sure in expectancy, like the making of matrimonial matches. Everybody is
looking for it, but nobody sees it. The sharpest of eyes only discern
the bluest and gloomiest objects. But PUNCHINELLO may reasonably expect
to see, feel and know, this good time. The coming will yet be to it the
time come. Perhaps it will be when it visits two hundred thousand
readers weekly, when mothers sigh, children cry, and fathers well-nigh
die for it. At all events, somewhen or other--it may be the former
period, but possibly the latter--the good time _will_ come. And great
will be the coming thereof, with no discount to the biggest or richest
man out.

What a luxury is Hope! It springs eternal in the human breast. Rather an
awkward place for a spring, but as poets know more than other people, no
doubt it is all right. Hope is an institution. What is the White House,
or the Capitol at Washington, to Hope? What is the Central Park, or
Boston Common, or the Big Organ, to Hope? Not much--not anything, like
the man's religion, to speak of. Hope bears up many a man, though it
pays no bills to the grocer, milliner, tailor, or market man. It is the
vertebra which steadies him plumb up to a positive perpendicular. A
hopeless man or woman--how fearful! They very soon become
round-shouldered, limp and weak, and drink little but unsizable sighs,
and feed on all manner of dark and unhealthy things. It is TODD'S
deliberate opinion that if a cent can't be laid up, Hope should. Hope
with empty pockets is rich compared to wealth with "nary a" hope. Hope
is a good thing to have about the house. It always comes handy, and is
acceptable even to company. So believes, and he acts on the faith, does

TIMOTHY TODD.

* * * * *