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"O, molecules! They are little wee things, and it takes ever so many of them. They are splendid things. Do you know, there ain't anything but what's got molecules in it. And Mr. Cook is just as sweet as he can be, and Mr. Emerson too. They explain everything so beautifully."

"How I'd like to go there!" said the Brooklyn girl, enviously.

"You'd enjoy it ever so much. They teach protoplasm, too; and if there is one thing perfectly heavenly it's protoplasm. I really don't know which I like best, protoplasm or molecules."

"Tell me about protoplasm. I know I should adore it."

“'Deed you would. It's just too sweet to live. You know it's about how things get started, or something of that kind. You ought to hear Mr. Emerson tell about it. It would stir your very soul. The first time he explained about protoplasm there wasn't a dry eye in the house. We named our hats after him. This is an Emerson hat. You see the ribbon is drawn over the crown and caught with a buckle and a bunch of flowers. Then you turn up the side with a spray of forget-menots. Ain't it just too sweet? All the girls in the school have them."

"How exquisitely lovely! Tell me some more science."

"O, I almost forgot about differentiation. I am really and truly positively in love with differentiation. It's different from molecules and protoplasm, but it's every bit as nice. And Mr. Cook! You should hear him go on about it. I really believe he's perfectly bound up in it. This scarf is the Cook scarf. All the girls wear them, and we named them after him, just on account of the interest he takes in differentiation."

"What is it, anyway?"

"This is mull, trimmed with Languedoc lace"I don't mean that, that other."

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"O, differentiation! Ain't it sweet? It's got something to do with species. It's the way you tell one hat from another, so you'll know which is becoming. And we learn all about ascidians too. They are the divinest things! I'm absolutely enraptured with ascidians. If I only had an ascidian of my own I wouldn't ask anything else in the world."

L

"What do they look like, dear? Did you ever see one?" asked the Brooklyn girl, deeply interested.

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“O, no; nobody ever saw one except Mr. Cook and Mr. Emerson; but they are something like an oyster with a reticule hung on its belt. on its belt. I think they are just heavenly."

"Do you learn any thing else besides?"

"O, yes. We learn about common philosophy and logic, and those common things like metaphysics; but the girls don't care anything about those. We are just in ecstasies over differentiations and molecules, and Mr. Cook and protoplasms, and ascidians and Mr. Emerson, and I really don't see why they put in those vulgar branches. If anybody besides Mr. Cook and Mr. Emerson had done it, we should have told him to his face that he was too terribly, awfully mean." And the Brooklyn girl went to bed that night in the dumps, because fortune had not vouchsafed her the advantages enjoyed by her friend.

THE BALD-HEADED MAN.

THE other day a lady, accompanied by her son, a very small boy, boarded a train at Little Rock.

The

voman had a care-worn expression hanging over her ace like a tattered veil, and many of the rapid quesions asked by the boy were answered by unconscious ighs.

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Ma," said the boy, "that man's like a baby, ain't e?" pointing to a bald-headed man sitting just in ront of them.

After a few moments' silence, "Ma, what's the mater with that man's head?"

"Hush, I tell you. He's bald."

“His head hasn't got any hair on it."

"Did it come off?"

"I guess so."

“ Will mine come off?"

"Some time, maybe."

"Then I'll be bald, won't I?"

"Yes."

"Will you care?"

“Don't ask so many questions.'

PAUSE

After another silence, the boy exclaimed, "Ma, look

at that fly on that man's head."

"If you don't hush, I'll whip you when we get home."

"Look! There's another fly. Look at 'em fight, look at 'em!"

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Madam," said the man, putting aside a newspaper and looking around, "what's the matter with that young hyena?"

The woman blushed, stammered out something, and attempted to smooth back the boy's hair.

"One fly, two flies, three flies," said the boy inno

cently, following with his eyes a basket of oranges carriei by a newsboy.

MAN"Here, you young hedgehog," said the bald-headed man, "if you don't hush, I'll have the conductor put you off the train."

The poor woman, not knowing what else to do, boxed the boy's ears, and then gave him an orange to keep him from crying.

Ma, have I got red marks on my head?"

"I'll whip you again if you don't hush."

"Mister," said the boy, after a short silence, " does it hurt to be bald-headed?”

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Youngster," said the man, "if you'll keep quiet, I'll give you a quarter."

The boy promised, and the money was paid over.

The man took up his paper, and resumed his reading. "This is my bald-headed money," said the boy. "When I get bald-headed, I'm goin' to give boys money. Mister, have all bald-headed men got money?"

The annoyed man threw down his paper, arose, and exclaimed, "Madam, hereafter, when you travel, leave that young gorilla at home. Hitherto, I always thought that the old prophet was very cruel for calling the bears to kill the children for making sport of his head but now I am forced to believe that he did a Christian act. If your boy had been in the crowd he would have died first. If I can't find another seat on this train, I'll ride on the cow-catcher rather than remain here."

"The bald-headed man is gone," said the boy; and, as the woman leaned back, a tired sigh escaped from her lips.

THE BRAKEMAN AT CHURCH.

R. J. BURDETTE.

ON the road once more, with Lebanon fading away the distance, the fat passenger drumming idly on the indow pane, the cross passenger sound asleep, and the ll, thin passenger reading "Gen. Grant's Tour Around he World," and wondering why "Green's August 'lower" should be printed above the doors of "A Buddhist Temple at Benares." To me comes the brakean, and, seating himself on the arm of the seat, says, I went to church yesterday."

"Yes?" I said, with that interested inflection that sks for more. "And what church did you attend?" "Which do you guess?" he asked.

"Some union mission church," I hazarded.

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No," he said, "I don't like to run on these branch oads very much. I don't often go to church, and, when I do, I want to run on the main line, where your run is regular, and you go on schedule time, and don't have to wait on connections. I don't like to run on a branch. Good enough, but I don't like it.'

"Limited express," he said, "all palace cars and $2 extra for seat, fast time, and only stop at big stations. Nice line, but too exhaustive for a brakeman. All train men in uniform, conductor's punch and lantern silver plated, and no train boys allowed. Then the passengers are allowed to talk back at the conductor, and it makes them too free and easy. No, I couldn't stand the palace cars. Rich road, though. Don't often hear of a receiver being appointed for that line. Some mighty nice people travel on it, too."

"Universalist?" I suggested.