We all know that happiness comes of occupation; and the work must not be irregular and occasional, and such as we have to look up for exercise, but it must be regular; and, to produce the best results, it must not be optional, but imperative. What an ingenious device of the spirit of caste to represent that work is a badge of the low class. How he cheats the possessors of wealth out of all happiness by this mean lie. A man, or, if you please, a woman, comes into possession of wealth. With this there come the picture gallery, the beautiful grounds, the perfect house,--everything to gratify her taste, every external good; but caste whispers in her ear, that rich people must not work,--work is a badge of poverty. Caught with this trick, she soon has no palate for the delicious fruits, no eye for beauty, no relish for the thousand sweet and beautiful things which cluster about her; and, ere long, she would fain change places with the jolly Irishwoman who sweats over her wash-tub. WORK FOR RICH GIRLS. You understand all this, and you want to work; but the difficulty is to find something to do. Housekeeping, with its thousand and one duties, offers a useful and pleasant field; but I will suppose that you have already been too much in the house, and greatly need to go out into the air and sunshine. Now, dear girls, let me suggest something for you, something you will like, and in which you will be, after a little, very happy. Go to bed to-night early, say at half-past eight o'clock, and rise to- morrow morning at six o'clock. I will suppose that you reside in a large town, or a city. Go at once to the suburbs, and you will find the abodes of poverty. March boldly up to one of them, and say:--- "Good morning; how de do, folkses? Thought I'd just come out and see how the the morning air tasted!" If you are in right down earnest, it won't take you five minutes to establish yourself in the confidence of Bridget O'Flaherty. And if your voice and manner are of just the right sort, there will follow such a wondrous disclosure of family secrets! You will be told all about Michael's stone-bruise, and Patrick's sore toe; probably the boys will be hauled out of bed to show you. But I must leave the secrets to your imagination, or, what is better, to an actual trial. You find that the mother herself needs a new dress that she may attend mass, and you make a note of it. The little girl needs a dress, and a pair of shoes. The next morning you carry a bundle with your own hands, and leave it with the promise that you will come again in a few days.