Oh, it was sad, sad, sad. Do these men flirts ever dream of the heartaches they bring to those who learn to love them and are then cast aside like broken toys? And think of the sadness this heart tragedy brought to the other members of Lizzie’s family. They watched her day after day, seeing the lines of despair grow deeper and deeper every week. And oh, how her sad, sweet face appealed to their love and sympathy. After the announcement of the fickle man’s wedding appeared in the local press, the sadness seemed to deepen for a few months, and then the poor girl slowly came out of the shadows. But any one who knew her could see that her poor heart was buried in the ashes of her early hopes, and that her never-dying love still sat sighing in the ashes. MEMORIES OF THE OLD TRUNK The other day while searching through an old trunk for a lost paper, I came across a little pasteboard box. Inside the box I found a photo of a three-year-old boy with Fontleroy curls, and in the same box I found those curls of beaten gold. I called to my wife, and together we examined the relics of a bygone day. This was the picture of our baby boy, and I recalled how, twelve years ago, we took him to the photographer and posed him for his picture; and from there we took him to the barber’s and had his curls cut off. He could not always remain our baby. We had postponed the sad day for several months, and when we brought him back home and his grandmother caught sight of the shorn boy, she took him in her arms and cried: “Oh, where is my baby? You have traded him off for a boy!” Strange how these things affect us. Strange how these babies grow out of childhood and go exploring through boyhoodland. Our baby disappeared the moment his last curl was severed, and a boy took his place in our affection. Now that boy is passing from us. He is growing tall and stout, and his voice is changing. The moment we put long trousers on him and hide those sturdy legs he will be a young man. The boy will pass away as did the baby in curls, leaving a peculiar sadness at our hearts. That baby did not die, and yet he passed away from us as completely as though we had placed him in a little grave. And some day soon the boyish face will change to that of a man, and the boy will be gone forever. I still recall the first evening we saw the boy sleeping on his bed, after shorn of his curls, and his mother said to me: “No one can tell how sadly I feel at this great change.” “I believe I do,” I replied; “and I will try to put down on paper some of the emotions passing through your heart. They are in mine too.” And so I did try to write of her emotions, and the lines were still in the old trunk, tied up with the photo and THE SEVERED CURLS