They All Do It; or, Mr. Miggs of Danbury and his Neighbors Being a Faithful Record of What Befell the Miggses on Several Important Occasions ...

"WELL, I declare, if the Miggses haven't got another young one!" observed Mrs. Melville to Mrs. Routon, who lived next door, one morning in November last.

"You don't say!" exclaimed Mrs. Routon in considerable amazement, which was heightened in effect by a mark of flour on her nose, as she was mixing bread when the information came to her.

Yes: my Henry just told me. It does beat all what poor people want of so many young ones. It seems as if, the less people had, the more mouths they got to fill. Now, them Miggses have all they can do to get bread and potatoes for what they have got; and now they've gone and got another mouth to fill. I have no patience with them at all."

It immediately transpired that what Mrs. Melville thought was just what Mrs. Routon thought.

And it came about very soon, that the entire neighborhood was of the same opinion. The Miggses had made an unhappy mistake.

Miggs's Julia came in the dawn of the day when Mrs. Melville communed with Mrs. Routon. All through that night the wind howled and shrieked and screamed, and the rain came in dashes so prolonged and fierce, as if it was pouring out the concentrated fury of five centuries upon the devoted earth. It was not a propitious night for taking a first view of this world; and perhaps that may have accounted for the tired look in the pair of eyes which lay staring upwards when the dawn came, and into which another pair of eyes, very large and very black, looked hungrily. If one so young, so very young, as Miggs's Julia undoubtedly was on this morning of its coming, could comprehend its surroundings, then it must have understood that it was a very unfortunate, if not a criminal, thing for it to have come at all. There can be no doubt but that it so comprehended, and that it so understood. There was certainly an expression on the blue and pinched face signifying that a mistake had been made, but that it was too helpless, if not too indifferent, to correct it.

It was not a strong child. Mrs. Miggs said this over and over again; while Mr. Miggs, although not equally frank, still made no denial of this state of the child's physical condition.

It certainly was not a strong child. Neither was it a nervous child. Day passed into night, and emerged again, as is its habit with every revolution of the earth; but it brought no change to Miggs's Julia: and it may be questioned if the puny, silent child took any note of the fact whatever. It lay on its back in the crib, with one very blue, and very thin, and very tiny hand clinched, and its eyes staring helplessly upward, as if in a chronic state of apology. It was not a healthy child, and not, by any stretch of the imagination, a handsome child: but the Miggses never spoke of these things; and perhaps they did not notice them. They called her Julia in deference to the aunt with the ponderous overshoes, who visited the Miggses in state two years ago, a report of which was faithfully rendered in these columns at the time. That was the name given to the blue-faced baby; and by it, in full, it was called. It was such an old baby, such a tired, unimpressible baby, that no one thought of abbreviating Julia into any thing childish and frivolous. The awful solemnity of the pinched face precluded any such liberty. And so all in the family called it Julia, round and full, but very tender.

Last Thursday morning, Mrs. Routon was mixing bread again, with a mark of flour on her nose, when Mrs. Melville came in, and immediately said, with an effort to suppress herself which was quite evident,—

"Have you heard the news?"

"No. What is it?"

"That baby of Miggs's is dead."

"What!"

"Yes," said Mrs. Melville, complacently smoothing the front of her dress. "It died this morning. It was only real sick for two or three days; but then it never did amount to any thing, you know."

"Yes, I know," said Mrs. Routon.

"And it's a mercy it's gone," remarked Mrs. Melville in the same complacent way. "They couldn't have brought it up as it ought to be; and it's a thousand times better off where it is."

"I suppose Mrs. Miggs feels badly about it," suggested Mrs. Routon after a pause.

"I don't see how she can," somewhat hastily maintained Mrs. Melville: "she's got a whole raft of children now, and has to pinch from morning to night to get them half clothed and fed. She ought to be thankful that this one is gone where it won't suffer any more."

Do you hear that, Matilda Miggs? You ought to be thankful that your baby is gone, and to realize that it is a mercy that it is gone. That's what you ought to be; but you don't look much like it, crouched up in a corner on the floor like a stricken beast, with your great eyes staring agonizingly at the clinched white hand and the pinched face

looking upward from the crib. Ah, Matilda Miggs! there are a score of neighbors far better informed than you are, who can tell you, and are anxious to tell you, that you ought to be thankful that the little clinched hand is a dead hand, and that the white face now set heavenward forever is a dead face. Never again will the tiny fingers loosen to pass softly over your face; never again will the closed eyes open to look wonderingly into yours: but you are not thankful for this. If you were in the least bit grateful, you would not crouch down there in the corner. Are you always going to remain there? Are you always going to stare like that? Won't you cry out? Won't you unclinch your hands? Don't you see that you are disturbing and distressing those who come and look into the crib, and go again, by your stony eyes and your ghastly face?

Don't you know that you are flying into the very face of society, and the very best society at that?

And you, John Miggs, with your great hulk of a frame, and white eyes that stare at every thing, and see nothing, standing at the back of the house, and chewing things, and spitting them out again, and kicking things you can't chew,—you are far from looking grateful, however grateful you may feel. Don't you hear what society says to you? You ought to be grateful that the white face is staring no more at your ceiling, that the tired eyes

are no more looking for bread, and that the pitiful mouth has grown close in death, and will never open again for you to fill it,—never again. Look up at the heavens, John Miggs, and see how ragged are the clouds which cover them. Look all about you over the earth with its decay, and its filth and debris, and bareness and rust, and then look upon yourself and your home, and see poverty and struggling everywhere. Ain't you glad that the pinched face is a dead face? If you ain't glad, you are a foe to society, and as much of an animal as the woman with the stricken face and the despairing eyes.

And as for you, Tommy Miggs, grovelling on the dirty slabs of the shed-floor, there is some excuse for you, because you are young. But even you have felt the grip of your lifetime foe; and even you ought to get up on your feet, and take the patched arms from over the aching head, and choke back that nameless feeling in your breast which makes your throat dry and your eyes lustreless, and try to look glad.

And there is the "whole raft" of Miggses, knuckling their aching eyes with their rebellious fists, and crying silently in darkened corners for the baby-face with its tired look and its pitiful eyes to come back to them.

There is not a spark of gratitude in all that house,—not one single spark of gratitude. It is awful.

THE PATRIOT'S IGNOBLE REPULSE.

HE was a stranger to Danbury, and somewhat inebriated, we are sorry to say. Where he came from, and where he was going, were facts that did not transpire while he was among us. His first appearance was in the bank. There was an old gentleman at the patrons' desk, laboriously indorsing a check. The stranger went up to him, and slapped him on the back without ostentation. The old gentleman's pen was just in the act of completing the tour of the letter Z. The jar sent it up to the north-west corner of the paper, and thence drove it into the desk. The writer turned about in unmitigated astonishment.

"What do you want, sir?" he demanded, with his spectacles reeling around on the end of his nose from the effect of the shock.

"I come to see you about Taylor," said the stranger.

"Taylor? What Taylor?"

"Zach., of course; President, you know," explained the stranger with an agreeable smile. "Lays down there now; not a stone to mark his grave, by Jinks!" and the stranger's face suddenly grew serious.

"What do I know about that?" said the old gentleman, grabbing up the pen.

"Ain't you going to do any thing about it?"

demanded the stranger, catching hold of the desk to steady himself.

"Go way! you're drunk!" pettishly exclaimed the old gentleman, discovering this and the horrid scratch on the check both at the same time.

"Drunk yourself, you ole fool!" retorted Mr. Taylor's friend, looking about for the man who stood back of the counter when he came in. Not seeing him, however, he gave the old gentleman a cordial invitation to go soak himself, and departed. The moment he got outside of the door, the cashier of the bank appeared from under the counter, and gazed absently at the ceiling.

The stranger next went into Morrill's toy-store. Mr. Morrill, who is a thin, tall person, was endeavoring to sell a lady a horse and wagon artistically constructed of tin, and elaborately colored.

"Good-afternoon," said he with a merchant's seductive smile.

"How are ye?" responded the stranger. "Are you the proprietor?"

"I am."

"Glad to see you. Will you just step one side a moment? I want to see you on special business."

Mr. Morrill took the new-comer to the end of the room, and then looked anxiously at him.

"You are nicely fixed here, I imagine," said the stranger, peering around. "Dolls with yaller hair, painted dogs, primers, tops, etcettery. Did you

ever think," he suddenly added, "that while you stood in the midst of all this glitter, like a god in a barrel of ice-cream, the grave of Pres. Taylor has no stone to mark the spot?"

"You'll excuse me, sir," said Mr. Morrill, nervously glancing toward the waiting lady; "but you spoke of a matter of importance."

"Ain't it a matter of importance that the grave of the illustrious dead should be hid away under weeds like a bag of stolen apples?"

"I know, sir," said Mr. Morrill soothingly. "But you see I'm very busy just at present, and while I naturally feel a deep interest in Mr. Taylor's affairs, still there's a lady here to purchase a horse and wagon."

"Of course you are a man of feeling," gracefully complied the stranger. "Just gimme ten cents, and I'll see that Zach. Taylor has an obelisk over his mound before night."

"You'll have to excuse me;" and Mr. Morrill moved back to the lady.

"Ain't you goin' to give me ten cents, you old shrimp?" demanded the stranger with an uncomfortable rise to his voice.

"What do you mean?" gasped the mortified and greatly astonished merchant.

"I want ten cents for the illustrious dead," yelled Mr. Taylor's friend.

"You go out of this store, or I'll put you out," threatened Mr. Morrill.

"You'll put me out, will you, old flat-stomach?" derisively snorted the stranger. "You'll pick me right up an' drop me in the gutter, I suppose, you old lath, and the grave of a president as bald as your skull. Gimme ten cents, I say, or I'll cut off your ears, and shove you under the door."

Mr. Morrill was struck dumb with horror.

"By Godfrey!" suddenly ejaculated the stranger, smiting his forehead in a paroxysm of grief, "to think of Zach. Taylor down there waiting for an obelisk,—a little tiny obelisk,—and his only authorized agent snapped up by two quarts of bones in a borrowed suit of clothes! I won't stay in a town like this. I won't stay a minute longer. I shall go back of some freight-house and break my heart, and be laid away with laurel and spices."

And he straightway departed. An hour later he was sitting on a plank in the lock-up, waiting for a freight-house and laurel and spices to come along.

THE SYMPATHIZING STRANGER.

AN elderly man with peaked features, large watery eyes, and an attire of dilapidated respectability, called at a Danbury house last Friday morning for a "lunch." He said he was travelling from Boston to Buffalo, at which latter place he had

great expectations. He sat down at the kitchen-table, with his long legs coiled up under it, and his long arms spread out upon it, while his ponderous nose stood out like a grease-spot on a pair of white pants.

The woman of the house brought him a plate of bread and meat, and a bowl of coffee. While she was placing the things he noticed that she wore a black dress, and a look of pallor.

"Had a death, madam?" he softly inquired as he squared himself for the repast.

"Yes, sir."

"Lately?"

"Last Tuesday," she answered faintly.

"I was sure of it. Father? mother? sister? brother?" he asked, taking up a piece of meat with one hand, and slapping it appetitely upon a piece of bread in the other.

"My husband, sir," she said, drawing out a handkerchief, while her lips quivered. She looked so white and sad and drooping as she sat there, that his heart was touched.

"Did he die a natural death?" he asked, softly chewing on the food, and bending the full glance of his large eyes upon her.

"Yes, sir."

"It's a bad thing in one so young as you to lose her protector. But he died a natural death; and there is comfort in that." He slapped another

piece of meat upon another piece of bread, and quietly put his teeth through them.

"You know," he presently added, revolving the morsel in his mouth, and assuming an appearance of delicate cheerfulness, "that he died calmly, with every want attended to, and loving hands to administer to him. Could I trouble you for a little mustard?" She weariedly arose, and got him the article. "There's comfort in that, isn't there?" he continued, referring to the passing-away of the deceased.

"Yes," she said in a low tone, wiping her eyes.

"Now you know," he said, looking intently at her with his eyes, while his hands spread the mustard, "it might have been much different and far worse. He might have been run over by a train of coal-cars, and cut into pound lumps stuck full of gravel?"

"I know," said she with a shiver.

"Then, again, he might have been blown up in a defective sawmill," said the stranger, taking another bite of the food, and gently closing his eyes, as if the better to picture the irredeemable horror of this proposition, "and only about two-thirds of him, and that badly damaged, ever returned to your agonized sight."

A low sob behind the handkerchief was the only response, while he opened his eyes in time to detect a fly making extraordinary efforts to shake its

hind-legs free from the mustard. Coming mechanically to the assistance of the insect, he said,—

"It is bad enough to lose him, I'll admit that. No one would be so calloused as to deny that," he said, looking around inquiringly, as if to make quite sure that no such a party was in sight. "Still it could have been much worse, you know. He might have been prematurely perforated with the ramrod of a cannon, and had to have had chloroform injected in him at an expense of twenty-five dollars a day. This would have been dreadful. But if he'd fallen into a vat of hot oil, and had all his flesh peeled off, you'd never got over it, would you?"

"No, sir," said she, burying her face still deeper in her handkerchief.

"Oh! there are a hundred ways he might have died," he went on, taking a sweep with the knife at a fly, in the exuberance of his delight that things were as they were, instead of as they might have been. "He might have perished in a fire, and been dug out of the ruins the next day with a pickaxe. He might have fallen off a two-story building, and struck on his face, and had to have gone through the funeral on his stomach, with weeping friends pressing the last fond kiss on the back of his head."

Here the narrator shuddered himself at the awful prospect of such a catastrophe, while the bereaved woman agonizingly protested against his proceeding.

"You'll admit it might have been worse?" he asked with undisguised anxiety.

"Oh, yes, sir!" she replied, wiping her eyes.

"I'm glad of that," said he, exploring his under jaw with the fork. "Afflictions will come; but if we try to think of those which are greater that have not come to us, then we are better able to bear those that do. It's been my object to teach you that a natural death is not a thing to despise in these times of rush, crash, and sputter; and, if you have learned the lesson, my mission is accomplished, and I go my way. I don't want to intrude, of course, on the privacy of a deep grief; but if the deceased was about my build, and left behind a vest not too gaudy in pattern, I should be pleased to take it along with me as a souvenir of departed worth." He paused an instant, and then added with touching solemnity, "These were his victuals; and it would seem appropriate as well as beautiful to have them held in by his vestures."

When he went away, he had as a souvenir of departed worth something he could pull down if required so to do.

AN ACCOMMODATING REPORTER.

IF there is a vacancy in the reportorial department of any of our contemporaries, we know of a

party who can fill it, although we do not know the party's present address. He came to Danbury two weeks ago to report happenings for the local edition of "The News," and proved to be an unusually acceptable man for the place. He was a pale-faced young man, of strong nervous force, but a calm exterior. The expression of his features was of that peculiar kind which implied either purity of purpose, or impurity of liver. He had been here two weeks. He was sitting alone in the editorial room last Friday, when a knock at the door summoned him. He opened it, and let in an elderly lady of fleshy mien, who had been so cut in breath by getting up the stairs, that she could say nothing until she had taken a seat.

"Is the editor in?" she finally asked.

"No, ma'am," replied the reporter with his deferential look. He stood near her, with one hand resting on the back of a chair, with an expression of tender attentiveness on his face.

It may be well to explain here, that Danbury contains more fast horses than any town of its size in the world; and, in consequence, fast driving and accidents are of daily occurrence. "The News" is located in that part of Main Street where it suddenly sprawls out as if to make a square, but unexpectedly changes its mind and comes back again. At this point, swift flying teams are constantly passing.

"I'm sorry for that," observed the old lady, speaking slowly because of the trouble with her breath, "because I wanted to see him very much. An' then I had such a time to get across the street for the teams! I declare, I never saw such driving in all my life. I should think your authorities here would put a stop to it."

"They try to," said the reporter; "but it is no use. Are you acquainted with Mr. Bailey?"

"Land, no! I never saw him, an' that's the reason I come in. I live in Ohio, and am visiting a friend in Brookfield; an' I thought, as I was so near Danbury, I would come here an' see him. But it 'pears I have had all my trouble for nothing."

"I am real sorry," said the new man, his face singularly brightening as he spoke. "But he don't come here very often. Age is telling on him."

"He is old, then, is he?" said the old lady. "Well, I might ha' knowed it. But how does he get across this street, with all the teams a-coming as they do? I should think he would be run over and killed."

"Well, I don't wonder you think so. Everybody expresses the same surprise. And it is wonderful. By Jove, madam!" continued the young man, his pale face lighting up with a glow of animation, "you would be astonished to see the old gentleman come across that street. He comes down that street there" (pointing up White Street, opposite);

"and, when he gets to the corner, he stops and looks as carefully and intelligently across the road as you could wish anybody to do it. Then he takes off his wig, and wraps it up in paper, and puts it down the leg of one of his boots"—

"Well, I declare!" broke in the old lady. "He wears a wig?"

"Oh, yes! The salt-rheum carried off every hair from his head, which is as bare as a door-knob. Then he takes out his teeth—two plates"—

"Mercy sakes!" cried the listener. "No teeth, nuther?"

"Not of his own, ma'am. Took so much sulphur for the salt-rheum, that it carromed on every tooth in his head, and left his mouth as smooth as a new culvert. Then he takes out his teeth, and puts them down the other boot-leg, and watches for his opportunity. Pretty soon he sees an opening, and then he just bends down his head like this" (suiting the action to the words), "and goes kiting across, throwing both hands over his head, and yowling at the top of his voice, 'Looh haw! Looh haw!'"

"Mercy sakes!" gasped the old lady in astonishment. "What does that mean?"

"What, ma'am?"

"Looh haw."

"Oh, that would be 'Look out!' if it had teeth in it; but his teeth are in his boot-leg, you know. Just

as he reaches this side, two men appointed for that purpose catch him in a quilt, and carry him right up here, because the exertion exhausts him so that he has no life. Then we rub him, and put in his teeth, and slap on his hair, and fix him against the desk, and he goes right to work as natural as anybody."

"Well, I declare, it is wonderful!" observed the old lady. "How I would like to see the old gentleman! But I can't stay. Please give him my best regards."

"I will, ma'am," said the pale young man.

"Good-day, sir. I am much obliged to you."

"Not at all, ma'am. Good-day." And she was bowed out.

He left Danbury shortly after—on foot. He wouldn't wait for the cars. He said he might as well be walking as standing up in a car.

WE never can tell exactly where we lose our umbrellas. It is singular how gently an umbrella unclasps itself from the tendrils of our mind, and floats out into the filmy distance of nothingness.

BE CHEERFUL AT THE TABLE.

"THE JOURNAL OF HEALTH" says that talking at the table is one of the very best digesters. This, then, accounts for the tremendous appetite everybody has for the Sunday dinner. We never could understand why, with scarcely any exercise on Sunday, the dinner of that day should be heartier and more anxiously sought for by the diner than any other dinner. Many real good Christian people will sacrifice Sunday school, where it is a noon session, in order to get home for something to eat. Although the breakfast has been later than any other of the week, still noon brings a most ravenous appetite. But it is all explained now. Talking at table does it. Everybody knows that the Sunday breakfast is the longest on the floor, and is more talked over than any breakfast of the week. This is the way it comes about. The children are to be got up, and got ready for church. It is immaterial how long people have been married: the woman always gets the breakfast ready as soon as she has called the children. They don't come, as a general thing, when they are called; but no woman allows this to influence her actions. She gets the breakfast just as punctually as if she had never had to wait an hour or so for a dilatory family. This is the grandest illustration of the sublime faith of woman to be found on record. With one or two

of the older children about her, she sits down to the meal. The surroundings of the breakfast would make it a repast of lead, were it not for the conversation, which flows smoothly on. And the great variety of subjects discussed is an important element in the development of the gastric juices. There's her husband, who, seeing the breakfast about ready, thoughtfully arranges his shaving articles, and falls to lathering his face just as he is called to the table. It occurs to him that there should be some explanation of why the meal is always brought on just as he gets to shaving; and he demands it. Then she wants to know why people will persist in shaving when they know the breakfast is right before them. Thus is one subject disposed of. Then there is the boy who is bound to have two cups of coffee. He has to be met on the very first opening of the rebellion.

"You sha'n't have another cup of coffee. One cup is enough for you. You are so nervous now, there's no living with you."

"I want it, I tell you."

"And I tell you you sha'n't have it."

"I will have it."

"What's that, sir?"

No response.

"Don't you never let me hear you talk like that again, sir, or I'll give you something that'll make your tongue civil."

There's the other boy, who perceives that there is not sugar enough in his cup, and hits upon the bold expedient of declaring that there has been no sugar put in at all.

"I know better. You stir it up, and you'll find it sweet enough."

"But I am stirring it up; an' there ain't no sugar in it at all."

"There's all you'll get; and you can drink it, or leave it alone. I've got something else to do besides doctoring you for worms."

Then the father sits down, and is being helped, when another child comes in, and, seeing his mother occupied, backs up to her to have his apron buttoned.

The temerity of this proceeding, although somewhere near its thousandth performance, never becomes sufficiently familiar to be understood by the mother; and she hastily observes,—

"Get away from here: don't you see I'm busy?"

The child sniffles.

"Shut up that yawp, or I'll give you something to sniffle for," volunteers the father.

"Why don't you snap the young one's head off, and be done with it?" retorts the mother, dropping her occupation to attend to the apron.

The father stares morosely around the table. A moment of silence succeeds. Then, the mother's affectionate eye catching the vacant expression on

the face of the oldest boy,—who has a piece of bread poised uncertainly in the air, and is evidently allowing his mind to stray beyond the home-circle,—she observes,—

"Come now, stupid! finish your breakfast, and get ready for church; and don't sit here gormandizing all the forenoon."

He returns to business at once, and another pause follows. Then comes the following:—"Take your fingers out of that dish!"

"Stop mussing!"

"Where's your collar?"

"Have you washed back of your ears?"

"Why on earth don't you sit up straight?"

"I'll box your ears till they ring if you drop another thing on that floor."

"Get out of that butter!"

"Stop muxin' that bread! One would think you were a drove of young hogs to see you at the table."

"Come, now, get right away from this table! You've eaten enough for twenty people. I sha'n't have you muxing and gauming up the victuals. Clear out, I tell you, and get your Sunday-school lessons!"

Appropriate responses being made to these observations by the parties addressed, the family adjourn from the table, to meet again at dinner with rousing appetites.

Let's have more conversation at meals, if we wish to enjoy perfect digestion.

A GREAT GRIEF.

DEAR reader, here is an occurrence common all over this broad land, but which the public knows nought of. Scene, a lighted room. Comfortably seated at the table is a man with a careworn face, on which are strangely blended the emotions of relief and apprehension. He settles far back in his chair. He opens a newspaper; and, after a cursory glance over it as a whole, he turns out the local page, and, commencing at the first column, reads carefully down. There is a dead silence in the room. Nought but an occasional slight movement of the paper is heard. The man still reads. He is all absorbed in the performance. Suddenly the face, which has become inexpressive, winces. Pretty soon there is another wince, accompanied by either a decrease or increase of color. Nervously he begins the next column, and goes down it more hastily than the preceding. He reaches the bottom with a sigh of relief, and attacks the third with a trifle less nervousness and much less expression. Suddenly he clutches the paper with a tighter grasp, as if to save himself from falling, and utters

an agonizing exclamation. It is some five minutes before he can resume the reading. Now he is in the last column, and is perusing the marriages. He reaches the last one. It gives the right name of the groom and bride. There is a closing sentence made into a separate paragraph. It is simply this: "The remains will be brought to this town for interment." Then the man in the chair drops the paper to the floor, catches both hands into his hair as if to lift himself from the face of the earth, and utters a groan that seems to come from the very depths of a crushed heart. There is not a soul to witness this misery, not a tongue to speak one word of sympathy. All alone with himself, the wretched man, with white face and flaming eyes, fights his great grief. No one knows his thoughts, or ever will. It is doubtful if he thinks at all. To every appearance he is in a stupor of misery,—a stupor so great as to deprive him of reason, of every motion except the spasmodic twisting at his hair. Heaven help the miserable wretch! for of all the despair and desolation and agony on this globe of ours there is nothing to equal this. The man is a country editor; and the paper is a copy of the edition just issued.

HENS AS A STUDY.

IN our last issue we republished from an agricultural journal an article on feed for hens. We would like to say here that it is the duty of journals to publish all such information, however pertinent it may or may not be. That's the reason we printed the piece in question. We don't know whether the writer knew what he was about when he brought forth the article; and we don't care. There was no choice with us. We submissively appropriated it just as we do all those matters which pertain to the house and farm department. But what we started out to do was to protest against recipes for making hens lay more eggs than Nature designed they should. Not a day passes but somebody comes forward with a system or diet which he has tested to his entire satisfaction, and which is adapted to every breed and temper of hen in existence. One man gives his fowls oats alone, and finds that they lay a fourth more eggs than they did when he fed them exclusively on corn. This statement fires up somebody to explain that he didn't know what a laying hen really was until he got to feeding his flock corn alone. Heretofore he had dosed them with oats. Here's a decided fix apparently; but the next week the owner of a couple of hens in Kalamazoo modestly states in a card, that years of careful experimenting has

demonstrated beyond all cavil that oats and corn equally mixed will fire up the ambition of any hen on the face of the earth. So they go on in the matter of food. Then there is the man who advises lime and oyster-shells to prevent the hens from laying soft-shelled eggs. As a hen lays about two such eggs in the course of a year, a couple of dollars' worth of lime judiciously fed to her will prevent the loss, and be money well expended. Then there is the man who advocates better ventilation. Hens are mighty sore on the subject of ventilation, as you may have noticed. Another recommends an air-tight roosting-place; and still another advises shutting up the fowls all the time, and is immediately confronted by a poulterer, who says, that, if they are not allowed to run loose, you can't get eggs out of them any way. These things are what give agricultural journals their wonderful variety. But we protest against them. If any one understands a hen's business better than the hen itself, we are prepared to listen to him; but, until such a phenomenon appears, we unqualifiedly refuse to republish hen recipes. A hen's stomach is an appalling mystery. Men who can translate the elegies of the most barbarous of ancient nations, and give you the weight to an ounce of a square mile of atmosphere, precipitately back down from the analysis of a hen's stomach. An animal that can take down a whole dish-cloth at one gulp,

and regret that it wasn't a roll of stair-carpet, is not to be told what it shall eat.

THE BOY WITH A PENNY.

THERE were four of them; and they were coming down Elm Street. They ranged from four to six years of age. Three of them wore waists; and the fourth, a jacket. All wore knee-pants with dark-colored stockings; and two of them had copper-toed shoes. They were holding hands, and moving along at a rapid but irregular pace. It was evident that something of important interest was in prospect by the expectant eyes and flushed cheeks of the four. The calmest-looking boy had something in his mouth, which may have tended to distract his attention from the matter in hand. Whenever he was spoken to, which was about every thirty seconds, the line would halt, his right hand would be loosened, and he would straightway empty into it from his mouth a penny. While this was being done, the three other boys would gather in front of him, and look upon the operation with breathless interest. Having decided the point at issue, the coin would be restored with the same solemn ceremony, the line would re-form, and move forward at a lively pace, until another question

obtruded itself for immediate consideration. The boy with the coin was the centre of all observation and consideration of the others. This was plain to be seen. And the number of tree-boxes and posts and people the line fetched up against, in the determined but hopeless effort of keeping one eye on him, and the other on the path ahead at the same time, would seem almost incredible. But what mattered it? It was better that they should run against everybody else than to lose sight of him a minute. Oh the tender solicitude of these hearts for him! To ignore all the wonderful sights of the busy street just for the sake of him! It was wonderful. When they came to an obstruction that could not be butted over, they gave way promptly, that he might pass safely. All the dry walks were surrendered to him without equivocation; and as for the mud on the crosswalks, they ploughed through it with a heroism that was delightful, so that he might pass dry-shod. It is altogether likely they would have formed a bridge with their bodies over the most repulsive mud, had it been necessary to secure him a safe and pleasant transit, which fortunately it was not. But to no object of interest which happened to catch their gaze did they fail to call his attention, and with an anxiety that must have been very comforting to him. His name was Jim. What their names were, there were no means of finding out, as they

were not uttered. It would have sounded like sacrilege, without doubt, to have mentioned their titles in connection with his. What a happy group they were! How their little feet pattered, and their little legs swung along! How their faces glowed! How their eyes burned! They were new little boys to the street. Perhaps the majority of them had not more than once before seen those stores,—the bright stores with the heaps of treasure glittering through the glass. Perhaps never again would they four share this wonderful, all-consuming ecstasy together. Thank Heaven they enjoy it so hugely! Jim is down town to spend a penny, a whole penny all his own; and the senses of every one of his companions is ravished as if with the glories of paradise. How their memories are spurred up and refreshed as they gallop along! One little boy remembers that he always helped Jim on his lessons; another has got as clear and distinct a remembrance of the time, two months ago, when he gave Jim a piece of rubber to chew, as if the momentous event occurred only the day before; and the third has at his tongue's end a perfectly comprehensive account of an occasion when he let Jim look at a boat he was sailing in a tub, although the event took place in the far-distant summer. As for Jim himself, no king with a sceptre, or a god with lightnings in his grasp, for the matter of that, ever experienced such a weight

of dignified and solemn grandeur. It seemed as if his very clothes were wrought with diamonds and gold, and as if his spine would never desert its perpendicular. Four little boys, hand in hand, eager, expectant, hopeful, delirious, running at the top of their speed, and happier in the anticipation of the coming joy than if they were lovers grown, with a dollar jewelry-store on every corner.

THIS is what may be called a sample of practical affection. True love is not content to bask in the sunshine without an umbrella handy in case of rain. The following letter is a sample in question:—

MY DEAR HUSBAND,—I got here last night all safe, and was met at the station by uncle and aunt. They were so glad I had come! but were sorry that you were not along. I miss you so much! we had hot rolls for breakfast this morning, and they were so delicious! I want you to be so happy while I am here! Don't keep the meat up stairs: it will surely spoil. Do you miss me now? Oh, if you were only here, if but for one hour! Has Mrs. O'R— brought back your shirts? I hope the bosoms will suit you. You will find the milk tickets in the clock: I forgot to tell you about them when I came away. What did you do last evening? Were you lonesome without me? Don't forget to scald the milk every morning. And I wish you would see if I left the potatoes in the pantry: if I did, they must be sour by this time. How are you getting along? Write me

all about it. But I must close now. Oceans of love to you. Affectionately your wife.

P.S.—Don't set the teapot on the stove.

TEMPEST IN A TUB.

IT was all about a wash-tub. Mrs. Villiers had loaned Mrs. Ransom her wash-tub. This was two weeks ago last Monday. When Mrs. Villiers saw it again, which was the next morning, it stood on her back-stoop, minus a hoop. Mrs. Villiers sent over to Mrs. Ransom's a request for that hoop, couched in language calculated to impugn Mrs. Ransom's reputation for carefulness. Mrs. Ransom lost no time in sending back word that the tub was all right when it was sent back; and delicately intimated that Mrs. Villiers had better sweep before her own door first, whatever that might mean. Each having discharged a Christian duty to each other, further communication was immediately cut off; and the affair was briskly discussed by the neighbors, who entered into the merits and demerits of the affair with unselfish zeal. Heaven bless them! Mrs. Ransom clearly explained her connection with the tub by charging Mr. Villiers with coming home drunk as a fiddler the night before Christmas. This bold statement threatened to carry the neighbors over in a body to Mrs. Ransom's

view; until Mrs. Villiers remembered, and promptly chronicled the fact, that the Ransoms were obliged to move away from their last place because of non-payment of rent. Here the matter rested among the neighbors, leaving them as undecided as before. But between the two families immediately concerned the fires burned as luridly as when first kindled. It was a constant skirmish between the two women from early morning until late at night. Mrs. Ransom would glare through her blinds when Mrs. Villiers was in the yard, and murmur between her clinched teeth,—"Oh, you hussy!"

And, with that wondrous instinct which characterizes the human above the brute animal, Mrs. Villiers understood that Mrs. Ransom was thus engaged, and, lifting her nose at the highest angle compatible with the safety of her spinal cord, would sail around the yard as triumphantly as if escorted by a brigade of genuine princes.

And then would come Mrs. Villiers's turn at the window with Mrs. Ransom in the yard, with a like satisfactory and edifying result.

When company called on Mrs. Villiers, Mrs. Ransom would peer from behind her curtains, and audibly exclaim,—

"Who's that fright, I wonder?"

And, when Mrs. Ransom was favored with a call, it was Mrs. Villiers's blessed privilege to be at the window, and audibly observe,—

"Where was that clod dug up from?"

Mrs. Ransom has a little boy named Tommy; and Mrs. Villiers has a similarly sized son who struggles under the cognomen of Wickliffe Morgan. It will happen, because these two children are too young to grasp fully the grave responsibilities of life,—it will happen, we repeat, that they will come together in various respects. If Mrs. Ransom is so fortunate as to first observe one of these cohesions, she promptly steps to the door, and, covertly waiting until Mrs. Villiers's door opens, she shrilly observes,—

"Thomas Jefferson, come right into this house this minit! How many times have I told you to keep away from that Villiers brat?"

"Villiers brat!" What a stab that is! What subtle poison it is saturated with! Poor Mrs. Villiers's breath comes thick and hard; her face burns like fire; and her eyes almost snap out of her head. She has to press her hand to her heart as if to keep that organ from bursting. There is no relief from the dreadful throbbing and the dreadful pain. The slamming of Mrs. Ransom's door shuts out all hope of succor. But it quickens Mrs. Villiers's faculties and makes her so alert, that when the two children come together again, which they very soon do, she is the first at the door. Now is the opportunity to heap burning coals on the head of Mrs. Ransom. She heaps them.

"Wickliffe Morgan! What are you doing out there with that Ransom imp? Do you want to catch some disease? Come in here before I skin you."

And the door slams shut; and poor Mrs. Ransom, with trembling form, and bated breath, and flashing eyes, clinches her fingers, and glares with tremendous wrath over the landscape.

And in the absence of any real, tangible information as to the loss of that hoop, this is, perhaps, the very best that can be done on either side.

THERE is a vast difference in the conduct of a man and a woman in new clothes. When a woman gets a new suit, she immediately prances down town, and for hours will walk contentedly along a crowded thoroughfare, receiving fresh impulses of joy every time another woman scans her wardrobe. But a man is so different! He won't put on his new clothes for the first time until it is dark; then he goes down town so cautiously as to almost create the impression that he is sneaking along. If he sees a crowd on a corner, he will slip across the way to avoid them; and, when he goes into his grocery, he tries to get behind as many barrels and boxes as he can. All the time he is trying his level best to appear as if the suit was six months

old, and all the while realizes that he is making an infernal failure of it. We hope the time will come when new pants will be so folded by the manufacturer, that they won't show a ridge along the front of each leg when the wearer dons them.

SHOULD THE ASTORS LUG OFF THE MONEY?

THIS is the way Astors are made: A Munson-street man, being told that there were several pieces of tin which needed mending, conceived the idea of getting an iron and solder, and doing the mending himself. His wife, filled with vague forebodings perhaps, said that the expense was such a trifle, that it would hardly pay to do it one's self; to which he responded,—

"I'll admit, that, in this one instance, it would not pay: but there is something being in want of repair every little while; and, if I have the tools here for fixing it, we are saved just so much expense right along. It may not be much in the course of a year; but every little helps, and, in time, the total would amount to a nice little lump. We don't want the Astors lugging off all the money in the country, by gracious!"

He got the iron (one dollar), and fifty cents' worth of solder, and ten cents' worth of rosin. He came home with these things, and went into the

kitchen, looking so proud and happy, that his wife would have been glad he got them, were it not for an overpowering dread of an impending muss. He called for the articles needing repair. His wife brought out a pan.

"Where's the rest? Bring 'em all out, an' let me make one job of 'em while I'm about it."

He got them all, and seemed to be disappointed that there were not more of them. He pushed the iron into the fire, got a milk-pan inverted on his knee, and, with the solder in his hand, waited for the right heat.

"That iron only cost a dollar, and it'll never wear out; and there is enough solder in this piece to do twenty-five dollars' worth of mending," he explained to his wife.

Pretty soon the iron was at the right heat, he judged. He rubbed the rosin about the hole which was to be repaired, held the stick of solder over it, and carefully applied the iron. It was an intensely interesting moment. His wife watched him with feverish interest. He said, speaking laboriously as he applied the iron, "The-only-thing-I-regret-about-it-is-that-I-didn't-think-of-getting-this-before-we"—Then ascended through that ceiling, and up into the very vault of heaven, the awfullest yell that woman ever heard; and the same instant the soldering-iron flew over the stove, the pan went clattering across the floor, and the bar of solder struck the wall with

such force as to smash right through both the plaster and lath. And before her horrified gaze danced her husband in an ecstasy of agony, sobbing, screaming, and holding on to his left leg as desperately as if it was made of solid gold, and studded with diamonds.

"Get the camphor, why don't you?" he yelled "Send for a doctor! Oh-oh, I'm a dead man!" he shouted.

Just then his gaze rested on the soldering-iron. In an instant he caught it up, and hurled it through the window, without the preliminary of raising the sash.

It was some time before the thoroughly frightened and confused woman learned that some of the molten solder had run through the hole in the pan, and on to his leg, although she knew from the first that something of an unusual nature had occurred. She didn't send for the doctor. She made and applied the poultices herself,—to save expenses. She said,—

"We don't want the Astors lugging off all the money in the country, by gracious!"

"Come, Maria, don't you be too cunning," he sheepishly expostulated.

WHAT HE WANTED IT FOR.

THOSE who attended the sale of animals from Barnum's hippodrome in Bridgeport, the other day, report the following occurrence. A tiger was being offered. The bid run up to forty-five hundred dollars. This was made by a man who was a stranger, and to him it was knocked down. Barnum, who had been eying the stranger uneasily during the bidding, now went up to him, and said,—

"Pardon me for asking the question; but will you tell me where you are from?"

"Down South a bit," responded the man.

"Are you connected with any show?"

"No."

"And are you buying this animal for yourself?"

"Yes."

Barnum shifted about uneasily for a moment, looking alternately at the man and the tiger, and evidently trying his best to reconcile the two together.

"Now, young man," he finally said, "you need not take this animal unless you want to; for there are those here who will take it off your hands."

"I don't want to sell," was the quiet reply.

Then Barnum said in his desperation,—

"What on earth are you going to do with such an ugly beast, if you have no show of your own, and are not buying for some one who is a showman?"

"Well, I'll tell you," said the purchaser. "My wife died about three weeks ago. We had lived together for ten years, and—and I miss her." He paused to wipe his eyes, and steady his voice, and then added, "so I've bought this tiger."

"I understand you," said the great showman in a husky voice.

A PRUDENT SUFFERER.

MR. PHIPPS, of the firm of Phipps & Hodge, the Danbury undertakers, was sitting in his shop Saturday afternoon, ruminating gloomily upon the dull times, when the door opened, and in came a stranger. The visitor was a slim-faced man, dressed in a dun-colored suit of rather tight-fitting clothes. He looked clear around the room, carefully avoiding a glance at the undertaker until the circuit was completed.

Then he looked curiously at him, and said,—

"Is the boss in?"

"Yes, sir: I'm one of them. Is there any thing I can do for you, sir?"

"Well, that'll depend on how we kin deal, I reckon," replied the stranger in a tone of subdued shrewdness. "I have just had to shoulder a pretty heavy affliction. My old woman went under yesterday." He paused, and looked interrogatively over the array of coffins and caskets.

"Your wife is dead?" inquired Mr. Phipps with professional anxiety.

"You've hit it square, boss," replied the stranger with an approving nod.

"What time yesterday did the sad event occur?"

"About five P.M., as near as we kin reckon."

"Pass away peacefully?"

"Lit out without a groan," explained the bereaved. "She'd been sick, off an' on, for about two years an' better. Not right down sick all that time; but then I don't think she done a square day's work in two years. It's been a great expense all through; but I don't complain, howsumever. I came in to-day to see about fixin' her up."

"Ah, yes! You wish to secure a burial-case. We have, as you see, various kinds. You will want something rather nice, I fancy?" said Mr. Phipps.

"Well, yes: I want something that will show considerable grief an' sorrer, but nothin' that's going to upset folks, you know. We are plain people, boss, an', at a time like this,—with a great affliction shouldered on us—we don't feel like riling up the neighbors. If it was a huskin'-bee, now, or a barn-raisin' even, I'd calculate to make their eyes prance right around in their heads. But," and he sighed heavily, "this is a hoss of another color."

"How would this do?" suggested Mr. Phipps, indicating a plain rosewood.

"What's the price of that? You see, boss, we live over in Baxter Plain. It's a small place, an' there ain't much style. We don't want to go in too heavy, you know."

"Certainly not; but this is a very neat-looking article."

"Yes," coincided the widower: "it does seem as if one needn't feel uneasy with that coffin in the front-room, an' the room full of people."

"I can let you have that for forty-five-dollars."

"Jee—oh, I couldn't think of paying that! Forty-five dollars! why, you kin get a wagon in two colors for that money. You see, boss, this is a plain country funeral, an' not a torchlight procession," feelingly explained the widower.

"How will this do, then?" next inquired the undertaker, hastily pointing to another article, of common wood, brightly stained.

"How much is that?"

"Only eighteen dollars."

"Eighteen dollars, hey? Well, that's much more like it. Still, don't it strike you that eighteen dollars is pretty steep for these times?"

"Not for an article like that, sir. I can assure you that such a coffin could not have been bought for a cent less than twenty-two dollars one year ago."

"It may be cheap, as you say," ruminated the bereaved; "yet eighteen dollars is a good big pile of money. I want something nice, of course; but I don't want to jump in so mighty heavy as to make people think I never had a funeral before. You get what I mean?"

"Oh, yes! perfectly. You want an article that will look respectable, and in keeping with your circumstances; but yet you do not wish to be too demonstrative in your sorrow."

"By jinks! I guess you've got it square on the head," said the pleased sufferer.

"Now, this is an article that just answers the purpose, in my judgment; and I have had years of experience."

"Yes, yes: you must 'av' tucked in a heap of em," said the stranger in a tone of unqualified respect. "This is a sound one, I suppose," he continued, tapping the sides.

"Perfectly so: we use the very best kinds of wood," explained Mr. Phipps.

"Just see here a minute," exclaimed the stranger, suddenly and impressively drawing the undertaker to one side. "You say that coffin is sound as a nut, an' you want eighteen dollars for it. Now, I want you to understand there ain't any thing small about me, an' that I've got just as much respect for the dead as any other man living, I don't care where you snake him from.

[Description: A Prudent Sufferer — 42.]

But winter is coming on, you know, an' we owe a little to the living as well. That's a sound coffin, an' a sound coffin does well enough in the right place, you know; but I want to ask you, as a man of experience in these things, an' understanding what grief is, if you ain't got a box of that pattern that's got some sort of a defect in the wood, which you could knock off a little on."

"I haven't, sir."

"Just think a minit, please," he anxiously resumed. "Nothing a little rotted?"

The undertaker shook his head.

"With a worm-hole or so in,—I don't mind a dozen," suggested the sorrowing one.

"No."

"Or a little sappy? Don't answer too quick: take time. Just a little sappy where it wouldn't be seen by the public, you know?"

"I haven't such a piece of wood in the establishment. We use none that is imperfect."

"Eighteen dollars it is, then?" sighed the afflicted.

"Yes, sir."

"I must take it, I suppose," he observed; "but, when the neighbors see that coffin, they'll swear that old J— has struck a gold mine. Now, mark my words." And he passed gloomily out.

THE COTTER'S SATURDAY NIGHT.

IT is Saturday night,—the dear close of a tossing, struggling, restless week. To-morrow is the sabbath, when all labor and care are held in abeyance. Saturday night stands like a rock before the day of rest, and says to toil and worry, "Thus far shalt thou come, and no farther." Blessed Saturday night! The wearied husband and father approaches his home. He looks ahead, and sees the light streaming in cheerful radiance from the windows, and wonders if that boy has got in the kindlings. He steps up on the stoop, and opens the door. His faithful wife meets him at the entrance, and greets him with, "Why on earth don't you clean your feet, and not lug the house full of mud? Don't you know I've been scrubbing all day?" And thus he steps into the bosom of his family, grateful for the mercies he has received, and thankful that he has a home to come to when the worry and care and toil of the week are done. Yes, he is home now, and has set his dinner-pail on one chair, and laid his hat and coat on another and, with his eyes full of soap from the wash, is shouting impetuously for the towel. Saturday night in the household! What a beautiful sight!—the bright light, the cheerful figured carpet, the radiant stove, the neatly laid table with the steaming teapot, the pictures on the walls, the spotless

curtains, the purring cat, and the bright-eyed children, rubbing the plates with their fingers, and looking hungrily at the canned cherries. Even the wearied wife is visibly affected: and, as she steps to a closet with his hat and coat, she unconsciously observes to her husband,—

"Will you never learn to hang your things up? or do you think I've got nothin' else to do but chase after you all the while you are in the house?"

He makes no reply; but, as he drops into his seat at the table with a sigh of relief, he says,—

"What's the matter with that infernal lamp? Is the oil all out? or ain't the chimney been cleaned? It don't give no more light than a fire-bug."

"Turn it up, then," she retorts. "It was right enough when I put it on the table; but I suppose the children have been fooling with it. They never can keep their hands out of mischief for an instant."

"I'll fool 'em," he growls, "if they don't keep their fingers off'n things!"

After this sally, a silence reigns, broken only by a subdued rustle of plates and cutlery. Then comes a whisper from one of the children, which is promptly met in a loud key by the mother.

"Not another mouthful, I tell you. You have had one dish already, and that's enough. I ain't going to be up all night wrastling around with you, young woman; and, the quicker you straighten that face, the better it'll be for you."

The offender looks with abashed inquiry into the faces of her brothers and sisters, and gradually steals a glance into the face of her father, but, finding no sympathy there, falls to making surreptitious grimaces at the mother, to the relief of herself, and the intense edification of the other children.

The tea is finally over,—that delightful Saturday night's meal; and as the appeased father stretches back in his chair, and looks dreamily at the flame dancing in the stove, he says to his first-born,—

"Is them kindlings cut, young man?"

Of course they have not been; and the youth replies,—

"I'm going right out to do it now," and steps about lively for his hat.

"You'd better; and if I come home again, and find them kindlings not cut, I won't leave a whole bone in your body. Do you hear me?"

"Yes, pa."

"Well, then, start your boots."

They are started; and the relieved father comes back with his eyes to the glad flame, and watches it abstractedly, while his thoughts are busy with the bright anticipations of the coming day of rest.

"Ain't you going down street? or are you goin' to set there all night?" asks his wife. He turns around and looks at her. It's a sort of mechanical movement, without any apparent expression. "There's got to be something got for dinner to-

morrow; and I want you to go to Adams's, an' see if my hat is done; an' Thomas must have a pair of shoes; an' there ain't a bit of blacking in the house," resumes the mother. "You can tell Burroughs, that that last butter he sent up ain't fit for a hog to eat; an', if he ain't got any thing better than that, we don't want it. You'd better get a small piece of pork while you are down; an' if you see Parks, ask him when he's coming here to fix that wall. He has got the plaster off, an' there it stands; an' there's no use of trying to put the room to rights until the wall is fixed. I don't see what the old fool is thinking of to leave a room like that."

Hereupon the head of the house gets up on his feet, takes a brief, longing glance at the pleasant stove, and wants to know where in thunder his coat and hat are, and if nothing can be left where it is put. Then she tells him, that, if he looks where he ought to, he'd find the things fast enough. He does find them, and then goes into the kitchen, and a moment later re-appears with a very red face, and passionately asks if a basket can be kept in that house for five minutes at a time, and moodily follows his wife to where the basket is, and looks still more moody when he is brought face to face with it, and sarcastically asked if he could see a barn if it was in front of his nose. Thus primed with the invigorating utterances of the home-circle, he takes up his basket, and goes down street, leaving his

faithful wife to stand as a wall of granite between the children and the canned cherries, and to finish up the work. As he reaches the gate, the door opens; and she shouts after him,—

"Remember to get some matches; there ain't one in the house: and don't be all night, for I'm tired, an' want to get to bed at a decent hour, if possible."

"Go to bed, then, an' shut up your mouth;" and, with this parting injunction, he strides gloomily out into the darkness. It is not exactly known what he is thinking of as he moves along; but it is doubtless of the near approach of the sabbath. As he comes into the light of the stores, it is evident that bright influences, and tender memories, and glad anticipations, are weaving themselves in his heart; for he meets Parks with a smile, and, after a pleasant chat about the winter's prospect, they part, laughing. Only twice in the trip does his face fall; and that's when he goes in after her hat, and when he gets the shoes. A half-hour later he is in the grocery, sitting on a barrel while his goods are being put up, and carrying on an animated discussion with the grocer and several acquaintances. At nine o'clock he starts for home. He has several receipted bills in his pocket, each of which is in excess, of course, of what his wife had estimated before he left home; and as he struggles along with an aching arm, and stumbles against various obstructions,

he remembers it is Saturday night, the end of the week of toil, and tries to recall bits of verses and sentences of beautiful sentiment appropriate to the hour. He don't believe in grumbling at everybody; and so he reserves his trouble with the grocery-bill, his indignation at the milliner, and the various annoyances he has been subjected to, until he gets home; and then he hurls his thunder at all these people and objects through the head of his wife. And she, the dear companion of his life, having got the children from back of the stove and to bed by the hair, and discovered that he has forgotten the matches, and got more bone than meat in the steak, is fully prepared to tell him just what she thinks of him.

And while they talk, the flame in the stove dances happily, the lamp sheds a rich, soft glow over the room, and the colors in the carpet and in the pictures, and the reflective surfaces of the mantle ornaments, blend into a scene of quiet beauty. It is the night before the sabbath,—the calm, restful sabbath; and, as the two workers prepare to seek their well-earned repose, she says, that, if she has got to be harassed like this, she'll be in her grave before the winter is over; and he is confident, that, if the bills keep mounting up as they are doing, the whole family will be in the poor-house the first thing they know.

THAT AWFUL BOY.

A FAMILY of some pretensions, living on Nelson Street, had a party of five to tea Thursday evening. The table was set out in fine style, as the company were from the city, and it was absolutely necessary to show them that folks may live in a village like Danbury, and yet understand the requirements of good society. When they were all at the table, and the lady was preparing to dish up the tea, her little son, whose face shone like the knees of a country clergyman's pants, pulled her secretly by the dress. But she was too busy to notice. He pulled her again; but, receiving no response, he whispered,—

"Ma, ma!"

"What is it?"

"Ain't this one of Miss Perry's knives?" holding up the article in his hand, and looking, as he properly should, very much gratified by such an evidence of his discernment.

She made no reply in words; but she gave him a look that was calculated to annihilate him.

The tea was dished out, and the party were buttering their biscuit, when the youth suddenly whispered again, looking at his plate with a pleased expression, "Why, ma, my plate is different from the others."

"Thomas!" she ejaculated under her breath.

"Why, it is, ma," persisted Thomas. "Now, just see here: this plate has"—

"Thomas," again ejaculated his mother with crimsoned face, while his father assumed a frown nearly an inch thick, "if you don't let your victuals stop your mouth, I'll send you away from the table."

This quieted Thomas at once. He was not a very particular boy; and he concluded that the difference in the plates was not of such moment as to admit of tedious argument at this time.

Several minutes passed without any further interruption. The young man industriously attended to his food, but at the same time kept a close eye on what was going on around him. He was lifting up his cup for a sip, when his glance unfortunately fell upon the saucer. It was but a glance; but, with the keenness of a young eye, he saw that the two were not originally designed for each other.

"Why, ma," he eagerly whispered, "this cup don't belong to"—

Then he suddenly stopped. The expression of his mother's face actually rendered him speechless, and for a moment he applied himself to his meal in depressed silence. But he was young, and of an elastic temper; and he soon recovered his beaming expression. A little later, he observed a lady opposite putting a spoon of preserved grapes in her mouth; then he twitched his mother's dress, and said again,—

"Ma!"

The unhappy woman shivered at the sound; but

his remark, this time, appeared to be on an entirely different subject, as he asked,—

"Ain't Miss Walker a funny woman?"

"Funny?" said his mother with a sigh of relief. And then turning to the company with the explanation, "Mrs. Walker is an old lady who lives across the way," she smiled on her hopeful son, and asked, "What makes you think she is funny?"

"Why, you know—you know," began Thomas, in that rapid, moist way which an only son assumes when he is imparting information before company, in response to a cordial invitation, "when I went over there this afternoon to get the spoons, she said she hoped the company wouldn't bite 'em, as it would dent"—

"Thomas!" shrieked the unhappy mother as soon as she could break in.

"Young man," gasped the father, "leave this table at once."

And Thomas left at once. His father subsequently followed him, and the two met in a backroom; and, had both been flying express-trains coming together, there could scarcely have been more noise.

IT was quite cold in the car. The passengers were shrinking up into as small a space as possible, and looking straight ahead into nothing with frowning

visages. A very little boy was snuggled up in his mother's arms. The train stopped at a station, when he said,—

"Am I goin' home, mamma?"

"Yes, dear."

"Papa's home?"

"Yes."

"Are you goin' to see papa?"

"Yes, dear."

The child lifted up his head, and, looking eagerly into his mother's face, enthusiastically exclaimed,

"When papa sees me, he'll say, 'Come here, you peshous lam'.'"

The smile which illuminated the passengers' faces upon this outburst of childish expectation drove away the frown, and brought them out of themselves for the rest of the journey.

THERE can be no doubt whatever that a pew-bench is the most dreadful object in existence. However cautiously you may approach it, it is sure to fly up at one end, and come down again with a thud that makes your scalp creep, and draws upon you the indignant glances of everybody in the building. And, even if you don't put your foot on it, the fear that you may do so, when not thinking, draws your mind from the sermon, and fastens it upon the dread possibility in lively terror. Pew-

benches should be run full of lead at both ends, and held down by iron cables attached to rocks sunk in the cellar; but, until this is done, the only alternative offered is drawing your legs up on the seat, and sitting on them till the service is over.

HE WANTED TO KNOW THE MENU.

JAY CHARLTON'S admirable articles on cookery are not always productive of the happiest results, although the fault does not lie with him. Mr. Jopper is, ordinarily, a quiet man, and sufficiently submissive to suit the most exacting wife. But that discretion which is the better part of valor is quite frequently dulled and rendered ineffective when the possessor is full of liquor. It was just in this deplorable, and, we may add, unusual state, Mr. Jopper appeared at his home Monday evening. At the "store" they had been talking of Mr. Charlton's recent article on the importance of a well-furnished table; and this topic appeared to have engrossed his mind to the entire exclusion of every thing else. He found his wife mixing up the pancake batter.

It was evident he was unsettled as to the exact time of day.

"What's the menu?" he hilariously shouted.

"What are you talking about?" she demanded,

giving him a look that would, in sober moments, have subdued him at once.

"The menu, the menu: that's what's my language on this occasion," he boisterously repeated, not noting her expression.

"Are you going to bed?" she hoarsely muttered.

"No, I ain't going to bed, not by a jugful, until I find out what I find out." He caught hold of a chair to steady himself. "I tell you, Mrs. Jopper, there's goin' to be change here at once."

"Oh!" It was all she said; but it had a mighty significance.

"Yez, zir, goin' to be a change," continued the unfortunate man, flourishing his unoccupied hand for emphasis. "I ain't goin' to stand this sort of living any longer. There's got to be a change in the menu; or, first thing you know, I'll get depressed, an' be comin' home drunk,—drunk, by gracious!"

"Oh!"

"Yez, zir. Old girl, you've got to hike aroun' and fling some style inter the victuals. You've"—

She was on him in a flash,—on him with flashing eyes, and plying fingers, and heated breath.

"What do you say, you drunken vagabond?" she screamed, placing her knees on his chest, and clutching her fingers into his hair, and twisting his head with such fury, that it was a great wonder she didn't dislocate his neck.

"Lemme up!" he yelled.

"You want a change, do you, in the cooking?" she hissed.

"No, I don't! no, I don't!" he howled. "Hope to die if I do!"

"Want me to hike around, eh, an' put on style, you drunken lout?" she continued in a voice suppressed by passion.

"Lemme up!" he screamed.

"What's the menu, is it? What's the menu? Oh, you old whiskey tank! I'll show you what's the menu!" and she gave his head a terrific wrench.

"Ouch!" he yelled.

"Do you want to know what's the menu now?" she hissed.

"No!" he shouted.

"Will you go to bed?"

"Yes!" he howled.

Then she let him up, and, agreeably to promise, he went directly to bed, and hasn't manifested the faintest anxiety in regard to the menu once since.

WHO WAS TO BLAME?

MRS. PULSEY was real indignant yesterday morning on finding the handle to the coal sieve not yet mended, although broken two weeks ago.

Mrs. Pulsey actually shed tears of vexation. The very day the handle was broken she told Mr. Pulsey, and he said he would attend to it at once; and he had continued to promise to do it with unimpeachable faithfulness. Mrs. Pulsey lost patience now; and her irritation found expression in words. Said Mrs. Pulsey,—

"I declare, this is just a little too much! It is not enough that I should sift the ashes, but that I should have to do it with a broken sieve. I am just tired of this thing, and I shall stand it no longer. I won't be put on like this by no Josiah Pulsey. I won't stand such treatment. I won't stand it a day longer."

And with the sieve in her hand, anger in her heart, and the tears running down her cheeks, she started in the house to overhaul the recreant, the shamefully neglectful husband.

Mr. Pulsey was in there. He had made ready to go down town to his work. He was slipping on his overcoat in some haste, when a sudden exclamation escaped him, and a scowl settled on his face. Mr. Pulsey had shoved his arm into the sleeve with force enough almost to have made it appear again half way across the street; but yet it did not show itself at the end of the sleeve. It was lodged inside,—lodged in a broken lining. For three weeks this lining had been broken. On every day in that time he had called his wife's attention to

the fault; and on each day she promised to attend to it when he came home at night. But the next morning his trusting and shoving hand would fetch up against the same snag. He lost all patience now. A violent imprecation flew from his lips, and his face flushed with anger. He spoke aloud in a voice made harsh with passion:—

"Hang me, if this isn't carrying things with a pretty high hand! I wonder what that woman thinks of herself, anyway! Three weeks ago I told her about that lining; and she has promised a hundred times to fix it, and it ain't done yet. By George! if I had a conscience like that, I would trade it off for a screw-driver without any handle, so to say I had something—curse me if I wouldn't! I'll give her a piece of my mind which she will understand!"

And he started for the yard just as she entered the back-door. They met half way in the kitchen. There was a scowl on his face; there were tears on hers.

She pushed the broken sieve at him, and impetuously opened her mouth.

"Josi"—Then she saw the overcoat with the broken lining, and his name sank from her lips. Simultaneously he shoved the overcoat towards her, and impetuously opened his mouth. "Han"—

Then he saw the sieve with the broken handle, and her name died on his lips.

She was the first to speak.

"Josiah," she said in a subdued voice, "let me take that coat, and mend it."

"Hannah," he rejoined in a softened tone, "give me that sieve till I fix it. You sha'n't sieve the ashes any more."

"Josiah!"

He had started to the door; but he turned on hearing her call. There were tears in her eyes now, fresh tears, but not of passion. Then there was an expression to the face which induced him to step hastily back, put his arm around her, and hide her face for an instant with his own.

AN EXTRAORDINARY STOVE-PIPE.

THE Cobleighs put up the sitting-room stove Thursday. Mr. Cobleigh had been dreading the thing for a month. He wanted to hire a regularly built stove-erector to do the job; but work has been scarce at his shop, and he felt that he could not afford to hire. Mrs. Cobleigh got down the pipe for him from the garret, and helped him to get the stove out of the closet. No accident occurred during these operations. But the unusual circumstance did not encourage Mr. Cobleigh: on the contrary, it inspired him with greater dread. When every thing was in readiness to put up the pipe,

he walked about the machinery with considerable uneasiness, and eyed it with undisguised apprehension. Several times he picked up a link; and then, while a sudden tremor would flash over his frame, he would drop it again.

"Come," said Mrs. Cobleigh, who, woman-like, knew more than Solomon about putting up a stove, "get to work now. It can be done in a minute if you'll only set right to work at it."

Mr. Cobleigh turned pale.

"Curse this being poor!" he muttered between his clinched teeth.

Then he took hold of the link whose flat end indicated that it belonged to the stove. It sat on its place with the ease of long familiarity. He looked at his wife with a nameless fear on his face. Then he picked up the next link, spread apart his legs, compressed his lips, and proceeded to join it to the other. He had scarcely brought the two ends together when the one slipped over, and enclosed the other. Another link was to be put on before the elbow could be used, and he had to use a chair to reach the place. His face was very white now; and his limbs trembled to that degree, that he could hardly keep his place on the chair. He took the link into his shaking hands, and raised it to its place. It went on at once. The appearance of his face was simply ghastly now. His lips were ashen; his eyes flamed with a sickening terror.

"For Heaven's sake, hand me that elbow!" he hoarsely whispered.

His wife promptly complied. But his hand shook to such an extent, that he could not hold it; and it fell to the floor. She picked it up, and again extended it to him.

"For pity sake, Cobleigh, what is the matter?" she ejaculated as his deathly face appeared to her.

"Sh! don't speak!" he gasped in a shaking voice.

He applied the elbow. It went on in a flash.

"The other link," he hysterically said with a half-suppressed scream.

Sick at heart with apprehension, and perplexed in mind, the unhappy woman hastened to comply.

Her husband seized the last link. There was not only no color in his face, but his hair stood right up on his head; the perspiration hung in great beads from his forehead; the chair on which he stood fairly rattled beneath the quiver of his person. He raised the link; placed it in position; gave it a push. It went straight to its place; and at the same time he shoved the other end in the chimney-hole.

A short, sharp cry resounded through the room: there was a quick movement of the chair, and the unhappy man lay senseless on the floor. The neighbors were alarmed, and flocked in, and picked him up and laid him on the bed, while a doctor was

sent for, and restoratives actively applied. But it was several hours before he returned to full consciousness. The shock to his nervous system had been very, very great. The first words he gave utterance to were addressed to his wife,—

"Was it all a fearful dream, Matilda?"

"What, John?" asked the fond wife.

"The stove, the sitting-room stove. Is it up?"

"Why, yes, John. It is up."

"Did—did I do it?"

"Yes, John, you did it."

He put the trembling hands over the white face, and burst into tears.

AN EMINENTLY THOUGHTFUL HUSBAND.

HE was a wonderfully practical man, and she was marvellously poetical. To her, life had been a dream edged with gold, and filled in with the loveliest of roseate hues. But to him had appeared every thing in the homespun garb of every-day life. He is a country merchant, and buys his goods in New York. His partner always went to the city on business connected with the grocery; but the partner was recently taken ill, and our extremely practical friend was obliged to go. It was his first visit to the great city, and he was to be gone three days. It was a momentous event to his fond wife. Do the best she could, her mind was

troubled with forebodings. It is difficult to tell just exactly how he felt; but, while it was evident he realized the importance of the step he was about to take, still he never lost sight of the fact that a mighty responsibility was resting on his shoulders, and that all private emotion must be subserved to public interests. His carpet-bag was packed, and his hand on the door to pass out of the house, when she bade him good-by. She put both arms about his neck.

"John," she sobbed, "you are going away."

This was so palpable, that it would have been madness to attempt a denial: so he merely observed,—

"Look out for my collar, Maria."

"You will think of your wife while you are gone?" she whispered huskily.

He was a trifle nervous under the pressure of her arms upon his collar; but he spoke re-assuringly,—

"I will bear it in mind, my dear."

"You will think of me as mourning your absence, and anxiously awaiting your return?" she murmured.

"You can trust me to attend to it," he replied, with as much firmness as if it had been a request for six barrels of mackerel.

"And you'll be very careful of yourself for my sake?" she suggested in a broken voice.

"I will see it attended to, my dear. But it is almost time for the train;" and he gravely sought to remove her arms from his neck.

"John, John!" she convulsively cried, "don't forget me, don't forget me!"

"Maria," he said with a tinge of reproach in his tone, "I have made a memorandum to that effect."

And then she let him go, still tearful, but confident "it would be attended to."

STRIKING A BONANZA.

A GENTLEMAN named Parkington, living on Mulford Street, was awakened from a sound sleep on Friday night by a heavy knocking on not only his front-door, but over the entire front of the house. It was a violent slamming, and calculated to awake even a boy. Mr. Parkington got out of bed, and hurried to his window which faced the street. He looked out upon a spectacle that brought a countless host of goose-pimples to his legs, and filled him with unbounded astonishment. A man, a stranger, with a long pole in his hand, was slapping it against the front of the building. As soon as Mr. Parkington could recover his senses, he shouted to the party below,—

"Who are you? What are you doing that for?"

The striking ceased at once. The stranger

brought the pole to a rest at his side, and touched his hat with true military etiquette; and the face that was turned up to Mr. Parkington was rugged in feature, bronzed by the weather, but beaming in expression.

"Well, what is it?" asked Mr. Parkington after a moment of hesitation, in which he saw that the face was not that of a bad man.

"Oh! you are there, are you?" asked the stranger.

"Certainly," replied Mr. Parkington in a tone of confidence.

"You will pardon me, I hope," said the stranger, smiling agreeably, "for awaking you at this unseemly hour?"

Mr. Parkington was prone to grant the pardon; but his eye caught sight of the pole, and he hesitated.

"What did you make such a row for?" he asked.

"Oh! that was merely a matter of ceremony," explained the stranger. "I could have aroused you at the door; but I know your position in society" (Mr. Parkington keeps a feed-store), "and I wanted to show you a little distinction."

"Who are you?" asked Mr. Parkington in a softened voice.

"I am an American," was the reply, distinctly uttered.

"What do you want?"

"Would you like to make five hundred thousand dollars?" was the somewhat startling interrogation.

"Five hundred thousand dollars?" repeated Mr. Parkington in astonishment.

"Yes, sir; that's what I said," replied the stranger. "An outlay of fifty dollars, with judgment, will accomplish this fortune. I have got the whole secret and the judgment; and, if you can raise the fifty dollars, I will let you go in with me; and the thing is done,—the half million dollars is ours."

"Why, what do you mean?" asked Mr. Parkington in some bewilderment.

"You know Stanley is in Africa, looking for the sources of the Nile?"

"Yes; but"—

"All right, don't interrupt me. There is a world-wide interest in the subject; and, when Stanley finds the source of that mysterious river, there are going to be millions of people flock there. Now, what I propose to you, if you have got fifty dollars to put into the enterprise, is this, that we both go there as soon as convenient, and start an eating-saloon. What do you say?"

Within the brief space of thirty seconds, a man with a pair of pants held on to him by clutching the waistband with one hand, while the other clinched a club, was coming off the front-stoop like a whirlwind, while the projector of an eating-

saloon in Africa was scampering out of the gate with no less enthusiasm.

A SORE TROUBLE.

THERE is nothing flat and monotonous about a broken lining to a coat-sleeve. It always comes up as fresh and vivacious as at the first. A man appears about as surprised when he runs his hand into the slit the tenth time as he did the first; and when he looks to see his hand appear at the end, and finds that it is doubled up in the middle of the sleeve, his countenance will assume as much interest as if the occurrence was something never before heard of. It is astonishing, in this connection, that a broken sleeve-lining rarely happens in the right sleeve. This is because, perhaps, that the right arm is first inserted. A broken sleeve-lining can only appear to advantage in one position; and that is when the man has one arm inserted correctly, the coat in a wad against the back of his head, and his body bent over in the effort to shove the remaining arm through. It is at this, the most painful juncture, that his attention is called to the rent lining. In a constrained voice he directs the notice of his wife to the same, with a partly stifled inquiry as to what on earth she has been doing, that the trouble has not been remedied

before. It is like a woman on such an occasion to say that he won't leave his coat home so that it can be fixed. It takes a woman to think of exasperating things. The only resort now left to him is to declare that he knows better. Then she says, if he will take the coat off now, she will fix it, and makes a show of getting a thread and needle. She knows he won't take it off and wait. And he don't. A man may have a broken sleeve-lining, and a slit in his trousers, as long as fifteen minutes at a railway station; but he knows the propriety of things.

MR. COVILLE PROVES MATHEMATICS.

THERE are men who dispute what they do not understand. Mr. Coville is such a man. When he heard a carpenter say that there were so many shingles on the roof of his house, because the roof contained so many square feet, Coville doubted the figures; and, when the carpenter went away, he determined to test the matter by going up on the roof and counting them. And he went up there. He squeezed through the scuttle,—Coville weighs two hundred and thirty,—and then sat down on the roof, and worked his way carefully and deliberately toward the gutter. When he got part way down, he heard a sound between him and the shingles, and became aware that there was an interference

some way in his further locomotion. He tried to turn over, and crawl back; but the obstruction held him. Then he tried to move along a little, in hopes that the trouble would prove but temporary; but an increased sound convinced him that either a nail or a sliver had hold of his cloth, and that, if he would save any of it, he must use caution. His folks were in the house; but he could not make them hear; and, besides, he didn't want to attract the attention of the neighbors. So he sat there until after dark, and thought. It would have been an excellent opportunity to have counted the shingles; but he neglected to use it. His mind appeared to run into other channels. He sat there an hour after dark, seeing no one he could notify of his position. Then he saw two boys approach the gate from the house, and, reaching there, stop. It was light enough for him to see that one of the two was his son; and although he objected to having the other boy know of his misfortune, yet he had grown tired of holding on to the roof, and concluded he could bribe the strange boy into silence. With this arrangement mapped out, he took out his knife, and threw it so that it would strike near to the boys, and attract their attention. It struck nearer than he anticipated; in fact, it struck so close as to hit the strange boy on the head, and nearly brain him. As soon as he recovered his equilibrium, he turned on Coville's boy, who, he was confident, had attempted

to kill him, and introduced some astonishment and bruises into his face. Then he threw him down, and kicked him in the side, and banged him on the head, and drew him over into the gutter, and pounded his legs; and then hauled him back to the walk again, and knocked his head against the gate. And, all the while, the elder Coville sat on the roof, and screamed for the police, but couldn't get away. And then Mrs. Coville dashed out with a broom, and contributed a few novel features to the affair at the gate; and one of the boarders dashed out with a double-barrel gun, and, hearing the cries from the roof, looked up there, and, espying a figure which was undoubtedly a burglar, drove a handful of shot into its legs. With a howl of agony, Coville made a plunge to dodge the missiles, freed himself from the nail, lost his hold to the roof, and went sailing down the shingles with awful velocity, both legs spread out, his hair on end, and his hands making desperate but fruitless efforts to save himself. He tried to swear, but was so frightened that he lost his power of speech; and, when he passed over the edge of the roof with twenty feet of tin gutter hitched to him, the boarder gave him the contents of the other barrel, and then drove into the house to load up again. The unfortunate Coville struck into a cherry-tree, and thence bounded to the ground, where he was recognized, picked up by the assembled neighbors, and carried into the

house. A new doctor is making good day wages picking the shot out of his legs. The boarder has gone into the country to spend the summer; and the junior Coville, having sequestered a piece of brick in his handkerchief, is lying low for that other boy. He says, that, before the calm of another sabbath rests on New England, there will be another boy in Danbury who can't wear a cap.

A FEMALE PRANK.

WHEN a woman puts three mackerel to soak over night in a dish-pan whose sides are eight inches high, and leaves the pan on a stairway, she has accomplished her mission, and should go hence. This was what a Division-street woman did Friday night,—filled the pan at the pump, and then left it standing on the steps to the stoop, while she went into the next house to see how many buttons would be required to go down the front of a redingote. And a mighty important affair that was, to be sure. And there was her husband tearing through the house in search of a handkerchief, and not finding it, of course. And then he rushed out into the yard, wondering where on earth that woman could be; and started down the steps without seeing the pan, or even dreaming that any one could be so idiotic as to leave it there. Of course

he stepped on it; or at least that is the supposition, as the neighbors who were brought out by the crash that followed saw a horrified man and three very demoralized mackerel shooting across the garden, and smashing down the shrubbery. And he was a nice sight, was that unhappy man, when they got him on his feet. There wasn't a dry thread on him; and his hair was full of bits of mackerel; and one of his shoulders was out of joint; and his coat was split the whole length of the back; and he appeared to be out of his head. He was carried in the house by some of the men, and laid on a bed, while others went after a doctor; and sixteen women assembled in the front-room, and talked in whispers about the inscrutable ways of Providence, and what a warning this was to people who never looked where they were going.

A STARTLING AFFAIR.

A HORSE attached to the cart of a tin-peddler, while on Balmforth Avenue, Friday, became startled, and ran away at a speed that was marvellous in a tin-peddler's horse. The wagon was old and rickety; and the horse did not appear to be in a better condition of repairs: but both of them got through that avenue with awful velocity; the former hooping its spine, and shaking its head, and throwing

its heels uproariously; while the latter reeled from one side the road to the other, and bounded from rut to rut, and threw an invoice of old junk and new tinware at every heave. One old lady was caught around the neck by a pair of satinet pants, and nearly choked to death; and a hoop-skirt, badly damaged, descended over the head of a man who was telling a neighbor what his mother rubbed on sprains, and so frightened him, that he fell over a barrel, and put both his ankles out of joint, and was bit on the shoulder by the dog of the man he was trying to benefit. The horse, having filled the air with boilers, and old vests, and flatirons, and worthless overalls, and brass kettles, and broken-down gaiters, suddenly fetched up by jumping off the bridge, and into the river, dragging the wagon and a moth-eaten undershirt in after it.

COVILLE CONVALESCES.

SINCE the unfortunate accident to Mr. Coville while on the roof counting the shingles, he has been obliged to keep pretty close to the house. Last Wednesday, he went out in the yard for the first time; and on Friday Mrs. Coville got him an easy-chair, which proved a great comfort to him. It is one of those chairs that can be moved by the occupant to form almost any position by means

of ratchets. Mr. Coville was very much pleased with this new contrivance, and, the first afternoon, did nothing but sit in it, and work it all ways. He said such a chair as that did more good in this world than a hundred sermons. He had it in his room,—the front bed-room up stairs; and there he would sit and look out of the window, and enjoy himself as much as a man can whose legs have been ventilated with shot. Monday afternoon he got in the chair as usual. Mrs. Coville was out in the back-yard, hanging up clothes; and the son was across the street, drawing a lath along a picket-fence. Sitting down, he grasped the sides of the chair with both hands to settle it back, when the whole thing gave way, and Mr. Coville came violently to the floor. For an instant, the unfortunate gentleman was benumbed by the suddenness of the shock; but the next, he was aroused by an acute pain in each arm; and the great drops of sweat oozed from his forehead when he found that the little finger of each hand had caught in the ratchets, and was as firmly held as if in a vice. There he lay on his back, with the end of a round sticking in his side, and both hands perfectly powerless. The least move of his body aggravated the pain, which was chasing up his arms. He screamed for help: but Mrs. Coville was in the back-yard, telling Mrs. Coney, next door, that she didn't know what

Coville would do without that chair; and so she didn't hear him. He pounded the floor with his stockinged feet: but the younger Coville was still drawing emotion from that fence across the way; and all other sounds were rapidly sinking into insignificance. Besides, Mr. Coville's legs were not sufficiently recovered from the late accident to permit their being profitably used as mallets. How he did despise that offspring! and how fervently he did wish the owner of that fence would light on that boy, and reduce him to powder! Then he screamed again, and howled, and shouted "Maria!" But there was no response. What if he should die there alone, and in that awful shape? The perspiration started afresh, and the pain in his arms assumed an awful magnitude. Again he shrieked "Maria!" but the matinee across the way only grew in volume; and the unconscious wife had gone into Mrs. Coney's, and was trying on that lady's redingote. Then he prayed, and howled, and coughed, and swore, and then apologized for it, and prayed and howled again, and screamed at the top of his voice the awfullest things he would do to that boy, if Heaven would only spare him, and show him an axe. Then he operated his mouth for one final shriek; when the door opened, and Mrs. Coville appeared with a smile on her face, and Mrs. Coney's redingote on her back. In one glance, she saw that something

awful had happened to Joseph; and, with wonderful presence of mind, she screamed for help, and then fainted away, and ploughed headlong into his stomach. Fortunately, the blow deprived him of speech, else he might have said something that he would ever have regretted; and, before he could regain his senses, Mrs. Coney dashed in, and removed the grief-stricken wife. But it required a blacksmith to cut Coville loose. He is again back in bed, with his mutilated fingers resting on pillows; and there he lies all day, concocting new forms of death for the inventor of that chair, and hoping nothing will happen to his son until he can get well enough to administer it himself.

A SERENADING CATASTROPHE.

THOSE of our readers acquainted on Monson Street will remember that the roof to Mr. Forceps's saloon adjoins his house, and is approached by two windows. One of these windows is in Mr. Forceps's bedroom. On this roof Mrs. Forceps has spread hesitating tomatoes with a view to hastening their ripeness. Last Wednesday she put five more with their fellows, making thirty in all. The Forcepses have a niece visiting with them,—a young lady named Hall, of Thomaston. She has made the acquaintance of many of our young people; and

on Wednesday night several of them got together to give her a serenade. Providing themselves with requisite instruments, the young men took up a position near this addition we speak of, and struck up on the instruments. Mrs. Forceps was first awakened by the music, and nudged her husband. He also awoke. The music was grand,—not loud or coarse, but soft, low, and harmonious. Mr. Forceps was very much pleased, and got up to the window to hear it. Then Mrs. Forceps got up also, and, retying her night-cap, stood beside Forceps. "They're serenading Ellen," said she. "I know it," said Forceps. "Who can they be?" she asked. "I don't know, I'm sure," said he; "but I suppose I could find out if I could creep out on the roof and look over."—"Why don't you?" said she, her curiosity increasing. "I'm afraid they might see me," he said. "I don't think they would," she said. "They wouldn't be looking up on the roof, would they!" Mr, Forceps thought a moment, and then concluded no one could see him, as the moon had gone into a bank of clouds, and objects were quite dim. And then he softly opened the blind, and cautiously crawled out on the shingles, completely incased in red flannel under-clothes and a night-cap of the same rich material. The music still continued, coming up through the night-air in waves of ecstatic harmony. Mr, Forceps sat down on the roof, and

laboriously worked his way to the eaves. Then he lifted himself up to turn over and look down; and just then he stepped on something soft and yielding, felt his feet give, made a desperate clutch at the shingles, was too late, gave a piercing shriek, and shot off the roof, and went revolving and howling in among the band, followed by the tomatoes, and madly cleaving the air with his red-flannel limbs. He struck on his back on the bass-viol, and with one leg tore the entrails from an accordion, and with the other knocked all the keys from a silver-mounted flute. The man who played the bass-viol was driven senseless into a pile of pea-brush; and the flute-player, with his mouth full of blood and splinters, jumped over the fence, and fled. What became of the others Mr. Forceps does not know, he being too busily engaged in getting on his feet, and into the house, to make a critical examination of the field. It is presumed the bass-viol man died on the spot, and was surreptitiously removed and buried by his companions, as there was no sign of him about the premises in the morning.

OWNING A COW.

THE man across the way, who enjoyed vegetables fresh from his own garden through the summer, has bought a cow. His wife told him how nice it

would be to have a cow on the premises, so as to have milk fresh and pure every day, and always in time, and always in abundance. Then they could make butter themselves, and not eat the rank stuff out of the store. She told him there was enough stuff from the garden and table to almost keep the cow; and the product would be just about so much clear gain. He figured it up himself with a pencil, and the result surprised him. He wondered why he had not kept a cow before, and inwardly condemned himself for the loss he had been inflicting upon himself. Then he bought a cow. In the evening of its arrival he went out to milk it; but the animal was excited by the strange surroundings, and stepped on our friend, and kicked over his pail, and nearly knocked one of his eyes out with her tail. He worked at the experiment for an hour, but without any success. Then his wife came out to give advice, and his son came out to see the fun. The cow put one of her heels through the woman's dress, and knocked the boy down in the mud, which ended their interest in the matter. One of the neighbors milked the animal that night, and came around the next morning and showed the man how to do it. The third day the cow escaped the surveillance of the boy who was left to watch her; and, when the man came home at night, she was nowhere to be found. The boy had also disappeared, and our neighbor found he was obliged

to hunt her up before supper. He walked around for a while, and then returned home; but the animal had not been seen. Then he went off again, and made a very thorough search; and about ten o'clock that night he came back with the cow, his clothes begrimed with perspiration and dust, and his face flushed and scratched. He wanted to kick the animal's ribs in; but, realizing that such a course would result in pecuniary damage, he changed his mind. The boy wishes he had obeyed the first impulse. On the fourth day they churned, so as to have fresh butter for the table. The mother took hold of the dasher first, because, she said, she used to do it when a girl, and liked no better sport. She pounded away until she caught a crick in the back that doubled her up like a knife; and then she put the heir to it. He had been standing around, eagerly waiting for a chance, and grumbling because he didn't get it; and, when the dasher was placed in his hand, he was so happy he could hardly contain himself. He pumped away for an hour at it; then he said, if he had to do it any more, he would run away and be a robber. At noon the man came home, and learned the situation. He was a little disgusted at the "tom-foolery," as he called it, and took hold the churn himself, and made it bounce for a while. Then his stomach commenced to fall in, and his spine to unjoint, and his shoulders to loosen. He stopped

and wiped off the perspiration, and looked around with a melancholy cast to his features, and went at it again. The butter didn't come, however; but every thing in the way of oratorical effect did. He got so dreadfully excited, that his wife, smelling strong of camphor, took the dasher away from him, and went to work herself. At this the son put his cap under his jacket, and miraculously disappeared. Later in the day, the milk was poured around the grape-vine. On the fifth day the cow knocked down a length of fence to the next lot, and ate all the oranges from a tree that stood in a tub; and, when the people attempted to drive her out, she carried away a new ivy on her horns, knocked down a valuable vase of flowers, and capped the climax by stumbling over a box of mosses, and falling on a pile of hot-house frames. On the sixth day our neighbor sold his cow to a butcher, and now eats strong butter which comes from the store.

AN ASTONISHING CURE.

HERE is something remarkable. A woman in New Haven was recently bereft of her scalp by the idiosyncrasies of a shaft and belt. The doctors saw, that, to remedy the evil, they would have to have recourse to transplanting; and so they actually succeeded in getting a sufficient number

of pieces from other people's heads to give this unfortunate woman a new scalp. We hope those New-Haven doctors used more discretion than did he who attended a man named Finlay, who met with a similar accident in Oriskany, N.Y., some thirteen years ago. Bits of scalp from seventeen different persons were secured by this doctor, and adroitly stitched to the head of Mr. Finlay. When it was done, people came miles to see Finlay's head; and Finlay himself, with his checker-board cranium, was the happiest man in Oriskany. But when the capillary glands got in working-order, and the hair commenced to grow, the top of that man's head presented the most extraordinary spectacle on record. The doctor, who was about half the time in liquor, had consulted expediency rather than judgment, and secured that new scalp without any reference to future developments. We never saw any thing like it. Here was a tuft of yellow hair, and next to it a bit of black, and then a flame of red, and a little like silk, and more like tow, with brown hair, and gray hair, and sandy hair, and cream-colored hair, scattered over his entire skull. And what a mad man that Finlay was! and nobody could blame him. He would stand up against the barn for an hour at a time, and sob and swear. It was very fortunate that the doctor was dead. He went off two weeks before with blue ague, which is a mild sort of disease. Finlay kept his

hair cut short; but that didn't make any difference. Then he tried dyes; but they only made matters worse. Then he got a wig, and this covered up the deformity; but sometimes at church he would get asleep, and the wig would fall off, and make the children cry. Once, at the county fair, he fell asleep, and the wig dropped off; and the committee on domestic goods, when they came around, stood in front of Finlay's head for some five minutes rapt in delight. They then immediately decided that it was the most ingenious piece of patchwork in the list, and never discovered the mistake until they attempted to pin the premium card to it, At that Finlay awoke, and knocked down the chairman of the committee, and chased the others out of the building. We hope those New-Haven doctors have been more particular, as it is not a subject to trifle with.

THE HARBISONS' BABY.

MR. and MRS. HARBISON had just finished their breakfast. Mr. Harbison had pushed back, and was looking under the lounge for his boots. Mrs. Harbison sat at the table, holding the infant Harbison, and mechanically working her fore-finger in its mouth. Suddenly she paused in the motion, threw the astonished child on its back, turned as white as a sheet, pried open its mouth, and

immediately gasped, "Ephraim!" Mr. Harbison, who was on his knees, with his head under the lounge, at once came forth, rapping his head sharply on the side of the lounge as he did so, and, getting on his feet, inquired what was the matter. "O Ephraim!" said she, the tears rolling down her cheeks, and the smiles coursing up. "Why, what is it, Armethea?" said the astonished Mr. Harbison, smartly rubbing his head where it had come in contact with the lounge. "Baby"—she gasped. Mr. Harbison turned pale, and commenced to sweat. "Baby has—Oh, oh, oh, Ephraim! Baby has—baby has got a tooth!"—"No!" screamed Mr. Harbison, spreading his legs apart, dropping his chin, and staring at the struggling heir with all his might. "I tell you it is," persisted Mrs. Harbison, with a slight evidence of hysteria. "Oh, oh, it can't be!" protested Mr. Harrison, preparing to swear if it wasn't. "Come here and see for yourself," said Mrs. Harbison. "Open its 'ittle mousy wousy for its own muzzer; that's a toody woody; that's a b'essed 'ittle 'ump o' sugar." Thus conjured, the heir opened its mouth sufficiently for the author of its being to thrust in his finger; and that gentleman, having convinced himself by the most indubitable evidence that a tooth was there, immediately kicked his hat across the room, buried his fist in the lounge, and declared with much feeling and vehemence that he could lick the individual

who would dare to intimate that he was not the happiest man on the face of the earth. Then he gave Mrs. Harbison a hearty smack on the mouth, and snatched up the heir; while that lady rushed tremblingly forth after Mrs. Simmons, who lived next door. In a moment, Mrs. Simmons came tearing in as if she had been shot out of a gun; and right behind her came Mrs. Harbison at a speed that indicated she had been ejected from two guns. Mrs. Simmons at once snatched the heir from the arms of Mr. Harbison, and hurried it to the window, where she made a careful and critical examination of its mouth; while Mrs. Harbison held its head, and tried to still the throbbings of her heart; and Mr. Harbison danced up and down, and snapped his fingers, to show how calm he was. It having been ascertained by Mrs. Simmons that the tooth was a sound one, and also that the strongest hopes for its future could be entertained on account of its coming in the new of the moon, Mrs. Harbison got out the necessary material, and Mr. Harbison at once proceeded to write seven different letters to as many persons, unfolding to them the event of the morning, and inviting them to come on as soon as possible.

MR. COVILLE RENEWS HIS SINGING.

THAT is a very beautiful story of the clergyman who visited an insane-asylum, and was attacked by a maniac, but who broke into a song, and sang it so clearly and sweetly, that the maniac was subdued; and, when he stopped from exhaustion, the maniac cried for more, and he sang more; and the maniac gave up. This story made a very strong impression on Mr. Coville of this village; and, the more he thought of it, the more he was impressed by it. A day or two after reading this beautiful story, Mr. Coville's boy caught a boy named Phillips near the foundry, and filled his hair with tar. The boy went straight home, of course, with his shocking-looking head; and, as his home is on the same street as that of the Covilles, Mr. Phillips hurried there at once. He vociferated into Mr. Coville's ear the cause of his visit, and requested that Master Coville be passed out, and cut up between them. Mr. Coville expressed his indignation at the outrage his son had committed, and promised to punish him severely for it. But this was not what Mr. Phillips wanted. Instead of comforting him, the promise appeared to irritate him. He danced out to the walk, and clutched an imaginary boy by the hair, and struck an imaginary boy in the face with a ferocity that was dreadful, and then danced back again, and howled for Master Coville to be brought

out. Mr. Coville was frightened at his vehemence, and sought by all the powers of persuasive oratory to soothe him; but he was not to be quelled. At every fresh argument he repeated his singular demonstration, with such intimidating additions as snapping his fingers, and shaking his fist in the face of his neighbor. Having exhausted his reasoning, and Phillips becoming more inflamed all the while, Mr. Coville was about to beat a retreat for the safety of his own person, when the beautiful story of the clergyman and the maniac suddenly flashed into his mind. Here was sure and unexpected relief. Mr. Phillips had danced down to the walk, and was dancing back, with a half-dozen imaginary boys in tow, whom he was belaboring in a most murderous manner; but Mr. Coville did not mind him. He felt that he had the turbulent mass of passion within his control; and, as he realized his power, a faint smile of triumph and pleasure stole into his face. Then he began to sing. It is years since Mr. Coville indulged in the luxury of vocal music, and his catalogue of pieces is neither large nor varied; but he took up the first one that presented itself, and rolled it out. It was "A Life on the Ocean Wave,"—a very pretty piece, and quite popular when Mr. Coville retired from singing. It is a long time, as we have said, since Mr. Coville had occasion to use his voice; and it worked a trifle awkward and uneven at first: but

he remembered that his purpose was a noble one, and he did not shrink from criticism. As he advanced in the song, he was pleased, but not surprised, to see Phillips first stare at him, then drop his hands at his side, and afterward draw back, and look around, as if he were planning an escape. But Mr. Coville did not stop: he gathered strength as he proceeded; and turning his eyes to heaven, and keeping time with his feet, roared along through the measure with amazing force. He had got up on the highest note he could find, and was bursting into a perfect apoplectic howl of melody, when he felt himself caught abruptly by the collar, and the next instant was made aware that be was on his back on the walk, and that a man looking dreadfully like Phillips was pounding his head against the frozen ground, and doing something with his ribs that appeared to be uncalled for. Then he felt himself slide through a planing-mill, and, opening his eyes, saw that Phillips was gone, and that Mrs. Coville was trying to get him on his feet. In this direction he gave her all the help possible, and, getting up, looked around for the planing-mill, but, not seeing it, allowed her to lead him into the house. To all her questions she could get no answer; but occasionally, while she was applying the liniment, he would start up with "A Life on the Ocean," and then suddenly stop, smile faintly, and softly rub his nose.

It was several hours before he acted natural again; but aside from conceding that possibly Phillips didn't have the right kind of madness, or he himself may not have got hold of the right tune, he shows no disposition to converse on the matter. Sunday afternoon, young Coville, to be smart, and thinking that his father was asleep in the chair, undertook to start the tune for the edification of his mother; and the futility of that air for enchaining an audience was again demonstrated in a most signal manner.

A PROGRESSIVE WOMAN.

WE are inclined to think Danbury has made a stride in the matter of woman's rights that will astonish everybody, and edify many. We have a woman who butchers. We might have worked around to this declaration in an elaborate and interesting introduction; but the fact is so amazing, that we could not write with any calmness, or think with any precision, with it staring at us. This young lady is about to marry; that is, she is engaged: and a woman in Redding is weaving her a rag carpet. As nothing more confirmatory than this can be produced, we feel safe in affirming that she is about to marry. The object of her choice is a farmer. The farmer does his own killing, as all well-informed farmers do. The young lady is

aware of this fact; and, in her strong devotion to the farmer, she is learning to butcher. Every Friday afternoon, she accompanies one of our butchers, a personal friend, to the slaughter. Here, with her dress pinned up, her sleeves rolled, and her hat very much on one side of her head, she flits about in the midst of the thrilling gore, and unimpassioned tallow, and so forth. She has already killed four lambs, cutting their throats so artistically as to charm the burly butcher beyond all description, and to fill every well-balanced mind with reverential admiration. Next Friday she tries her maiden hand on a small calf, and expects to extract the vital spark from its body in a way that will win its eternal gratitude. In dressing bullocks—or rather in undressing them—she is becoming quite an adept; and already excels the butcher's boy, who has been in the business for nearly a year. But she particularly shines when the animal's throat is cut, and with the animal's tail in her hand, and her neatly gaitered foot on the animal's side, she pumps the life-current out of the dying body. The butcher says she looks like an angel then; and we can readily understand how she does. In a week or two she will try her hand at knocking down a bullock, and will be successful, without doubt. But we hope, and we are unselfish in the expression of it, that the laurels she is winning will not turn her head, and fill her with aspirations above her station.

It will be a sad day for the farmer if success thus affects her: it will be a worse day for her. Better that she had never known the delicious sensation of prodding a lamb's throat, or the wondrous power of pumping gore. But we envy the young farmer the mellow Sunday evenings in her society, the beaming of her slaughter-house eyes, and her tender discourse upon hides, leaf-lard, tripe, plucks, and other bits of scenery. To press the lips which have caressed a gory knife, and to clasp the delicate fingers which have ploughed through the steaming contents of a defunct animal, is an ecstasy that no one can calmly contemplate—on a full stomach.

NOT AS HIS MOTHER DID.

NO man shows his insignificance and utter uselessness about the house to such a degree as when his wife is mopping up. He feels this, and so does she; and he knows she feels it, which is worse still. To offer an adverse remark on such an occasion is about as insane an enterprise as an individual can embark upon. But a Patch-street man did it Saturday. His wife was mopping the kitchen-floor, and he was moving about the room to keep out of the way of the wet mop, when he unhappily observed that that wasn't the way his mother did it. It was done in a flash. There was a sharp report, as if three

pounds of very wet and very dirty cloths had settled across a human face; and in the same instant a man went over a chair, and half way under a table, looking very much as if a mud volcano had kicked him in the head.

AFTER THE FUNERAL.

IT was just after the funeral. The bereaved and subdued widow, enveloped in millinery gloom, was seated in the sitting-room with a few sympathizing friends. There was that constrained look so peculiar to the occasion observable on every countenance. The widow sighed.

"How do you feel, my dear?" observed her sister.

"Oh! I don't know," said the poor woman, with difficulty restraining her tears. "But I hope every thing passed off well."

"Indeed it did," said all the ladies.

"It was as large and respectable a funeral as I have seen this winter," said the sister, looking around upon the others.

"Yes, it was," said the lady from next door. "I was saying to Mrs. Slocum, only ten minutes ago, that the attendance couldn't have been better,—the bad going considered."

"Did you see the Taylors?" asked the widow faintly, looking at her sister. "They go so rarely to funerals, that I was quite surprised to see them here."

"Oh, yes! the Taylors were all here," said the sympathizing sister. "As you say, they go but a little: they are so exclusive!"

"I thought I saw the Curtises also," suggested the bereaved woman droopingly.

"Oh, yes!" chimed in several. "They came in their own carriage too," said the sister animatedly. "And then there were the Randalls, and the Van Rensselaers. Mrs. Van Rensselaer had her cousin from the city with her; and Mrs. Randall wore a very heavy black silk, which I am sure was quite new. Did you see Col. Haywood and his daughters, love?"

"I thought I saw them; but I wasn't sure. They were here, then, were they?"

"Yes, indeed!" said they all again; and the lady who lived across the way observed,—

"The colonel was very sociable, and inquired most kindly about you, and the sickness of your husband."

The widow smiled faintly. She was gratified by the interest shown by the colonel.

The friends now rose to go, each bidding her good-by, and expressing the hope that she would be calm. Her sister bowed them out. When she returned, she said,—

"You can see, my love, what the neighbors think of it. I wouldn't have had any thing unfortunate happen for a good deal. But nothing did. The arrangements couldn't have been better."

"I think some of the people in the neighborhood must have been surprised to see so many of the up-town people here," suggested the afflicted woman, trying to look hopeful.

"You may be quite sure of that," asserted the Sister. "I could see that plain enough by their looks."

"Well, I am glad there is no occasion for talk," said the widow, smoothing the skirt of her dress.

And after that the boys took the chairs home, and the house was put in order.

AT a recent political caucus in Danbury, one of the members was on the floor, lining out a bold, aggressive policy for the campaign, when a little boy pulled him by the coat, and said in quite audible tones,—

"Ma says, that, if you don't hurry home with them prunes, she'll lock the door, an' you'll have to sleep in the street."

"Gentlemen," said the orator, picking up his hat, "I'll just step around among the people to feel the public pulse, and will meet you on the gory field of battle."

Then he hurried home with the prunes.

A SMART WOMAN.

LADIES who have husbands who are neglectful in supplying them with kindlings should carefully study the experience of a Division-street sister. All her married life she has had an unbroken struggle with her husband to keep herself supplied with wood, and the greater part of the time she has been obliged to depend upon her own deftness with the axe; and any one who has seen a woman handle an axe knows what a dreadful thing it is. Two months ago, she begged of him not to go away without leaving her some kindlings. He said he wouldn't; but he finally did. Then she hit upon a plan. She had four dozen clothes-pins. She took one dozen of them for starting the fire, and found they worked admirably. The next day she used another dozen; and so she continued, until the four dozen were gone. Then she went to the store, and purchased another four dozen, having them "put in the bill." When they were gone, she repeated the errand. She said no more to him about kindlings. For ten years she had kept up the battle; and now she was tired and sick at heart. He could go his own way, and she would go hers, patiently, uncomplainingly, until the end would come.

On Monday he signified at the store that he would like to settle his account. The bill was

made out, and handed him. He glanced down the items. As he advanced along the column, his face began to work. First his eyes slowly enlarged; then his mouth gradually opened; caused by the drooping of his lower jaw; and wrinkles formed on his forehead. One-third down the column, he formed his lips as if to whistle. Four lines below, he did whistle. Half way down he said,—

"Gra-cious!"

A little farther on he said,—

"Thunder!"

Four more lines were taken in, and he spoke again,—

"By the Jumping Jupiter!"

Then he read on, smiting his thigh vigorously, and giving vent to various expressions of the liveliest nature. Finally he threw the bill down.

"I say, Benson, look here. This bill can't be mine: you've got me mixed up with some laundry."

"That's your bill, sir," said the grocer, smiling pleasantly.

"I tell you it can't be," persisted the Division-street man, beginning to look scared. "Why, here's fifty-five dozen clothes-pins in a two-months' bill. What on earth do you take me for,—a four-story laundry!"

"But it is your bill. Your wife can explain it to you. She ordered the pins."

"My wife!" gasped the unfortunate man.

"Yes, sir."

The debtor clutched the bill, jammed it into his pocket, and hurried straight home. He bolted into the house without any abatement of speed, and, flinging the paper on the table before his wife, knocked his hat on the back of his head, and said,—

"Martha Ann Johnson, what does this mean? There are fifty-five dozen clothes-pins in Benson's bill for the past two months; and he says you ordered every blessed one of them."

"And so I did," said she demurely.

"W-h-at! fifty-five dozen clothes-pins in two months!" and he shot down into a chair as if a freight-car had fallen atop of him. "Fifty-five dozen clothes-pins in two months!" he howled. "Will a just Heaven stand that?"

"I tell you, you needn't stare at me that way, Reuben Wheeler Johnson, nor go to calling onto Heaven with your impiousness. I ordered them clothes-pins myself; and I have burnt every one of 'em in that there stove, just because you were too all-fired lazy to get a stick of wood and I declare, before I'll be bothered jawing and fighting to get you to cut wood, I'll burn up every clothes-pin in the land; and you shall pay for them, if you have to sell the shirt on your back to do it. So now!"

And Mrs. Johnson, with a face like scarlet,

snatched up the broom, and went to sweeping the carpet as if every flake of dust was a red-hot coal; while the unhappy Mr. Johnson hastened to the store, and paid the bill; and before dark, that night, he had a half-cord of wood sawed, split, and piled up ready for use.

A DANBURY SPELLING-SCHOOL.

AN impromptu spelling-school was inaugurated in Merrill's grocery Saturday evening. A young man, who last winter aided Mr. Couch in the management of the North Centre School, conducted the class. The first word he gave out was Indian.

The first man said, "I-n, in, d-i-n, din,—Indin."

The teacher shook his head. "Well, I declare! I thot I had it," said the speller with keen disappointment; but he picked up when the second man started, and eyed him with considerable anxiety.

The next man with desperate earnestness said, "I-n, in, d-e, de, inde, u-n, un,—Indeun."

Then he sighed, and gazed anxiously at the teacher; while an old party at the end of the bench, who was watching the efforts with derisive amusement, turned the quid in his mouth, and said,—

"You ain't in a rod on't. But go on: let's see more try."

The teacher told the second speller that he, also, had failed; whereupon he sighed again.

Then the third man took hold. He squared himself upon his seat, and, holding up one finger, ticked off the letters with becoming solemnity, as follows: "I-n, in, d-d-d-a, da, inda,—i-n, in,—Indain."

The old party on the end of the bench, who had been teetering on the precipice of a laugh while this effort was being put forth, snickered right out in a loud guffaw at its conclusion.

"Well, that's a spell for you, I mus' say." And then he laughed again. The speller said nothing; but he grew very red in the face when his failure was announced, and cast a baleful glance at the old party, whose turn had now come, and who said,—

"You people should keep away from Oheo, you should. And now I'll tackle that little word;" and he smiled all over his face, while his eyes twinkled with merriment; and, looking sideways from one to the other, he rapidly spelled,—

"I-n, in, g-i-n, gin,—Ingin."

His smile deepened into a broad grin as he watched the chagrin flush to the countenances of the other spellers, who had been misled all the time on a wrong pronunciation of the word. He was grinning with all his might, when the teacher said,—

"You ain't got the right word."

"Wh—ah—ot?" and he bore down on the brazen-faced young man a look calculated to freeze him to the bone.

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"Indian is the word. There is no such word as Ingin," said the teacher.

"Oh! there isn't, hey!" (sarcastically.) "You know, of course. You know all about it, you pimply"—

"But, my dear sir, I"—

"You needn't apologize to me!" shouted the old party, stamping the floor with his cane. "Who be you, anyway, putting on your airs about me? I could twist your scrawny neck off of you in two minutes, you white-livered puppy, you!"

"But, my dear sir, let me ex"—

"It isn't Ingin, is it?" ground out the old chap between his teeth. "It's somethin' else, I suppose. Oh, yes! you know, of course. And a nice one you are with your eddication! Why don't your mother send back them apples she borrowed a month ago?" and he looked around the store with a triumphant glare of sarcasm.

"But just hear me"—

"Hear you! Who are you, anyway? What's your father? When's he drawed a sober breath, I'd like to know? An' where's your smart brother, Ben! In pris'n somewhere, I'll be bound. Oh! I know your hull family like a book; and a wuss lot than they are can't be found in this neighborhood; and you just put that in your pipe and smoke it, you egregious ass! Talk to me about spellin'!" And the old man, stamping his cane again, stalked passionately out of the store.

The lesson was then postponed.

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A LAZY BOY'S LOAD.

YOUNG COVILLE is bringing in wood. Watch him. The wood lies by the saw-buck. There are two good armfuls of it; but he is going to bring it all in at once. That is the better way, as it saves one trip. He is getting it upon his arm with great difficulty. The pile rises rapidly. It is all up but a few sticks; and he has to steady himself with a great effort while feeling around for them. Each piece comes harder than its predecessor. The bottom sticks are apparently cutting into the flesh of his arm; and one at the top is pressing most painfully against his cheek. He is sitting on his haunches in a disagreeable position, the increasing weight making his knee-joints ache. The dizzy pile is held in place only by the severest effort of both brain and muscle. The slightest false motion would topple it to the ground. He realizes it. All the color in his body is in his face, and the cords thereof are drawn to the utmost tension. His eyes glow like a flame. He can't find that last stick. Slowly the right hand circles around, feeling carefully for it. His eyes are bright; but they are ranged over the load on his arm, and the very nearest approach they can make to the scene is the distant horizon. Still he skirmishes about with the right hand. A moisture is beginning to well up in the bright orbs, making the horizon indistinct.

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The muscles nearest the mouth are commencing to slacken, and the under-lip slightly trembles. It is noticeable that the right hand is losing its caution, and growing a trifle impulsive. Its circles are sharper, and less in symmetry. He has gone over all the ground in reach. He bends apprehensively forward for more territory. There is a waver, then another, a sudden plunge for recovery, and over goes the pile; and a boy with passion-distorted face is blindly kicking the inoffensive sticks. Then the back-door opens; and he suddenly stops, and glares morosely at the wreck.

"William Henry!" exclaims a shrill voice, "are you going to be all night bringing in that wood?"

"Go in the house!" he mutters under his breath.

"What's that you say to me, young man?"

"I said I'm comin's quick's I could," he hastily but frankly explains. "Do you s'pose I can help it 'cause the wood tips over when I get it piled up?"

"What do you try to carry so much for, then?" she properly asks. "You bring along part of that wood, and go after the rest pretty quick, or I'll send your father out to you;" and the door slams again.

Does he take in part of it! Never. His heart may be wrung, and the tears flow like rain; but he will carry all that wood in at once, if it takes five years. It was a mere caprice then; but it is

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principle now. He goes over the same performance again, and he repeats it until he masters every stick, and rises, reeling, to his feet. Then he stumbles painfully up the path, his breath coming quick and strong, his eyes bulging, and his knees almost screaming out with the ache they are enduring. He can't see the stoop, and hardly any thing of the house but the roof. He staggers up the steps, and kicks violently against the door. It is opened by his impatient and thoroughly disgusted mother; but the exertion has fatally disturbed the poise of the pile. One stick comes thundering to the floor, then another, and another. He makes a desperate effort to reach the wood-box with the rest of the load; but piece after piece comes crashing down, arousing the whole family, and nearly driving his mother insane. He reaches the box. He may not have one-half the load on his arm; but he brought it all in at once, thank Heaven!

THE DUTIFUL BOY.

THIS was on Pine Street, Saturday. The central figure was a bareheaded woman, with a broom in her hand. She stood on the back-stoop, and was crying, "Georgie!"

There was no response; but anybody who had been on the other side of a close board fence at

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the foot of the garden might have observed two boys intently engaged in building a mud-pie.

"That's your mother hollering, Georgie," said one of the two, placing his eye to a knot-hole, and glancing through to the stoop.

"I don't care," said the other.

"Ain't you going in?"

"No."

"George!" came another call, short and sharp, "do you hear me!"

There was no answer.

"Where is she now?" inquired Georgie, putting in the filling of the pie.

"On the stoop," replied the young man at the knot-hole.

"What's she doin'?"

"Ain't doin' nothin'."

"George Augustus!"

Still no answer.

"You needn't think you can hide from me, young man, for I can see you; and, if you don't come in here at once, I'll come out there in a way that you will know it."

Now, this was an eminently natural statement, but hardly plausible, as her eyes would have had to pierce an inch-board fence to see Georgie; and, even were this possible, it would have required a glance in that special direction, and not over the top of a pear-tree in an almost opposite way.

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Even the boy at the knot-hole could hardly repress a smile.

"What's she doin' now!" inquired Georgie.

"She stands there yet."

"I won't speak to you again, George Augustus," came the voice. "Your father will be home in a few minutes, and I shall tell him all about what you have done."

Still no answer.

"Ain't you afraid?" asked the conscientious young man, drawing his eye from the knot-hole to rest it.

"Noah! She won't tell pa; she never does: she only sez it to scare me."

Thus enlightened and re-assured, the guard covered the knot-hole again.

"Ain't you coming in here, young man?" again demanded the woman; "or do you want me to come out there to you with a stick? I won't speak to you again, sir!"

"Is she comin'?" asked the baker.

"No."

"Which way is she lookin'?"

"She's lookin' over in the other yard."

"Do you hear me, I say?" came the call again.

No answer.

"George Augustus! do you hear your mother talking to you?"

Still no answer.

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"Oh! you just wait, young man, till your father comes home, and he'll make you hear, I'll warrant ye."

"She is gone in now," announced the faithful sentinel, withdrawing from his post.

"All right! Take hold of this crust, and pull it down on that side, and that'll be another pie done," said the remorse-stricken George Augustus.

ENJOYING THEIR CHURCH PRIVILEGES.

IT was after the evening service. Mrs. Coonton and the three Misses Coonton had arrived home. They sat listlessly around the room with their things on. Mr. Coonton was lying on the lounge, asleep. It had been, undoubtedly, an impressive sermon, as the ladies were silent, busy with their thoughts.

"Emmeline," said Mrs. Coonton, suddenly addressing her eldest, "did you see Mrs. Parker when she came in?"

"Yes, ma," replied Emmeline.

"She didn't have that hat on last Sunday, did she?"

"No," said Emmeline. "It is her new hat. I noticed it the moment she went down the aisle; and I says to Sarah, 'What on earth possesses Mrs. Parker to wear such a hat as that?' says I."

"Such a great prancing feather on such a little

[Description: The Bureau Drawer. — Page 117]

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hat looked awful ridiculous. I thought I should laugh right out when I saw it," observed Sarah.

"I don't think it looked any worse than Mary Schuyler's, with the flaring red bow at the back," said Amelia.

"I don't see what Mrs. Schuyler can be thinking of, to dress Mary out like that," said Mrs. Coonton with a sigh. "Mary must be older than Sarah; and yet she dresses as if she was a mere child."

"She's nearly a year older than I am," asserted Sarah.

"Did you see how the Widow Marshall was trucked out?" interrupted Emmeline. "She was as gay as a peacock. Mercy! what airs that woman puts on! I would like to have asked her when she's going to bring back that pan of flour;" and Emmeline tittered maliciously.

"She's shining around old McMasters, they say," mentioned Amelia.

"Old McMasters!" ejaculated Mrs. Coonton. "Why, he is old enough to be her father!"

"What difference do you suppose that makes to her?" suggested Emmeline. "She'd marry Methuselah. But I pity him if he gets her. She's a perfect wildcat."

"Say, Em, who was that gentleman with Ellen Byxby?" inquired Amelia.

"That's so," chimed in Sarah with spirit: "who was he?"

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"What gentleman?" asked Mrs. Coonton.

"Why, I don't know who it was," explained Emmeline.

"They came in during the prayer. He was a tall fellow, with light hair and chin-whiskers."

"It couldn't have been her cousin John from Brooklyn," suggested Mrs. Coonton.

"Bother, no!" said Sarah pettishly, "He is short, and has brown hair. This gentleman is a stranger here. I wonder where she picked him up."

"She seemed to keep mighty close to him," said Amelia. "But she needn't be scared: no one will take him, unless they are pretty hard pushed. He looks as soft as squash. Did you see him tumbling up his hair with his fingers? I wonder what that big ring cost,—two cents?" and the speaker tittered.

"Well, I'm glad if she's got company," said Mrs. Coonton kindly. "She's made efforts enough to get some one, goodness knows!"

"I should say she had," coincided Emmeline. "She's got on one of them Victoria hats, I see. If I had a drunken father, I'd keep in doors, I think, and not be parading myself in public."

Just then there was a movement on the lounge, and the ladies began to take off their things.

"Hello, folks!" said Mr. Coonton, rising up, and rubbing his eyes. "Is church out?"

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"Yes," said Mrs. Coonton with a yawn, which communicated itself to her daughters.

"Did you have a good sermon?"

"Pret-ty good," accompanied by another yawn all round.

"See many good clothes?" was the next query.

"I suppose you think, Mr. Coonton, that that is all your wife and daughters go to church for,—to look at people's clothes," said Mrs. Coonton tartly.

"That's just like pa," said Emmeline, with a toss of her head: "he is always slurring church people."

Pa sloped to bed.

THEY ALL DO IT.

A WIFE, when she has received suitable notice, can get up an excellent dinner for her husband's friend. She does her level best, working without stint, until a repast which pleases her in every particular is spread. Then the following conversation takes place with the guest:—

"I hope you'll be able to make out a meal."

"I shall do nicely, I know," he says.

"I'm really ashamed of the table," she rattles on.

"Why, you needn't be," he protests.

"But it's all his fault," she explains, nodding toward her husband. "He never gives me any warning scarcely; and it's such warm weather now,

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that there is nothing you can keep on hand for an emergency."

"Why, you've done nobly, I think; couldn't have done better," asserts the guest, beginning to lose his interest in the topic.

"Oh! I hope you don't think this any thing of a dinner," she says, looking with anxious pride over the spread. "You must come up again; and let me know beforehand, and I'll promise you something decent to eat."

"I'm sure this can't be beaten," protests the guest, with a sense of becoming depressed.

"Oh, bless me! this is nothing but a pick-up dinner,—just the same as we'd have if alone. Do try another biscuit: I don't suppose they are fit to eat, though," she says, with increased anxiety, as she observes their delicate color and flaky texture.

"They are beautiful," he hastily explains, feeling very uncomfortable the while.

"You must take the will for the deed," she resumes. "I didn't see we were out of bread till the last moment, and then I hastily made up these. I didn't think they'd be half way decent, as there was no time to work them."

And so she rattles on with her disastrous comments, the dear old fraud! while he continues to protest, and continues to feel more and more like getting up and flying madly away.

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A MODEL BOY.

THE man across the way recently rented the upper part of his house to a family from an outside district. The head of the family came to secure the rent. He was a tall, bony man, with a sunburned face, and light, tawny chin-whiskers. He looked very much like a cross between a farmer and a planing-mill. He explained,—

"What I want is a peaceful naberhood; and the comforts of a home I get myself. There's the ole woman, my wife, and our boy. James is but seven years old. He ain't strong, bein' given more to study than to work; but he's got a head on him, I can tell you. But I want a peaceful naberhood, and you look like the man that kin just supply the demand. We'll be around on time."

They moved in two weeks ago. On the close of the third day, the boy James had succeeded in flooding the first floor by leaving a pipe running on the second, and had pulled off all the tomatoes to throw against the barn. The man across the way mildly intimated to his new tenant what James had done.

"He didn't eat any of them green termatys, did he?" inquired the anxious parent.

"I don't suppose he did," was the reply of the landlord, who was evidently trying to see the relevance of the query.

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"And he didn't get his feet wet, I hope?" was the next question.

"I believe not," was the feeble reply.

"Well," said the grateful father, "let us be thankful that it is no worse. James must be more keerful. A single green termaty, or a pair of wet socks, might waft his little soul into eternity before you'd know. I'll reason with James at once. I thank you, sir, for your interest in James." And he went into the house; while the man across the way sat hastily down on the stoop, and smote his forehead.

Before he had entirely recovered from this affair, James again became conspicuous. This time, he stuck a lath through the sash of the front-door.

The man across the way met the parent at the gate that evening. He mentioned James's exploit.

"What, with his hand did he do it?" gasped the agitated father. "Oh, no, no! Not the little hand which I have held so often in mine. Not the little hand which has pulled these whiskers so many times in babyhood. Oh! say it was not with his hand he broke the glass."

The man across the way explained that it was done with a lath.

"Heaven be praised!" ejaculated the grateful father. "Poor James! He ain't strong; an' weak folks are always unfortunit, mostly. But I'm glad he didn't hurt himself. He ain't a strong boy; but I'm in hopes, with quiet and pleasant surroundings,

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he'll improve. This is just the naberhood for James. It's peaceful, and I like peace: so does James an' the ole woman." And he passed in to his tea, leaving the man across the way with a stony stare in his eyes.

The next day James turned on the hose, and, before he was discovered, had prostrated twenty-five plants, broken down a hanging-basket, torn up the flower-bed, and nearly blinded the little girl from the next house, who was peering through the fence at the performance.

The man across the way came home to tea, and saw the ruin which had been effected, and he was nearly beside himself with rage. There was a look of determination on his face when he encountered, an hour later, the peaceable tenant coming up the yard.

"I tell you, sir," he began, "this last freak of your boy is altogether too much;" and he pointed to the devastation.

"Why, how did James do that?" inquired the father.

"He turned on the hose," explained the man across the way between his clinched teeth.

The face of the tenant blossomed into a genial smile.

"Why, what an observing little fellow he is!" said he. "I was saying this noon to the ole woman, that your plants ought to be watered, or they'd all

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dry up; an' he must have heard me, an' gone an' done it himself. That's just like James. He's so thoughtful for one so young!"

The man across the way grew black enough in the face to strangle.

"I tell you, sir, I won't stand this again," he declared in a voice quivering with passion. "What that boy wants is a skinning from head to foot; and, if he had the right kind of father, he'd get it before he was an hour older."

It was painful to see the expression of grief and astonishment which settled like a cloud upon the face of the new tenant.

"What!" he gasped, "skin James, little James, the sunshine of our home,—a poor little weakling, whose only fault is trying to do too much? And you, a man forty years old, an' weighing a hundred an' sixty pounds, I dare say, get mad with a little boy like James? Look here, you!" he suddenly blurted, stretching his stature to the utmost: "I come here for peace; and I'll have peace, you bet! If you're opposed to peace, why didn't you say so when I got the house of you? Wasn't I frank an' open an' above-board with you? Didn't I tell you on the start that I wanted a peaceful naberhood? Why didn't you deal as honest-like with me, and own up that you was of a quarrelsome nature? Why didn't you do that, I want to know? I don't want to have any words with you, an' I

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ain't a-going to have. I am a peaceful citizen, I've lived with twenty-five different families, an' I never had any trouble. I'm for peace every time; an' I'll have peace where I live, or I'll git at once: you can just bet your money on that. If you can't keep your temper down, we'll git; for I won't have James worried for all the houses between here and the perfumed plains of Araby. Gosh all hemlock! what's life without peace?"

Yesterday we observed the second-floor furniture loading on a wagon; by which we conclude the man across the way is not able to keep his temper down.

THE BUREAU-DRAWER.

THE man who will invent a bureau-drawer which will move out and in without a hitch will not only secure a fortune, but will attain to an eminence in history not second to the greatest warriors. There is nothing, perhaps (always excepting a stove-pipe), that will so exasperate a man as a bureau-drawer which will not shut. It is a deceptive article. It will start off all right; then it pauses at one end while the other swings in as far as it can. It is the custom to throw the whole weight of the person against the end which sticks. If any one has succeeded in closing a drawer by so doing, he will confer a favor by sending his address to this office.

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We have seen men do this several times, and then run from the other side of the room, and jump with both feet against the obstinate end. This doesn't appear to answer the purpose any better; but it is very satisfying. Mrs. Holcomb was trying to shut a bureau-drawer Saturday morning; but it was an abortive effort. Finally she burst into tears. Then Mr. Holcomb told her to stand aside, and see him do it.

"You see," observed Mr. Holcomb with quiet dignity, "that the drawer is all awry. That's what makes it stick. Now, anybody but a woman would see at once, that to move a drawer standing in that position would be impossible. I now bring out this other end even with the other,—so; then I take hold of both knobs, and, with an equal pressure from each hand, the drawer moves easily in. See?"

The dreadful thing moved readily forward for a distance of nearly two inches; then it stopped abruptly.

"Ah!" observed Mrs. Holcomb, beginning to look happy again.

Mr. Holcomb very properly made no response to this ungenerous expression; but he gently worked each end of the drawer to and fro, but without success. Then he pulled the drawer all the way out, adjusted it properly, and started it carefully back: it moved as if it was on oiled wheels. Mr.

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Holcomb smiled. Then it stopped. Mr. Holcomb looked solemn.

"Perhaps you ain't got the ends adjusted," suggested the unhappy Mrs, Holcomb.

Mr. Holcomb made no reply. Were it not for an increased flush in his face, it might have been doubted if he heard the remark at all. He pushed harder at the drawer than was apparent to her; but it didn't move. He tried to bring it back again; but it would not come.

"Are you sure you have got every thing out of here you want?" he finally asked, with a desperate effort to appear composed.

"Oh! that's what you are stopping for, is it? But you needn't: I have got what I wanted: you can shut it right up." Then she smiled a very wicked smile.

He grew redder in the face, and set his teeth firmly together, and put all his strength to the obdurate drawer, while a hard look gleamed in his eye.

But it did not move. He pushed harder.

"Ooh, ooh!" he groaned.

"I'm afraid you haven't got the ends adjusted," she maliciously suggested.

A scowl settled on his face, while he strained every muscle in the pressure.

"What dumb fool put this drawer together, I'd like to know?" he snapped out. She made no

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reply; but she felt that she had not known such happiness since the day she stood before the altar with him, and orange-blossoms in her hair.

"I'd like to know what in thunder you've been doing to this drawer, Jane Holcomb?" he jerked out.

"I ain't done any thing to it," she replied.

"I know better," he asserted.

"Well, know what you please, for all I care," she sympathizingly retorted.

The cords swelled up on his neck, and the corners of his mouth grew white.

"I'll shut that drawer, or I'll know the reason of it!" he shouted; and he jumped up, and gave it a passionate kick.

"Oh my!" she exclaimed.

He dropped on his knees again, and grabbed hold of the knobs, and swayed and pushed at them with all his might. But it didn't move.

"Why in Heaven's name don't you open the window? Do you want to smother me?" he passionately cried,

It was warm, dreadfully warm. The perspiration stood in great drops on his face, or ran down into his neck. The birds sang merrily out the door, and the glad sunshine lay in golden sheets upon the earth; but he did not notice them. He would have given five dollars if he had not touched the accursed bureau; he would have given ten if

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he had never been born. He threw all his weight on both knobs. It moved then. It went to its place with a suddenness that threw him from his balance, and brought his burning face against the bureau with force enough to skin his nose, and fill his eyes with water to a degree that was blinding.

Then he went out on the back-stoop and sat there for an hour, scowling at the scenery.

A WOMAN'S IDEA OF FINANCE.

A DANBURY man was looking at his yard Thursday afternoon. He was looking at it in such a way as to easily attract the attention of any neighbor who might have a lot of unemployed time on hand. Such a party pretty soon joined the observer, and immediately took an all-absorbing interest in the contemplated improvement. From this subject they rapidly drifted into finance.

"Pretty tough times," observed the neighbor.

"Yes, they are that; an' it'll be tougher before we're over it, I imagine," was the answer.

They were both sitting on a saw-horse under an apple-tree, near the back-door, when this conversation commenced. The owner of the premises was chewing on a bit of straw; and the neighbor was mechanically pulling tops from the plantain in reach.

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"What do you think of this money-question which has got into politics this year?" inquired the neighbor.

"I think it'll be settled one way or the other before another presidential election is over," replied the owner, "You see the matter is being—"

"Ezekiel!" pronounced a sharp voice from the stoop.

"Well, what is it?" he curtly inquired.

"I wish you'd get me a pail of water."

"In a minute.—As I was sayin,' the matter is bein' pressed with unusual force. There has been this effort for years to come down to a specie basis; but nothin' definite has been reached. Now, I imagine this campaign will settle it."

"You believe specie to be the best currency, of course?"

"Certainly. What does the increase of paper money amount"—

"Ezekiel!" came the voice from the stoop.

"In a minute.—All the paper you might print from now till"—

"Ezekiel!"

"Thunder and lightning! Maria, what is the matter?" he passionately ejaculated.

"I want you to get me a pail of water: I'm waitin' for it."

"I'll get it in a minute, if you'll just hold your breath.—You might, as I said, print money till

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doomsday; an', if you ain't got the gold to back it up, what is it goin' to amount to? As far as exchange is concerned, among ourselves I will admit that paper"—

"Ezekiel!"

"Good gracious! Maria, what do you want?"

"I want a pail of water. I've told you a dozen times. If you don't hurry up with it, you'll have to go without dinner."

"Where is the pail?" snapped the annoyed husband, seeing it in her hand. "It's a pity if I can't get a chance to say a word, without being put out every minute."

Seeing him rise up, she set the pail down on the stoop, and retired; and he, helping himself to a fresh straw, said,—

"As I was sayin', paper is all well enough among ourselves as a matter of exchange; but what are we goin' to do for imports? We can't get along without gold then. An' what are we goin' to do when this money is called in, if we haven't got gold enough to redeem it? Now, suppose, for instance, that I had ten"—

"Ezekiel!" came the voice again. But he did not hear it.

—"thousand dollars in cash, an' supposin' I wanted to use forty thousand dollars. What do I do? I take"—

"Ezekiel! Why on earth don't you stop that gab of yours, and get me a pail of water?"

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"Yes, yes, in a minute.—An' I take my paper on the market for that amount. Here is ten thousand dollars in cash, you see, an' here is the—Woosh! gar! ooh!" and just here the gasping husband was awed into silence by seeing his neighbor dash over the fence in a dripping condition. The forty thousand dollars on paper was not there, as might have reasonably been expected; but a pail of indifferent water was there, hurled with all the force and fury an exasperated woman is capable of. And, as the choking expounder of specie as a basis reached out spasmodically for his breath, the interested neighbor, with fully two-thirds of the contents of the bucket in his hair and under his coat-collar, sped across the lots with a vehemence that was really marvellous as an exhibition of speed, and with a silence in regard to the cause which was born of twenty years of married life.

University of Virginia Library

MR. MIGGS OF DANBURY, AND OTHER SKETCHES.

MIGGS'S JULIA.

THE PATRIOT'S IGNOBLE REPULSE.

THE SYMPATHIZING STRANGER.

AN ACCOMMODATING REPORTER.

BE CHEERFUL AT THE TABLE.

A GREAT GRIEF.

HENS AS A STUDY.

THE BOY WITH A PENNY.

TEMPEST IN A TUB.

SHOULD THE ASTORS LUG OFF THE MONEY?

WHAT HE WANTED IT FOR.

A PRUDENT SUFFERER.

THE COTTER'S SATURDAY NIGHT.

THAT AWFUL BOY.

HE WANTED TO KNOW THE MENU.

WHO WAS TO BLAME?

AN EXTRAORDINARY STOVE-PIPE.

AN EMINENTLY THOUGHTFUL HUSBAND.

STRIKING A BONANZA.

A SORE TROUBLE.

MR. COVILLE PROVES MATHEMATICS.

A FEMALE PRANK.

A STARTLING AFFAIR.

COVILLE CONVALESCES.

A SERENADING CATASTROPHE.

OWNING A COW.

AN ASTONISHING CURE.

THE HARBISONS' BABY.

MR. COVILLE RENEWS HIS SINGING.

A PROGRESSIVE WOMAN.

NOT AS HIS MOTHER DID.

AFTER THE FUNERAL.

A SMART WOMAN.

A DANBURY SPELLING-SCHOOL.

A LAZY BOY'S LOAD.

THE DUTIFUL BOY.

ENJOYING THEIR CHURCH PRIVILEGES.

THEY ALL DO IT.

A MODEL BOY.

THE BUREAU-DRAWER.

A WOMAN'S IDEA OF FINANCE.

MR. MIGGS OF DANBURY,
AND OTHER SKETCHES.