ous les li

ts des oiseau

aux étés qu

jou

Y-PRU

conversations in our Secret Society, the "Centre-Seekers." Picture a winter's eve, a cosy

t least, is real. Wrap yourself in it, for you can do no better. Contentment is b

dren?" asked young Fred. Lyle, whose rudd

oyment reflecte

e friend in 'Vanity Fair

ied Holyoake, with an ai

refle

it that way," he

, tuition. "Come along there, Haviland," he exclaimed, "a nob like you should be one of the 'b

s, Riddle!" cried Little S

thou art but a

th," contrib

. He is the successful of Ev

ter than Evolution," answered Br

be of it," retor

reful,-while I put in a fine gourmand's dinner every day, attended with the comforts of civilization. I dance while you are working up unsuccessful essays. The world owes nothing to fellows who do that. If you're fools enough to want to benefit the world, turn your minds to steam engines and telegraphs, that cheapen dinners and save us running, and I'll give you my blessing in spare moments when I've nothing to do. I take a kind of melanchol

or some of the elegant accomplishments like playing the guitar. That's my system. There's philosophy in it too, by jove! I've done lots of ph

a cigarette!" s

thing simply to live the natur

ed to myself, "I ask a

*

hy I sought it, urged b

fuc

and much useless labor did I spend upon the profound

nd of this labor I final

ne in queenly peace-the spiritual eyes! "Alexandra, I am miserable; elevate and purify my hopes with a smile, when I need thy presence-ma belle Anglaise"-No, she looks coldly

me in the world?-I will rebel about this.-I will give u

's ball, my dear;" and my grave, oracular father added: "Yes, you

been my joy at other times to look forward,