“Oh!” says Delila Ann; “I want my girls to marry. It hain’t genteel for wimmen to work; they won’t never ketch a bo if they work.” “Well,” says I, very coldly, “I had rather keep a clear conscience, and a single bedstead, than twenty husbands and the knowledge that I was a father killer. But,” says I, in reasonable tones, for I wanted to convince ’em: “it haint necessary to read dime novels and lead round pups, in order to marry; if it was, I should be a single woman to-day.” “Oh, I love to read dime novelth,” says the lispin’ one: “I love to be thad and weep; it theemeth tho thweet, tho thingularly thweet.” Says I, “Instead of sheddin’ your tears over imaginary sorrows, there is a tragedy bein’ lived before your eyes, day after day, that you ort to weep over. A father killin’ himself for his children, bearin’ burdens enough to break down a leather man, and they a-leadin’ round whiffet pups by a string.” “Whiffet pup!” says Delila Ann, almost angrily; “they are poodles.” “Well,” says I, calmly; “whiffet poodle pups, it makes no particular difference to me, if it suits you any better.” Says she, “I paid seven dollars fer ’em, and they pay their way in comfortin’ the girls when they feel sad. Of course, my girls have their dark hours and get low-spirited, when they bore their pa for things he won’t buy for ’em. When they all want a gold butterfly to wear in their hair, are fairly sufferin’ for ’em and then pa won’t get ’em, in such dark hours, they find the dear dogs such a comfort to ’em. “Why don’t they go to work and earn their own butterflies, if they have got to have ’em?” says I, very coldly. “Because they won’t never marry if they work,” says Delila Ann.