SOME time ago, I was talking with a young lady of Boston who is much devoted to art. She was complaining of the great difficulty in getting models, that is, intelligent faces to copy. Suddenly she asked me, jokingly, "Why won't you come in and sit for us, Mr. Milburn ? We will pay you twenty-five cents an hour, and your car-fare, and you will have the pleasure of being looked at, admiringly, by a dozen girls." This struck me as quite the idea; so I agreed to go in and sit for their class three afternoons of a week, for two hours each day.

The next day I went in, dressed in calling costume, - black coat, &c., - and was met by a chorus of disapprobation. "How ungraceful these modern garments are! Why did n't you wear something flowing?" I mildly suggested that I had nothing in that line except a dressing-gown, and that I had not undertaken to make a guy of myself. So the class proceeded to array me in various garments belonging to the studio. A piece of embroidered mummy cloth was draped artistically over me, like a Roman toga; a sort of parti-colored cap, like those found in snapping crackers, was placed on my head; and my feet were wound up in a Turkey rug. I felt like a fool; but the class looked satisfied and that was the main point. They were a curious collection of ladies, of various ages, from seventeen up to - well, I won't guess the age of the oldest. All but one wore glasses, and the effect of the combined glare of twelve pairs of glasses can better be imagined than described! One or two belonged to the Saturday morning club, and one to the Saturday evening, - the latter being, in my opinion, preferable to the former. Two of them were very pretty; another beautifully ugly, like a pug dog; and the rest were not remarkable in any way. There was one divorced lady, who inspired much awe among the younger ones. From appearances, I should judge that it was her fault.

Finally, the sitting and my trials began. The class, it appeared, were to study facial expression; and I was told to look as fierce as possible. I straightened myself up, tried to feel as if my photograph were being taken, and thought of the cruel exactions of the history professor. I flattered myself that every hair of my mustache was standing out with indignation, when I heard one young lady whisper to another, "He looks just like our cat when she's mad." This completely upset my gravity, and made it impossible to look fierce any longer.

Next I was told to look sentimental. I asked if I might look at one of the young ladies. The request was granted, and I gazed with all my soul in my eyes, repeating mentally all of Romeo and Juliet that I knew. (See English 2 mid-year.) The young lady seemed rather disconcerted; but I had a good look at her, - never had so good an opportunity before. I had, in my quotations, arrived at the line "Oh, swear not by the moon," &c., and was wondering whether the moon would hold out so that I could go skating some evening. Just then, a lady asked me to put a little more expression into my mouth, and that ended the sentimentalism.

The next stage was to look as foolish as possible, and one young lady, whom I knew, kindly suggested that I should look as natural as I could. I thanked her with a glance, and proceeded to withdraw all intelligence from my face. This expression proved very satisfactory. All the class worked steadily. The result was, I am confident, the missing link between man and monkey! I have reserved that look for use at recitations. The only question that bothers me is, When the intelligence left my face, where did it go? Perhaps to the C-rp-r-t-n.

I now had ten minutes for rest, and amused myself by looking at the Milburn gallery, as I called it. All the class had got the nose down perfectly cold every time; but I could n't say much for the rest of the features. One young lady had written underneath the sentimental and foolish pictures, "Mt. Desert - Before and After!" I challenged her to try it next summer, and was having a very pleasant talk, when the artist suddenly remarked, "Mr. Milburn, we will take you now as Hercules." This was too much! It was too sarcastic a reference to my small size. I claimed my twenty-five cents and departed. The next day, I received a complete set of the pictures, appropriately labelled, and they now adorn my room. I am going to Mt. Desert next summer.