AFTER a dogged silence of long months, in which there have been scores of anxious inquiries on the part of our readers, as to his whereabout, whatabout, and whenabout, -and when-to-be-about, - the INDIFFERENT MAN has at length, in the cool indifference of his own good time, 'forked over' the stanzas below, composed on the daguerrotype shado of a sweetheart whom he had never seen.

A tentative violoncello is playing, invisible and plaintive, then stops with an asthmatic scrape of catgut.

Bodice and train of rich white glace silk, tastefully trimmed with buffants of tulle and bouquets of variegated venustus; …

The child zoomed down the hill on his sled.