Year: 1873

What does become of time i? We constantly
hear people omplaining that they have no
time; no time to read, no time to care for art,
no time to decorate the house plant the
grounds, no time for meetings, no time for any
thing Now, where does all the time 60 to,
that young men and maidens have allotted to
them? The good Lord made liberal allow


ance of time to all the human family. If one
had only fy's life, or the time apportioned to
mosquitoes or the tribes of ephemera, it would
not seem strange if one were pinched for time.


What becomes of it?


1t is Sunday morning in June. Seven has
struck on the clock. The sun is glorious. The
whole air is full of softness and fragrance
Birds have long ago had mathis, and are now
eating and singing at intervals all over the
neighborhood. John Tompkins hears the
clock says to himself dreamily, "Its Sundays"
turns over, pulls the sheet over his eyes alittle
and falls off to sleep again. This is repeated
at eight o'clock At nine, he yawns, looks oon-
fusedly round the room; lies while thinking
whether it is worth while to do anything
stretches his arms over his head with prodi-
gious cape, and at length rolls over and sits up
on the side of his bed. Here, for five or ten
minutes, he combs out his hair with his fingers,
rubs himself, gapes, and clears his throat. At
length he gets fairly upon his feet, and begins
to consider the problem of Sunday dress. A
pair of socks, with many delays, il which he
examines his feet, rubs his ankles lazily, are
finally drawn on, and good beginning is made.
He goes to the window, opens the blinds, looks
out upon the charming scene, and dimily thinks
what he shall do all day. Another garment is
at length placed upon his precious person
yea, q third and now, after ablutions, with
many pauses, he is ready to consider that will
derness of hair which is his special glory, and
in which whole hours have been entangled and
lost. But before he enters upon the duties of
the comb and brush, must come the duty of
shaving; fifteen minutes is short space for
that another fifteen minutes is consumed with
the brush the collar and cravat occupy full
another quarter; while between each function
there are amless walks, from one window to
the other, then across the room, for the sake of
walking back again. 1t is half past ten when
he descends to breakfast. The church bells are
ringing the air full of invitations. The walks
are crowded with kindly neighbors, all dressed
in Sunday best; little children are carefully
holding on to the tender flowers which they
have plucked But our hero is just beginning
his first egg. 1t is after eleven before his meal
is finished it is twelve before his hat is brush
ed, his cane selected, and he is ready-ready
for what? Why, stroll down the street. The
people are coming out of church. He joins the
throng, and waits upon some damsel home ; re-
grets that he had not been earlier at church,
but really, this morning he had not time to get
ready


Hundreds squander time in such ways, not
alone IN the morning, Out during all the day
They waste time on both sides of the dinner, at
every little interval of business, at evening"
Men waste their time in worse than frivolous
talk, in loungng and gadding, in needles sleep,
in slow and lazy performance of the little du-
ties of life. They read nothing but trash they
mediate none; they seek no useful informa-
ton; they gld the surface of their lives with
some slight accomplishments and then, when
the rubs and tugs of come on, and they are
showed out of the way by rude but tough ma
lures, they whine and complain of i'll luck, of
the worlds cold -heartedness, and envy the for
tunate, and long for good luck.


There never was cask of wine so good at
the making that it did not have to work before
it was fit to keep. There never was a cask of
wine so large that small leak could not run it
dry, if left while.