"Oh, yes, pa; to please you I will read the stupid old (_new_, I mean) concern.--Well, in the first place, we have some poetry--some of our village poets' (genius, you know, admits not of distinction of sex) effusions, or rather confusions. Miss Helena (it used to be Ellen once) Carrol's sublime sentiments upon 'The Belvidere Apollo,'--which she never saw, nor anything like it, and knows nothing about. She had better write about our penny-post, and then we might feel an interest in her lucubrations, even if not very intrinsically valuable. But if she does not want to be an old maid, she might as well leave off writing sentimental poetry for the newspapers; for who will marry a _bleu_?" "There is much that I might say in reply, but I will wait until you are older. And now do not let me hear you say anything more about old maids, at least deridingly; for I have strong hopes that my little girl will be one herself." "No, pa, never!--I will not marry, at least while you, or Alfred, or Jimmy, are alive; but I cannot be an old maid--not one of those tattling, envious, starched-up, prudish creatures, whom I have always designated as old maids, whether they are married or single--on the sunny or shady side of thirty." "Well, child, I hope you never will be metamorphosed into an old maid, then. But now for the Chronicle--I will excuse you from the poetry, if you will read what comes next." "Thank you, my dear father, a thousand times. It would have made me as sick as a cup-full of warm water would do. You know I had rather take so much hot drops.--But the next article is Miss Simpkins's very original tale, entitled 'The Injured One,'--probably all about love and despair, and ladies so fair, and men who don't care, if the mask they can wear, and the girls must beware. Now ain't I literary? But to be a heroine also, I will muster my resolution, and commence the story: "'Madeline and Emerilla were the only daughters of Mr. Beaufort, of H., New Hampshire.' "Now, pa, I can't go any farther--I would as lieve travel through the deserts of Sahara, or run the gauntlet among the Seminoles, as to wade through this sloshy story. Miss Simpkins always has such names to her heroines; and they would do very well if they were placed anywhere but in the unromantic towns of our granite State. H., I suppose, stands for Hawke, or Hopkinton. Miss Simpkins is so soft that I do not believe Mr. Baxter would publish her stories, if he were not engaged to her sister. She makes me think of old 'deaf uncle Jeff,' in the story, who wanted somebody to love." "And she does love--she loves everybody; and I am sorry to hear you talk so of this amiable and intellectual girl. But I do not wish to hear you read her story now--as for her names, she would not find one unappropriated by our towns-folks. What comes next?"