But I haven’t come to that—and I hope I never shall—and that’s the Village Poor-House!
AN UNFORTUNATE BEE-ING.
THE SCRAPE-BOOK.
“Luck’s all!”
SOME men seem born to be lucky. Happier than kings, Fortune’s wheel has for them no revolutions. Whatever they touch turns to gold,—their path is paved with the philosopher’s stone. At games of chance they have no chance; but what is better, a certainty. They hold four suits of trumps. They get windfalls, without a breath stirring—as legacies. Prizes turn up for them in lotteries. On the turf, their horse—an outsider—always wins. They enjoy a whole season of benefits. At the very worst, in trying to drown themselves, they dive on some treasure undiscovered since the Spanish Armada; or tie their halter to a hook, that unseals a hoard in the ceiling. That’s their luck.
There is another kind of fortune, called ill-luck; so ill, that you hope it will die;—but it don’t. That’s my luck.