THE STORY I TOLD MY PIPE. YOU ure of a dear companion and a home circle, but place us before a warm fire on a winter's eve and you will be troubled to find a more contented, happy couple than my pipe and me. We have our little ways and eccentricities known to and appreciated only by ourselves. We never quarrel and we seldom disagree. A natural diffidence and unwillingness to subject my own personal appearance to the criticism of an unappreciative public, induces me, then, to describe my pipe only, leaving myself wholly to the imagination of the reader. Picture, then, to yourselves, a high, narrow forehead encircled by a turban reaching quite down to a pair of shaggy eye-brows; underneath deep set eyes, an aquiline nose, a firm mouth overshadowed by a heavy mustache and a flowing beard. I call him Abu Ben Aben, with Abu for short; because, when the warmth of the fragrant weed begins to permeate his brain like his great ancestor of old he seems just waking "from a dream of peace." Then, as the heat grows more intense, his eyes burn more fiercely and assume that far off look as they were wont to do in days gone by, when on his faithful steed he ranged the desert wastes of his native land. Soon his face changes, becomes more soft and seems to invite confidence; then it is that I pour into his sympathizing ear my woes, and never have I parted from him without feeling cheered and comforted. Thus it is that the habit has grown upon me of confiding to him all my secrets and thus it is I came to tell him this story which I am about to relate. One evening, about two weeks after the beginning of second term Senior year, I came into my room, threw a letter on the table, filled Abu with my last lot of "Lone Jack," drew a chair up before the fire and sat down. After smoking silently for about fifteen minutes, I saw the confidential mood steal over Abu's face. Then, holding him before me, I thus began :--Well, old fellow, I've been in love. "Well, that's nothing new, you've been there before." Abu, once and for all, I won't have you use slang. I never indulge in it myself and I won't allow it in those around me; as to what you say that's true enough, but while those others to which you refer were mere pastimes, this was of the right kind. When I saw Carrie I knew I had met my fate at last. "What did you say her last name was?" That's just it, I didn't say anything about her last name. Some time ago while I lay upon the lounge I heard you tell that brier-wood on the table all about that last affair of mine, name, age and every particular and now I'm not going to have Carrie's name made the common talk. Dreaming?" No. I was not any more than I am now. "Drunk?" If you insult me again in that way I will stop talking immediately. You know I never drink. It was in the ball-room of the "Union" at Saratoga last summer that I first saw Carrie. She was there with her mother. I never could bring myself to like that woman, she seemed always on the look-out for some eligible rich young man for her daughter. I thought then and now for that matter, that Carrie was the prettiest girl in the room and immediately obtained an introduction. “How did she look?" Well, let me think. Yes, now I know, her sweet face seems to be just hovering over your head. I see a mass of golden hair, a low, broad forehead, a pair of deep blue eyes, and cheeks that in their mingled hues of pink and white might well be compared to—. Now what possessed you, Abu, to throw out that awful cloud of smoke? Do you know you have destroyed her image entirely? You are jealous, I suppose; still, jealous or no, the next time you repeat such an experiment our friendship ends. You never saw her and so could not be expected to know how angry such an insult to her would make me. I was smoking cigars for she did not like a pipe. You need not repeat that time-honored sentiment of yours-how any girl who does not like a pipe lacks the essential qualities necessary to make a man happy. That's your side of the question entirely; still, I am getting almost to think the same way myself. A dance with Carrie and then a walk on the piazza only made me more her slave. For she could waltz to perfection and talk quite as sensibly as one might expect. After this things went on swimmingly; there were boating parties on the lake, picnics and drives in which Carrie always accompanied me. I often wondered at my good luck, but now I know it was the work of her mother who knew well enough how to manage such affairs. Well, one evening, after a particularly fine redowa while walking on the piazza I told her how much I loved her and asked her that one all important question which was answered to my perfect satisfaction. About an hour afterwards, as I was walking up and down enjoying the calm moonlight, a good cigar, and thinking myself the happiest of men, I heard a voice which I recognized as her mother's say: "You have done very well, my daughter. He's quite a nice young fellow; his father is rich and he is an only child." I must confess it rather jarred upon my feelings to have my merits reduced thus to a numerical basis, but I consoled myself with the thought that it was the daughter I was going to marry and not, thank heavens, the old lady. My father, you know, was a stock broker and reported to be worth at that time about half a million. We all returned to the city together and soon after I left for college only wishing it was the following fall, for that was the time appointed for the wedding. I managed somehow or other to get through the term, and the first train after the close of examination bore me an eager lover to the city. My first call was, of course, at her house where I was received by all as one of the family. Matters went on in the highest degree favorably and pleasantly till that awful day known among the brokers as "Black Friday." My father had bought or sold short, I don't know which, neither do I care; only this I do know that, by the next evening instead of being richer he was completely bankrupt. I went to Carrie expecting to be cheered and comforted, but she didn't seem to sympathize with me as much as I had thought she would. The next time I called she appeared to act more coldly. Still I tried to convince myself that it was only my imagination. As I was going up the steps of her house to make my last call before leaving for New Haven, I saw, coming down, young Stimpkins with a complacent sort of smile on his face. He's awful rich and an awful fool. How I hate that fellow. I only wish he was a Freshman and I a Sophomore. If some fine morning he didn't make a mighty sick-looking appearance, then you might sell my hat to an undertaker. Up to this time I had received no letter from Carrie, but to-night this one came. It tells me how at first she thought she loved me and could be happy with me but lately her feelings have been changing. Now she knows she never really did love me, and asks to be released from our engagement. It ends with the warmest expressions of friendship and is signed Miss Carrie MOh, it's a very proper letter, written on delicately perfumed paper adorned with a very pretty monogram. The Correct Letter Writer would put it down as a highly creditable performance, but for once I must disagree with the C. L. W. So it's all over and I have only you, old fellow, left to console me. If you should go. What, smoked out? Yes, too true! you like Carrie have deserted me because I have no longer the means of giving you enjoyment. T. THE CHARACTER OF ISAAC WALTON. N that which has perpetuated his name, Isaac Walton is a character almost without a parallel. He lived in an age of political revolution, and the only part he took in politics was to write a tract on "Love and Truth," which appeared without his signature; and yet even in the events of those stirring times, his quiet, peaceful life was not buried up and forgotten. He lived to be ninety years old, and he died less than two hundred years ago, and yet, although he has won a world-wide fame, the whole story of his career can be told in a few simple words. He was born in the town of Stafford, on the 9th of August, 1593. His mother was the niece of Archbishop Cranmer. His occupation was that of a linen-draper, and he practiced this calling in London. In 1643 he retired from business to a small estate near his native town, where he spent the remainder of his days. He was acquainted with the most eminent and scholarly divines of England. His powers of mind and body were preserved to the last, and he died in 1683. And this is about all that his biographers can tell us. As we look at it from the outside, his life seems almost without incident. There were no business failures, no domestic calamities, no civil disasters. He paid little attention to the affairs of the State, though his tender sensibilities must have been wounded by the misfortunes of his country. He never aspired to distinction, though his friendship with some of the most influential celebrities of his day, might have given him assurance of success. Ashmole tells us that Walton was instrumental in preserving the life of the lesser George; and he was somewhat harassed during the civil wars, and thanked God that he was not a Covenanter. But these were rare episodes in his career. For the most part, the current of his life ran as smoothly and as peacefully as the streams along which he used to wander, and which he loved so well. It is only by his writings, therefore, that we know him, but in these we know him with the fullness and completeness of an old acquaintance. His principal works are his "Memoirs" and the "Complete Angler." To one who has never perused the former, it is impossible to describe their wonderful charms. They are simple, unpretending stories. They are interesting in themselves. The worthies whose lives they describe were prominent characters in the religious circles of the 17th century. Their careers abound in incidents, questions of policy, cases of conscience, embarrassments of fortune, grave controversies |