4 kidneys - those of medium size are preferable to large.

2 great spoonfuls of butter.

1 great spoonful chopped parsley, onion, and very fine bread-crumbs.

Juice of half a lemon.

Pepper and salt to taste.

Split the kidneys lengthwise, but not quite through, leaving enough meat and skin at one side to act as a sort of hinge. Rub them well inside with melted butter, and lay them open, as you would small birds, the back downward, upon a buttered gridiron, over a bright fire. They should be done in about eight minutes. Turn often while broiling. Have ready the stuffing of crumbs, parsley, onion, and butter, well seasoned. Heat in a saucepan, stirring until smoking hot. Add the lemou-juice; dish the kidneys, put some of this mixture inside of each, close the two sides upon it, butter and pepper them, and serve.

A few bits of fat salt pork, minced very fine, gives a good flavor to the stuffing. The pork should have been previously cooked.

uAh! you forget my sedan-chair," said Madame de Stael, when, at the height of her social and literary fame some one wondered how she found time for writing amid her many and engrossing engagements.

The sedan-chair was the fashionable conveyance for ladies, at that day, in their round of daily calls or evening festivities, and the brilliant Frenchwoman secured within its closed curtains the solitude and silence she needed for composition.

An American authoress who wrote much and with great care - never sending her brain-bantlings into the world en deshabille - replied to a similar question: "My happiest thoughts come to me while I am mixing cake. My most serious study-hours are those devoted apparently to darning the family stockings."

1 entered a street-car, not many days ago, and sat down beside a gentleman who did not lift his eyes from a book he was reading, or show, by any token, his consciousness of others' presence. A side-glance at the volume told me it wasFroude's "History of England," and I cheerfully forgave his inattention to myself. The conductor notified him when he reached his stopping-place, and, with a readiness that betrayed admirable mental training, he came out of the world through which the fascinating historian was leading him, pocketed his book, recognized me with a pleasant word, and stepped to the pavement in front of his store, the thorough business man.

"That is an affected prig," said a fellow-passenger, by the time the other had left the car. "He and I take this ride in company every morning and afternoon. It takes him half an hour to go from his house to his store; and, instead of amusing himself with his newspaper, as the rest of us do, he always has some heavy-looking book along - biography, or history, or a scientific treatise. He begins to read by the time he is seated, and never leaves off until he gets out. It is in wretched taste, such a show of pedantic industry."

After this growl of disapprobation, the speaker buried himself anew in the advertising columns of the Herald, and I lapsed into a brown study, which had for its germ the query, "Is it, then, more respectable, even among men, to kill time than to save it?" I knew the reader of Froude well. He was, as I have intimated, a successful and a busy merchant; and I had often marvelled at his familiarity with English belles-lettres, and graver literature, the study of which is usually given up to so-called professional men. That hour a day explained it all. The crowded streetcar was his sedan-chair. I also knew his critic; had seen him placed at such a woful disadvantage in the society of educated men and women, that my heart ached and my cheeks burned in sympathy with his mortification; had heard him deplore the deficiencies of his early training, and that the exigencies of his business-cares now made self-improvement impracticable. He would have protested it to be an impossibility that he could find a spare hour a day to devote to the neglected task; six hours a week - a whole day in a month, two weeks in a year. Yet a fortnight of news-paper-reading and idle gossip would be a sorry entry in his year-book. For this lazy murder of time cannot, by any stretch of conscience, be classed as healthful recreation, any more than can the one, two, three, ten hours a week during which Mrs. Neverthink sits with folded hands, discussing fashions and her neighbors' frailties, the while her work is steadily doubling itself up, snowball-like, before the lever of each idle minute. All work and no play would make Mrs. Nev-erthink a dull and a diseased woman; but the fact is, she is not playing any more than she is working, as she sits, or stands to parley about trifles. She is only wasting time, making inevitable the haste. Oh! these "few words more," with which the Neverthink tribe prolong the agony of their would-be-if-they-could industrious sisters, and heap up the burden of their own coming cares! The words which mean nothing, the driblets of a shallow, sluggish stream that meanders into anybody's meadow, and spreads itself harmfully over the nearest pastures, instead of being directed into a straight, beneficent channel! "I haven't a bit of system about me!" wails the worried creature, when the ponderous snow-ball has finally to be heaved out of the way by her own hands.

It would be a matter of curious interest could I re-count how often I have heard this plaint from those of my own sex who are thus straining and suffering. From some it comes carelessly - a form of words they have fallen into the habit of repeating without much thought of what they mean. With a majority (I wish I were not obliged to say it!) it is rather a boast than a lament. The notable housekeeper who would be ashamed to admit that she does not look narrowly after paper and twine, bits of cold meat and scraps of butter, does not calculate wisely concerning coal, candle-ends and crusts - confesses, without a blush, that she takes no thought of the gold-dust, known among us as minutes and seconds, sifting through her lax fingers. By and by, she is as truly impoverished as if she had thrown away the treasure in nuggets, and then comes the lament, not repentance. She is "run to death with work, but she doesn't see how it is to be helped. All other housekeepers are the same. She never could economize time; has no genius for arranging her labors to advantage."