When two very young people marry, it is as if one sweet pea should be put as a prop to another. Of course much depends upon the young man. Some men are better fitted to take upon themselves the duties of marriage at twenty-five than are others at thirty-five. Between these two ages is the usual time, and if men put off much after the last-mentioned age they are likely to get into the habit of celibacy which, like all other bad habits, is difficult to break away from. In this habit they will continue till they are about sixty years of age, when a terrible desire to know for themselves what matrimony is like will seize them and they will propose right and left to every eligible lady, until at last they are picked up, not for themselves but for their money or their position, or because some one is tired of being a Miss and wants the novel sensation of putting "Mrs." before her name. It is not natural for a young woman to wish to marry an old man. "When it is time for you to marry," said a father to his daughter, "I shall not allow you to throw yourself away upon one of the frivolous young fellows I see about. I shall select for you a staid, sensible, middle-aged person; what do you say of one about fifty years of age?" "Well, father," was the reply, "if it is just the same to you, I would prefer two of twenty-five." As to the age women should marry--I don't like to burn my fingers with that question. All I shall say is that if there are some of them--as it is said there are--not worth looking at after thirty years of age, there are quite as many not worth speaking to before that. Please yourself then, young man, only do not choose one who is either a child or an old woman. AUTUMN. Radiant sunsets garnered Through the bygone year From the earth's deep bosom, Slowly now appear. Rainbow glories flooding Forest, hill, and vale, With a ruby lustre And an amber pale. Now the forest minster Trembles as each chord Swells the rocking pine trees On the wind's keyboard. Till the music endeth In an accent drear Wailing out a requiem To the dying year. Earth her treasures gathered From the seasons past. Heapeth them an off'ring On an altar vast! Till the fires of Heaven Catch the ascending glow. And the heart of Heaven Into earth doth flow. Where is now the glory? Where is Autumn's glow? Passed into a furnace Working deep below. Forging through the darkness Gems surpassing fair, That the coming springtime In her crown shall wear! _Envoi._ Garner--heart--the sunsets Of thy passing years. Bygone strains of music, Remembered but in tears. Till thy sorrow's--silent, Alchemy transmute. And each broken reed of song Grows into a flute. V. R. [Illustration] LILIAN'S FELLOW-TRAVELLER. BY ROSA NOUCHETTE CAREY.