugar the sweetmeats, and the ice-cream would hardly melt on the lips.

Irene. You grow quite eloquent! Keep on!

Olivia. Eloquent or not, give me the delightful small talk for my party, and I'll let all other refreshments go, for without that there's no poetry, wit, or romance.

Irene. Poetry, wit, and romance, when small talk preside! I can't understand you.

Olivia. That's because you've got on such high heels tonight. Be careful, or you will overlook all your friends.

Irene. Now, Olivia, you 're too bad! I don't feel so very tall, but I do think I can reach high thoughts sometimes.

Olivia. Ah! Irene, you're trying to reach the clouds, and so you tread over all the sweet flowers, delicious fruits, and rich grains, around you.

Irene. What! you don't style nonsense, gossip, and tattle, delicious and rich, do you?

Olivia. There it is, Irene; you think people can't chat without they gossip. Now, I think people can't gossip when they chat.

Irene. What do you mean?

Olivia. Why, I call chatting the sweet interchange of thought, by which we catch quickly each other's emotions or feelings.

Irene. Well, you're getting wiser than I, now; I thought chatting was the silliest kind of gossip.

Olivia. How can it be? There's something so cosy in the very word chat, that it seems to draw out all the warmest and tenderest feelings of the heart.

Irene. Well, I believe I am a little crusty to-night, but I think your pleasant chit-chat will break it all away. Don't I begin to look rather melting?

Olivia. Why, yes, I think you do; and I think the right kind of chat will melt a harder heart than yours.

Irene. So do I; and as it is a grace the "lord of creation" has granted peculiarly to our sex, let us make the most of it, for there is not much they are willing to grant us.

Olivia. Oh yes, for we are all a chatting, chit, chat, chatting, as on through life we go!

Mrs. Smith. Well, it is certainly very mysterious!
Mrs. Brown. Very mysterious, indeed!

Miss Willowbough. Altogether beyond my comprehension ! Mrs. Jones. [On entering.] Mysterious! do tell me all about it! Mrs. B. Why! have you heard nothing of the mysterious stranger

Mrs. J. Nothing.

Mrs. S. Who has been here ever since the day before yesterday morning

Mrs. J. Not a word! how remarkable !

Miss W. And whose name no one can discover?

Mrs. J. Wonderful! wonderful! But what is the peculiar mystery about him?

Mrs. S. A great deal, I assure you. In the first place, he - he wears a black coat and drab pantaloons—and then, again, hehe-indeed his whole appearance has an air of very peculiar mystery.

Mrs. J. Bless me! what are we all coming to! But is there no way to find out who he is?

Mrs. S. I expect Miss Vinegar here every moment, and if any one knows anything about him, she does.

Mrs. J. What, that old maid? Oh, I detest her! she is so terrible inquisitive! I never could bear any one who is eternally prying into the affairs of their neighbors. Then you can't find out even his name? I would give anything to know. But, here comes Miss Vinegar; perhaps she can tell us that, and a great deal more.

[Enter Miss Vinegar.]

Mrs. S. Well, Miss Vinegar, what success learn at the tavern?

Miss Vinegar. Would you believe it?—the landlady knows nothing about him! I have only ascertained that he rises at eight, and drinks two cups of coffee without cream.

Mrs. J. Without cream?

Miss V. Yes, without cream. I was very particular in my inquiries, and the information may be relied upon.

Mrs. J. Singular! very singular indeed! Now, I think cream is all the beauty of coffee.

224

DIALOGUES FAMILIAR

Miss V. I should not be at all surprised if he should prove to be a bank robber, whom we saw advertised.

Miss W. But he is a dark man, with black hair, and the stranger has a very light complexion.

Miss V. Nothing easier than to alter the complexion, as you must know, Miss Willowbough!

Miss W. But then the robber is a large man, and the stranger is tall and slim.

Miss V. [Rather sharply, and casting a significant glance to Miss Willowbough's form. Nothing easier than reducing the size of the waist!

Miss W. But there is one thing he could not alter. He is evidently not more than twenty-five years old, while the advertisement describes the robber as over forty; and, your own experience, Miss Vinegar, must have convinced you of the impossibility of any one's appearing twenty years younger than he really is

Mrs. S. [Directing attention to the window. There he goes, as I live! [All go to look.]

Mrs. J. See, see, how mysteriously he lifts his foot, to avoid that muddy spot!

Miss W. I wonder if he is married?

Miss V. If he is not, he will not probably fancy a piece of paint and whalebone!

Miss W. Nor a woman old enough to be his grandmother! Mrs. S. There, did you see Mr. White? He bowed to the stranger. So he must know him. I will knock on the window, and beckon for him to come in; I will inquire concerning his daughter—she is in delicate health, you know. Indeed, I have some preserves for her. A capital excuse, is it not? [All take seats.]

Miss V. Oh, why did you beckon to that man?

Mrs. S. We have no other way of ascertaining anything about the stranger; but what objection have you to Mr. White?

Miss V. He is so very impertinent. Would you believe it—no longer than last Monday, I saw him go home with a covered market-basket-strange, that people will use such things; sent Betty over to ascertain what he had for dinner

the most natural thing in the world, you know—and what do you think he said? He told her he would dine on scandal, and was it not so very common a dish, he would invite her mistress to dinner. So impertinent! and to a lady too! I declare, I can't bear him. Betty found out, though. He had It could n't have cost him less than three or four

a salmon.