“General,” said the young captain, “will you permit me to ask you one question? Did not your family spoil you a trifle after this incident?” “Oh, yes!” replied the General. “I did not lack attention. Aunt Marie and my mother both kissed me. My uncle declared I was a fine little fellow, and Madame Brazon, about two weeks later, sent me the very biggest pumpkin in her garden. She had found out that I adored pumpkin soup.” [Illustration] [Illustration: THE HAPPINESS OF BEING NEARSIGHTED] When Dr. St. George Mivart contributed to a well-known English periodical his article, “The Happiness In—Ahem!”—the title naturally attracted immediate attention and won for the paper a consideration which led to the universal discussion that immediately followed. No one wished or expected to go to the place concerning which he set forth some of the particulars, and even some of the secrets; but as everybody had friends who were in danger of such a fate, and enemies who were certain of it, there was naturally no little curiosity to learn from the writings of the early Fathers and later learned ecclesiastics whom Dr. Mivart quoted how these persons would fare there. To the general surprise, he disclosed that even in that dismal abode, with an eternal summer of a temperature the height of which no thermometer known to earthly science could measure, there was yet to be expected at times a certain degree of felicity. Christmas and Easter, it may be remembered, were days off, when holiday existed, the fires were banked and comparative coolness prevailed. To the man or woman of acute sight, who sees everything far or near without the necessity of optical aids, and to whom all surroundings are definite and clear, and who recalls the fellow-being who must either wear glasses or grope and stumble and be uncertain of environment, it would appear nonsense to say that there is a happiness in being nearsighted. And yet in a certain form of nearsightedness there are sources of delight which even the man of perfect sight never knows. There are scientific distinctions which the oculist who examines your eyes and the optician who is anxious to sell you a pair of glasses will explain between the nearsightedness which compels you to pore over a book, holding it close to your eyes, and the other form which enables you to read the finest print without glasses, and yet debars you from recognizing your wife or mother-in-law half way across the street. There is certainly not much happiness in the former, because, although it may give the impression that you are a close student and a man of deep erudition to go about with a book or newspaper directly at the end of your nose, the appearance you present is not heroic or graceful, and the young ladies seeing you are apt to smile; and being regarded as a book-worm and pedant you can never hope to create much of a figure in society.