In a late issue of the _Chap Book_ is the following poem: My mother bade me not to pass Too near her shining looking glass. I thought it strange such things to say To just a little girl at play; So in one hour of mortal sin I crept quite close and long looked in, And, Oh, I saw within—a sorceress. How much lovelier it would have been to us all if we could not remember a poem strangely similar—written at least six years ago by Mrs. Pratt, which ran: My mother says I must not pass Too near that glass; She is afraid that I will see A little witch that looks like me, With red, red mouth to whisper low The very thing I should not know. * * * * * There is nothing half so funny in the joke books as the column in the Serious Family magazines devoted to conduct, which, according to Edwin Arnold, is three-fourths of life—that is, such life as some people have to be content with. There is a delightful humor in the absolution doled out at 25 cents a month, or whatever it is for subscription, to young people and widows and others who want to marry, or don’t, or would like to wear white at a second marriage, or be wedded within six months after a parent’s death, or eat ice cream with a spoon, or take some other liberty with the eternal unfitness of things which is called good manners. The column is usually run _a la_ chaperon—by a lady of middle age plus, and not so pretty as to be in any sort of doubt about the attention she receives. Impartiality is thus secured. She knows the grapes are acid, and can give due warning of cramps and Sun mixture. She also knows the combinations of mauve and other soft tints that best moderate the advertised pangs of widowhood or other consolable conditions. She can tell to a dot how long children must wear deep black and what is the approved cut of mourning garments for first, second and third bereavements and grass ditto. Particulars adapted to all cases may be had in all the journals for ladies and ladies’ ladies published in Philadelphia, which put out their leaves like the original tree of life twelve times a year, with red and yellow covers for Christmas. * * * * * I am informed that the death of _The New Bohemian_ was caused by slipping off the gang plank into the Irish Sea. The literary gang plank is very slippery and the Irish Sea is not yet full. Keep your eye on our Obituary Column. * * * * * Often I am seized with a desire to buy a ticket to New York by the Empire State Express and become a Great Man. And I think I would ha’ done this long ago had I not once seen Frank Stockton eating green corn off from the cob. * * * * *