eral wore blue goggles--we knew not whether
for use or beauty.

LAURA WINTHROP JOHNSON.

A MEETING AT SEA.

It seems like a long, long while ago since Uncle Joseph told it to me
as a recollection of his youthful days; and as Uncle Joseph was then
no longer young, it must have been long, long ago that it happened. It
was dull work sitting day after day on the hard benches and listening
to lectures on therapeutics and anatomy which I had already heard
twice _verbatim_--for I was a third-course student--and it was
scarcely more entertaining to sit alone in my cozy little chamber and
pore over the dry details of my medical textbooks. How often would my
gaze wander through the attic-window to rest upon the broad blue bosom
of the Ashley, and watch the course of the rippling current which
flashed and glistened in the October sunlight! It was very hard to fix
my mind upon the contra-indications of calomel and the bromides while
the snowy gulls were circling gracefully over the gliding waters, and
the noisy crows were leading my thoughts across the stream to the
island thickets where I knew the wild-deer lay. I remember how I used
to interpret their cawing into mocking laughter because I had no wings
to follow them into those shady fastnessess, which were filled by my
hunter's fancy with all kinds of temptations to manly sport. And
then, just as I was about to turn; with a great effort from the
alluring scene, there would be a sudden commotion among the distant
wavelets, and a huge white mass would flash for a moment in the
sunshine as the enormous devil-fish of the Carolina waters would
spring into the air in his unwieldy gambols, and fall again with a
mighty splash into his native element.

"Then you had better have had your study-hours at night." I am sure
that's what you are thinking. I thought so too, and put the thought
into practice; but then it _would_ be moonlight sometimes, and the
white beams would shimmer on the water, and the regular beat and dash
of the oars would come to my ears in time with the wild, chanting
melody of the boatmen's song. That was just the way of it on the night
when I heard this story; and when my cigar had burned out and the
autumn air had begun to chill me with its fresh, crisp breath, I said
to myself, "It's of no use. I'll shut the old book and spend an hour
with Uncle Joseph."

The moon did not have it all her own way that night, notwithstanding
her tempting brightness. Ther