Mrs. Tree

ambitious mother with literary tastes, had colored his whole life. He was assistant in the post-office, and lived largely on the imaginary romance of the letters which passed through his hands; he also played the flute, wrote verses, and admired his cousin Phoebe.

"I have often thought it a pity," said Mr. Homer, "that Cousin Marcia should not apply herself more to literary pursuits."

"I don't know what you mean by literary pursuits, Homer," said Doctor Stedman, rather gruffly. "I found her the other day reading Johnson's Dictionary by candlelight, without glasses. I thought that was doing pretty well for ninety-one."

"I--a--was thinking more about other branches of literature," Mr. Homer admitted. "The Muse, James, the Muse! Cousin Marcia takes little interest in poetry. If she could sprinkle the--a--pathway to the tomb with blossoms of poesy, it would be"--he waved his hands gently abroad--"smoother; less rough; more devoid of irregularities."

"Cousin Homer, could you find it co