be
wooed and won, and can't lift a finger or speak a word for yourself.
Then there's that woman with the broken arm--Joe Smith's wife. Why
shouldn't you tell that the barber didn't set it right, and that you
had to reset it? I saw some of Joseph Smith's grandchildren the other
day," she continued, suddenly changing the subject, "and I must say
they don't look like the descendants of a prophet."

For a brief period in the unfolding spring Mrs. Lively experienced a
little lifting of her spirits. The season was marvelously beautiful in
Nauvoo: one serious expense, that for fuel, was stayed, and there was
the promise of increased sickness, and thus increased work for the
doctor. But this gleam was followed almost immediately by a shadow:
a scientific paper which he had despatched to a leading magazine
came back to him with the line, "Well written, but too heavy for our
purposes." [1]

"I knew it was," said Mrs. Lively. "You write the driest,
long-windedest things that ever I read."

Dr. Lively sighed, took his hat and went out, while Mrs. Lively, after
some moments of irresolution, set about getting dinner.

"Now, where's your father?" she impatiently demanded when the dinner
had been set on the table.

"Dunno," answered Master Napoleon through the potato by which his
mouth was already possessed.

The Little Corporal, as he was sometimes called by virtue of his
illustrious name, was a lean-faced lad with no friendly rolls
of adipose to conceal the fact that he was cramming with all his
energies.

"Why in the name of sense can't he come to his dinner?"

Napoleon gave a gulping swallow to clear his tongue. "Dunno," he
managed to articulate, and then went off into a violent paroxysm of
choking and coughing.

"Why don't you turn your head?" cried the mother, seizing the said
member between her two hands and giving it an energetic twist that
dislocated a bone or snapped a tendon, one might have surmised from
the sharp crick-crack which accompanied the movement. "What in the
name of decency makes you pack your mouth in that manner? Are you
famished?"

"A'most," answered the recovered Napoleon, resettling himself, face to
the table, and resuming the shoveling of mashed potato into his mouth.

"That's a pretty story, after all the breakfast you ate, and the lunch
you had not two hours ago! Where under the sun, moon and stars do you
put it all?"

"Mouth," responded Napoleon, describing with his strong teeth a
semi