WHAT MR. DUCKLOW BROUGHT HOME Itf HIS BOOT-LEO. ON a certain mild March evening, A. D. 1864, the Ducklow kitchen had a general air of waiting for some body. Mrs. Ducklow sat knitting by the light of a kerosene lamp, but paused ever and anon, neglecting her stocking, and knitting her brows instead, with an aspect of anxious listening. The old gray cat, coiled up on a cushion at her side, purr…