One of Bertha Clay's.

Te Aroha News, Volume III, Issue 135, 2 January 1886, Page 3

One of Bertha Clay's.

It was a cottage overlooking the sea. From its door, over which the roses climbed, one could look out on the white-winged ships sailing to and fro, and down upon a beach on which the waves wero ever gently breaking. [The only drawback was the fact that old Smith had a mortgage on the said cobtage, and that the sewerage about the* place was defective.] It was early in the morning. The bright sun was just rising from his bed in the blue, blue sea ; the lark rose from the meadow and soared toward heaven ; the low of kine was heard on every hand, and the silent watches of night were about to give place to the bustle of a glorious day. One who stood and drank in the picture would have been entranced. [It doesn't cost a cent to get that way, and it is twenty per cent cheaper than working up an enthusiasm by the use of lager beer.] Suddenly the door was opened and a merry laugh was heard. The fair Ethol had left her couch to greet the rising sun. as she stood amidst the roses, her brown eyes sparkling with enthusiasm — her cheeks glowing with health— her golden hair lighted up by the beams of the morning sun, she was the picture of a queen. [I had forgotten to say that she had a sylphlike form. This is an oversight for which I can never forgive myself, and I hope the reader .will not bear down in malice.] Even the lark paused in his flight to look back at the beautiful picture, and the bluebirds which flitted from rose to rose sang sweeter gongs, as if to honour her. For a moment the fair Ethel stood thus, and then she descended the steps and glided toward the gate. [She wasn't on roller skates,but "glided" is an expression which I hunted for half a day, and which I am determined to use if it breaks a leg.] At the gate she paused. Once more she surveyed the placid sea —the romantic beach — the rosy eastern horizon. She was alone with nature for the moment. Her bosom heaved, her eyes grew brighter, and it was evident that the inspiration was on her. She was about to speak. Just at the instant when her ruby lips were about to part, there was a bang on the cottage door, and a gruff voice called out : " What in blazes are you doing out here when your mother is sick and I want breakfast in a hurry ?" The long eyelashes of the beautiful Ethel hid the sparkle of her eyes ; her classic chin drooped ; a look of sorrow crossed her face. For a moment she stood the picture of despair, and the stoutest heart must have been melted at her attitude. Then she sweetly answered : *' I stuck my hunk of gum on the gatepost la9t night, and I'll be jugged if some slab eided slug of humamty hasn't come along and gobbled it !" [This story didn't have any villain in it. There was no love. There were no grievous trials for anyone to pass through, and no narrow escapes to chill the blood. The sole idea was to make the world better.] — • l Detroit Free Press."