as a wife can be; and from her lips came the words of faith: “Whatever He doeth is right and best.”
Then her husband asked, “From whence hast thou all at once derived such strength and comforting faith?”
And as she kissed him and her children, she said, “It came from God, through my child in the grave.”
THE SHIRT COLLAR.
There was once a fine gentleman who possessed among other things a boot-jack and a hair-brush; but he had also the finest shirt collar in the world, and of this collar we are about to hear a story. The collar had become so old that he began to think about getting married; and one day he happened to find himself in the same washing-tub as a garter. “Upon my word,” said the shirt-collar, “I have never seen anything so slim and delicate, so neat and soft before. May I venture to ask your name?”
“I shall not tell you,” replied the garter.
“Where do you reside when you are at home?” asked the shirt collar. But the garter was naturally shy, and did not know how to answer such a question.
“I presume you are a girdle,” said the shirt collar, “a sort of under girdle. I see that you are useful, as well as ornamental, my little lady.”
“You must not speak to me,” said the garter; “I do not think I have given you any encouragement to do so.”
“Oh, when any one is as beautiful as you are,” said the shirt collar, “is not that encouragement enough?”
“Get away; don’t come so near me,” said the garter, “you appear to me quite like a man.”
“I am a fine gentleman certainly,” said the shirt collar, “I possess a boot-jack and a hair-brush.” This was not true, for these things belonged to his master; but he was a boaster.
“Don’t come so near me,” said the garter; “I am not accustomed to it.”
“Affectation!” said the shirt collar.
Then they were taken out of the wash-tub, starched, and hung over a chair in the sunshine, and then laid on the ironing-board. And now came the glowing iron. “Mistress widow,” said the shirt collar, “little mistress widow, I feel quite warm. I am changing, I am losing all my creases. You are burning a hole in me. Ugh! I propose to you.”
“You old rag,” said the flat-iron, driving proudly over the collar, for she fancied herself a steam-engine, which rolls over the railway and draws carriages. “You old rag!” said she.
