When two souls set out in married life, a sailin’ out on the sea of True Love, they must expect to steer at first through rocks, and get tangled in the sea weed, the rocks of opposing wills, and the sea weed of selfishness. And before they get the hang of the boat it will go contrary, squalls will rise and most upset it, and they’ll hist up the wrong sails and tighten the wrong ropes and act like fools generally. And they’ll be sick, very; and will sometimes look back with regret to the lonesome, but peaceful shores they have left, and wish they hadn’t never sot out. But if they’ll be patient and steer their boat straight and wise, a calmer sea is ahead, deeper waters of trust and calm affection, in which their boat will sail onwards first rate. They’ll git past the biggest heft of the rocks, and git the nack of sailin’ round the ones that are left so’s not to hit ’em nigh so often, and the sea weed, unbeknown to them, will kinder drizzle out, and disappear mostly. I don’t have to correct Josiah near so much as I used to, though occasionally, when I know I am in the right, I set up my authority, and _will_ be minded; and he hisen. I never see a couple yet, whether they’d own it or not, but what would have their little spats; but good land! if they love each other they git right over it, and it is all fair weather again. The little breeze clears the air, and the sun will shine out again clear as pure water, and bright as a dollar. Sister Doodle, (Josiah thought it was best to call her so some of the time, he thought it would seem more friendly) she says, the widder does, that she never see a couple live together any happier and agreabler than me and Josiah live together. She told me it reminded her dretfully of her married life with Doodle. (Josiah had cooed at me a very little that mornin’—not much, for he knows I don’t encourage it in him.) Truly Doodle is her theme, but I hold firm. She was a helpin’ me wash my dishes, and she begun: how much Josiah and I reminded her of her and Doodle. Says she—“Nobody knows how much that man thought of me; he would say sometimes in the winter when we would wake up in the mornin’: ‘My dear Dolly,’—he used to call me that, though my name is Nabby, but he said I put him in mind so of a doll, that he couldn’t help callin’ me so—‘My dear Dolly,’ he’d say, ‘I have been a dreamin’ about you.’ “‘Have you Mr. Doodle?’ says I. “‘Yes,’ says he, ‘I have been a dreamin’ how much I love you, and how pretty you are—jest as pretty as a pink posy.’ Them was Mr. Doodle’ses very words: ‘a pink posy.’ “I’d say,—‘Oh shaw, Mr. Doodle, I guess you are tryin’ to foolish me.’ “Says he—‘I haint, I dremp it.’ And then there would come such a sweet smile all over his linement, and he would say: “‘Dolly, I love to dream about you.’ “‘Do you, Mr. Doodle?’ says I. “‘Yes,’ says he, ‘and it seems jest as if I want to go to sleep and have another nap, jest a purpose to dream about you.’ [Illustration: LOVE’S DREAM.]