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DEAR reader, fancy now a low-studded room, with
crimson curtains and carpet, a deep recess filled
by a crimson divan with pillows, the lower part of
the room taken up by a row of book-shelves, three feet high,
which ran all round the room and accommodated my library.
The top of this formed a convenient shelf, on which all our
pretty little wedding presents—statuettes, bronzes, and articles
of vertu—were arranged. A fire-place, surrounded by
an old-fashioned border of Dutch tiles, with a pair of grandmotherly
brass andirons, rubbed and polished to an extreme
of brightness, exhibits a wood fire, all laid in order to be
lighted at the touch of the match. My wife has dressed the
house with flowers, which our pretty little neighbor has
almost stripped her garden to contribute. There are vases of
fire-colored nasturtiums and many-hued chrysanthemums,
the arrangement of which has cost the little artist an afternoon's
study, but which I pronounce to be perfect. I have
come home from my office an hour earlier to see if she has
any commands.

“Here, Harry,” she says, with a flushed face, “I believe
everything now is about as perfect as it can be. Now come
and stand at this door, and see how you think it would strike
anybody, when they first came in. You see I've heaped up
those bronze vases on the mantel with nothing but nasturtiums;
and it has such a suprising effect in that dark bronze!
Then I've arranged those white chrysanthemums right
against these crimson curtains. And now come out in the
dining-room, and see how I've set the dinner-table! You
see I've the prettiest possible center-piece of fruit and
flowers. Isn't it lovely?”

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Of course I kissed her and said it was lovely, and that
she was lovelier; and she was a regular little enchantress,
witch, and fairy-queen, and ever so much more to the same
purport. And then Alice came down, all equipped for conquest,
as pretty an additional ornament to the house as heart
could desire. And when the clock was on the stroke of six,
and we heard the feet of our guests at the door, we lighted
our altar-fire in the fire-place; for it must be understood
that this was a pure coup de thêâtre, a brightening, vivifying,
ornamental luxury—one of the things we were determined
to have, on the strength of having determined not to
have a great many others. How proud we were when the
blaze streamed up and lighted the whole room, fluttered on
the pictures, glinted here and there on the gold bindings of
the books, made dreamy lights and deep shadows, and
called forth all the bright glowing color of the crimson tints
which seemed to give out their very heart to firelight! My
wife was evidently proud of the effect of all things in our
rooms, which Jim declared looked warm enough to bring a
dead man to life. Bolton was seated in due form in a great,
deep arm-chair, which, we informed him, we had bought
especially with reference to him, and the corner was to be
known henceforth as his corner.

“Well,” said he, with grave delight, “I have brought my
final contribution to your establishment;” and forthwith
from the capacious hinder pockets of his coat he drew forth
a pair of kittens, and set them down on the hearth-rug.
“There, Harry,” he said, gravely, “there are a pair of ballet
dancers that will perform for you gratis, at any time.”

“Oh, the little witches, the perfect loves!” said my wife
and Alice, rushing at them.

Bolton very gravely produced from his pocket two long
strings with corks attached to them, and hanging them to
the gas fixtures, began, as he said, to exhibit the ballet
dancing, in which we all became profoundly interested.
The wonderful leaps and flings and other achievements of

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the performers occupied the whole time till dinner was announced.

“Now, Harry,” said my wife, “if we let Little Cub see the
kittens, before she's waited on table, it'll utterly demoralize
her. So we must shut them in carefully,” which was done.

I don't think a dinner party was ever a more brilliant success
than ours; partly owing to the fact that we were a mutual
admiration society, and our guests felt about as much
sense of appropriation and property in it as we did ourselves.
The house was in a sort of measure “our house,” and
the dinner “our dinner.” In short, we were all of us strictly
en famille. The world was one thing, and we were another,
outside of it and by ourselves, and having a remarkably
good time. Everybody got some share of praise. Mary got
praised for her cooking. The cooking-stove was glorified
for baking so well, and Bolton was glorified for recommending
the cooking-stove. And Jim and Alice and my
wife congratulated each other on the lovely looks of the
dining-room. We shuddered together in mutual horror
over what the wall-paper there had been; and we felicitated
the artists that had brought such brilliant results out
of so little. The difficulties that had been overcome in
matching the paper and arranging the panels were forcibly
dwelt upon; and some sly jokes seemed to pass between
Jim and Alice, applicable to certain turns of events in these
past operations. After dinner we had most transcendent
coffee, and returned to our parlor as gay of heart as if we
had been merry with wine. The kittens had got thoroughly
at home by that time, having investigated the whole of the
apartment, and began exhibiting some of their most irresistible
antics, with a social success among us of a most
flattering nature. Alice declared that she should call them
Taglioni and Madame Céleste, and proceeded to tie blue
and pink bows upon their necks, which they scratched and
growled at in quite a warlike manner. A low whine from
the entry interrupted us; and Eva, opening the door and
looking out, saw poor old Stumpy sitting on the mat, with
the most good-dog air of dejected patience.

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“Why, here's Stumpy, poor fellow!” she said.

“Oh, don't trouble yourself about him,” said Bolton.
“I've taught him to sit out on the mat. He's happy enough
if he only thinks I'm inside.”

“But, poor fellow,” said Eva, “he looks as if he wanted
to come in.”

“Oh, he'll do well enough; never mind him,” said Bolton,
looking a little embarrassed. “It was silly of me to bring
him, only he is so desolate to have me go out without him.”

“Well, he shall come in,” said Eva. “Come in, you poor
homely old fellow,” she said. “I daresay you're as good as
an angel; and to-night's my house-warming, and not even
a dog shall have an ungratified desire, if I can help it.”

So poor Stumpy was installed by Bolton in the corner,
and looked perfectly beatified.

And now, while we have brought all our characters before
the curtain, and the tableau of the fireside is complete, as
we sit there all around the hearth, each perfectly at home
with the other, in heart and mind, and with even the poor
beasts that connect us with the lower world brightening
in our enjoyment, this is a good moment for the curtain
to fall on the fortunes of

My Wife AND I.

THE END.

P. S.—If our kind readers still retain a friendly interest
in the fortunes of any of the actors in this story, they may
hear again from us at some future day, in the

Records of an Unfashionable Street.

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