"Why, it's only the picture of a donkey!" exclaimed my better seven-eighths, with a laugh. "We really don't want that sort of thing in the hall or reception rooms." "But it is really very fine!" I urged. "Look at the handling of that donkey's ears. And the frame, too, is simply magnificent." "I don't so much mind the frame. We might take out the picture and put in '_The Arrival of the Boulogne Boat_,' the Christmas supplement to the _Young Lady's Boudoir_, in its stead. And yet it is just as likely as not to spoil it. No, I think we had better put picture and frame in the box-room." "But my dear," I remonstrated; "this may be a very valuable picture. The head of the donkey is quite remarkable and ----" "Now do we want portraits of donkeys about the house? The boxroom or the dust-hole is the proper place for them." "I know you objected to my own likeness--you see the connection with the donkey, dear?" I sometimes make rather humorous remarks during the continuance of the festive season. "Don't be silly! But this hideous thing should really go into the box-room." And so it went. Perhaps on a future occasion I may trace the further adventures of my grateful client's gift. In my poor judgment they are distinctly interesting and instructive. * * * * * A DREAM OF THE NEW WOMAN. She dreamed the doom that Fate pronounces Against the woman ceased to be, She dreamed her brain weighed three more ounces, And was of finer quality. Her iron nerves all fear derided, She saw a mouse, but did not run. With pockets she was well provided, And she could fire a Maxim gun. She had abjured each female folly, Hygienic dress she always wore, With stern, determined melancholy The universe she pondered o'er. Of man in all respects the equal, At last her heart's desire was hers. Only, like every other sequel, Her sequel proved a touch perverse. She sighed, "My mind with facts is loaded, No golden vision it retains. Even Nirvana is exploded, And, save the Atom, nought remains! "Each ray of light a mental prism Must needs determine and arrest. My life is one long syllogism, Without a parenthetic jest. "I who was wont to kneel revering, In manly chivalry confide, Am all alone my vessel steering-- And yet I am unsatisfied! "The gingerbread has lost its gilding That from afar appeared sublime. I for eternity am building-- 'Twas not amiss to build for time! "The pilgrimage was long and painful, Cheerless and cold the heights I win-- About me hangs a shadow baneful Of that Eternal Feminine. "Alas, I have not learned my lesson! I feel a frantic, mad despair. I'd like to put an evening dress on, And many roses in my hair! "My heart desires the old romances, The fictions dear all facts above, The flowers, the ices, and the dances, The days of youth, the days of--Love.