_Smitherton_ (_drowning his voice_). "Well sir, that is at the rate of one thousand miles per hour. Now, suppose that I sail from this position a thousand miles east. Of course I anticipate the rising of the sun here at London by just one hour. I see the sun rise one hour before you do. Proceeding, in the same direction, yet another thousand miles, I anticipate the rising by two hours--another thousand, and I anticipate it by three hours, and so on, until I go entirely round the globe, and back to this spot, when having gone twenty-four thousand miles east, I anticipate the rising of the London sun by no less than twenty-four hours; that is to say, I am a day _in advance_ of your time. Understand, eh?" _Uncle._ "But Dubble L. Dee--" _Smitherton_ (_speaking very loud_). "Captain Pratt, on the contrary, when he had sailed a thousand miles west of this position, was an hour, and when he had sailed twenty-four thousand miles west was twenty-four hours, or one day, _behind_ the time at London. Thus, with me, yesterday was Sunday--thus with you, to-day is Sunday--and thus with Pratt, to-morrow will be Sunday. And what is more, Mr. Rumgudgeon, it is positively clear that that we are _all right_; for there can be no philosophical reason assigned why the idea of one of us should have preference over that of the other." _Uncle._ "My eyes!--well, Kate--well Bobby!--this _is_ a judgment upon me as you say. But I am a man of my word--_mark that_! You shall have her, my boy (plum and all), when you please. Done up, by Jove! Three Sundays in a row! I'll go and take Dubble L. Dee's opinion upon _that_." FOOTNOTES: [456-1] A poet is born, not made. THE MODERN BELLE _By_ STARK She sits in a fashionable parlor, And rocks in her easy chair; She is clad in silks and satins, And jewels are in her hair; She winks and giggles and simpers, And simpers and giggles and winks; And though she talks but little, 'Tis a good deal more than she thinks. She lies abed in the morning Till nearly the hour of noon, Then comes down snapping and snarling Because she was called so soon; Her hair is still in papers, Her cheeks still fresh with paint,-- Remains of her last night's blushes, Before she intended to faint. She dotes upon men unshaven, And men with "flowing hair;" She's eloquent over mustaches, They give such a foreign air. She talks of Italian music, And falls in love with the moon; And, if a mouse were to meet her, She would sink away in a swoon. Her feet are so very little, Her hands are so very white, Her jewels so very heavy, And her head so very light; Her color is made of cosmetics (Though this she will never own), Her body is made mostly of cotton, Her heart is made wholly of stone.