“Let me see,” said the father, thoughtfully. “Tom is four years older than I was when I married, so he is,—but Jane is too young.” “Say a word,” whispered the mother to me; “say a word, Mrs. C.” “A snug home indeed,—I only wish my father could have seen the comforts I now enjoy.” The young people, seeing the turn matters were taking, scampered off with glowing cheeks. “We have four farms I can say master to,” pursued the father, “and eight hundred sheep, and six hundred head of cattle, forty pigs, and a bit of money in the bank, too, that the youngsters don’t know of. Well, all the lad will want is a good wife. Let me see,—I’ll be in Sydney next Monday five weeks,—I must buy them a few things, a chest of drawers,—yes, they’d be handy; and I might as well buy one for Jane, poor girl. Like to deal out to all alike; and the wife wants one. I only thought of taking the cart, but I will want a dray, and eight good bullocks, besides,—that’s easy enough to be seen. Well, well; it’s a nice snug home—one hundred and four acres,—two acres laid out for a vineyard,—forty under crop,—handy for the station, too.” Thus the good man musingly spoke, partly to himself, and partly addressing his wife, who, with a cheerful and approving look, nodded consent. HOMELY HINTS TO MARRIED STATESMEN. At this little homestead there were five men, whose savings would have enabled them to have taken farms, if they could have met with suitable girls as wives; and they pretty plainly animadverted upon the policy of those whom they considered the proper persons to have rectified their grievances. One remarked, “What does Lord Stanley care, so that he has a wife himself!” “Ah!” responded another; “and Peel, with all his great speeches, never said a single word about wives for us.” “Lord John Russell, too,” said Tom Slaney, “seems just as bad as the rest. What does he think we’re made of? wood, or stone, or dried biscuit?” “It ought to be properly represented to Earl Grey,” observed the fourth. “Do they call this looking after a young colony? Has nobody no sense?” “Yes,” replied the most sensitive of the party, “the _Queen_ ought to know it,—it is a cruel shame.” A COTTAGE, ROMANTIC AND REAL. John Whitney had now made his hut a comfortable cottage. In the centre of the room stood a neat table, shelves were arranged over a bush-dresser, and at one corner of the room could be seen a neat little plate-rack. A young carpenter in Australia cannot make these things without thinking of matrimony; and the one in Whitney’s cottage was beautifully made, evidently intended as a bridal gift. At the opening of the small window was a neat box of mignonette; whilst a footstool, a salt-box, a board, a rolling-pin, afforded sufficient evidence that a wife was all that was wanted to make this abode a happy home.