After a long lecture about her "masculine behavior," "horrid red countenance," and "rumpled dress," and "dishevelled hair," poor Kitty is sent to her form to "sit up straight, and not forget that she is a young lady hereafter." [Illustration: "HERE WE GO UP--UP--UPPY; AND HERE WE GO DOWN--DOWN--DOWNY."] And what of her brother who was on the other end of the plank? O, he is a boy! "That's what's the difference!" LOVE AND THOROUGHWORT. "He'll never die for love, I know, He'll never die for love, nor wear Upon his brow the marks of care." This is a true story, written for this work, but published, by permission of the author, in the "American Union." "So you believe me totally incapable of truly loving _any_ girl, do you?" "I most assuredly do," was my positive answer. My friend, George Brown, turned and walked away a few paces, looking thoughtfully to the ground. He was a splendid looking man, about twenty years of age; my late school-fellow, my present friend and confidant. He was, what I did not flatter myself as being, a great favorite with the ladies. Handsome, tall, manly, of easy address, a fine singer and dancer, the only impediment to his physical perfection was, when the least excited, a hesitancy of speech--almost a stammer. Finally he turned and walked back to me, saying,-- "Now, Ad, if you will agree to a proposition I have to offer, I will disprove your assertion, so oft repeated, that I never loved--not even that dear girl, Jenny Kingsbury." "First let me hear your proposition." "You have long desired to visit Bangor?" "Yes," I replied. "Let us harness 'Simon' early some fine morning for that delightful city; go by the way of B. and O., stop and see Jenny, who I have learned by roundabout inquiry resides with her aunt in the latter place. And," he added, triumphantly, "see for yourself if she isn't a girl to be loved." "O, no doubt Jenny Kingsbury 'is a girl to be loved;' so was Addie, and so was 'Ria, and a dozen others, whom you have sworn you loved so devotedly. O George, out upon your affections." "Will--will--you go? That's the question." "Yes--I will go--because I wish to visit Bangor very much," was my reply; and the time was at once set for the journey, which was to occupy two days. Mrs. Brown, the mother of my friend George, was a devout Christian. She believed in her Bible. Moreover, she was an excellent _nurse_, and next to her Bible, believed in _thoroughwort_. Thoroughwort tea, or thoroughwort syrup, was her panacea for all the ills, physical or moral, that ever was, or could be, detailed upon poor humanity. "Before you start, boys--" "Boys! Where are your _men_?" interrupted George.