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VOLUME YI.
TWO LITTLE ROGUES.
Says Sammy to Dick,
“Come hurry; come quickly
And we’ll do, and we’ll do, aud we’ll dot
Our mamma’s away;
She’s "one for to stay;
And we’ll make a hullabaloo!
Hi too, ri 100, 100, loo!
Well make a great hullabaloo!”
Says Dicky to Sam,
“All weddy I am
To do, aud to do, and to do.
But how doeth it go?
1 so little do know;
Thay, what be a hullabawoo 5 '
lti too, ri 100, woo, woo, woo!
Thay, what be a hullabawoo?”
“Oh! slammings aud banging,
And wkingings aud whanging'??,
Aud very bad mischief we’ll do;
"We'll clatter and shout,
And pull thing about;
And that's what’s a hullabaloo!
Ri too, ri 100, hx\ 100, loo!
And that’s what’s a hullabaloo!
“Slide down the frout stairs,
Tip over the chairs;
Now into the pantry break through;
We’ll take dowu some tinware.
And other things in there—
All aboard for a hullabaloo!
Tti too, ri 100, 100, 100, loo!
All aboard for a hullabaloo!
“Now, roll up the table
Far up as you’ro able,
Chpirs, sofa, big e.isy-chair, too;
Put the poker and vases
In funny odd places;
How’s this for a hullabaloo?
Iti too, ri 100, 100, 100, loo!
How’s this for a hullabaloo?
“Let the dishes and pans
Be the womans and mans;
Everybody keep still in their pete?
Mammy’s gown l’il get next,
And preach you a text.
Dicky, hush with your hullabaloo!
hi too, ri 100, 100, 100, loo!
Dicky, hush with your hullabaloo!”
As the preacher in gown
Climbed up and looked down
His queer congregation To view,
Said,Dicky to SantiAy,
‘ Ob, Here comes our mammy!
Sc'll Ihcokl for dis hullabaloo!
Ili too, ri 100, 100, 100. loo!
Se’ll llt cold for dis hullabawoo!
“0, mammy! O, mammy!”
Cried Dicky and Sammy,
“We’ll never again, certain true!”
Hut with firm step she trod,
Aud looked hard at the rod;
Oh, then came a hullabaloo!
Boohoo. boohoo, woo, woo, woo!
Oh, then came a hullabaloo!
MISCELLANY.
‘‘When they Gathered in
the Kay.”
HY EIIEX te REXFOftD.
“Your cousin Helen is coming next
Week, 1 * Robert Brailh’s mother said
when lie came in from his work, and
'sat down to read for a few minutes.—
“There’s her fetter oil the window-sill
if you’d like to read it. 4
lie took uj> the letter and read it
through slowly. There was one pass
age he read over twice before lie laid
it down :
“ f have never spent a pleasanter
summer in my life than the one I spent
with yon, and if Robert is the same
dear old fellow that lie was then, I
sh'dl enjoy this one quite as much, for
y° u know Robert and I were the best
et and I li&Ve seen no one
since that I liked half so well/
He sat there in the door, with the
kttor in hiS hands? aud looked away
ac ross the meadows where the grass
Vas crinkling in tlie wind like a sea of
erne raid and thought about that sum'
'ner gone by, and the summer coming.
i' l that vanished one he had dreamed
011011 a sweet and beautiful dream, and
I, s memory had never left him. But
hud hidden it in his heart, and none
h'ui ever guessed what it was. Now
was coming back, and the old
1 O •
“‘earn must be lived over again, or
crushed down and kept out of sight, if
< " ) he that his will was powerful enough
to that. But he doubted his own
' length. There had been times, ill the
Uad summer, when it had seemed as
! his heart must speak out and be
I'oird. But his pride had kept it si-
Here he wds, a farmer, and she
■he child of Wealthy parents, city born
btctl; and he argued that he had
' 1 right to say any tiling to her of love,
‘-ecause their stations in life were so
1 herent and so far apart. If she had
'I 11 a fanner’s daughter, or the child
1* ' or parents, or he had been a rich
11, ll ‘ son, with culture and cducati >u
1’ and to her own, then ! But always
the if in the way came up to stare him
in the and so he crushedjback the
words he had almost said so many
timesj and Helen Hunt had never dis
covered his secret, he felt sure.
He could not help feeling a thrill of
keen pleasure at knowing she was com
ing backj but at the same time he was
sorry. It would only make it harder
for him when she was gone. He knew
that her voice would hold the old dan
gerotisly-sweet fascination in it, And
her eyes would only make him feel
more keenly what lie longed to claim
his own, but what was out of his reach.
But—and something of that same reck
lessness which comes to us All at times
came to him—she was coming, and
he could not help that, and he would
let the future decide its own affairs.—
11c would drift, and dream even if the
w .king up at the end of itjji was bitter
with loss and a life time’s regret.
The next week brought Helen Hunt.
Robert drove down to the depot after
her. Sue was standing on the platform
witli her face turned another way when
he drove up. But it did not need the
sight of her face to tell him that she
was there. lie Would have known
that tall and graceful figure any**
where.
‘I am glad to see you back/ he said,,
coming up beside her. liis voice was
not quite steady. He had tried to
make himself appear cool aud self
controlled, but the presence of the
woman he loved unmanned him a lit
tie.
‘Robert/ she cried, turning quickly
at the sound of his voice, with a glad,
s n y
eager light flashing up into her beauti
ful eyes. How they thrilled him ! She
held out her hand and there was no
mistaking the gemiirtess of her wel*
come. It spoke in her words and made
itself felt in her lace.
‘I hardly expected to see you back
here, ’lie said, feeling that she would
expect him to say sonn thing, and
knowing nothing else to say. Just
then words failed to coine readily at
his command.
T have been looking forward to this
f-r months, she said. ‘1 was so happy
here that I have been longing to come
back ever since I went away. I hope
this summer will be a pleasant as that
one was/
‘I hope it will for y ur sake,’ he said,
and his face had a grave, pained look
in it which her keen eyes detected at
once.
r What is the matter with you, Rob
ert V she putting her hand on his
arm. ‘You look at me as if something
troubled you, My coining has nothing
to do with it, lias it ?‘
‘How should it have?' he said with
a little forced laugh. ‘I haven r t felt
quite will fofc a few days, iha“s all.—
But I'll come around all right by and
by. Don't say anything to mother
about it—she doesn't know, and there
is no use in her worrying over me—
She couldn't help me if she knew/
‘ls it serious, Robert !' Her eyes Were
grave now as they rested questioning)} 7
on his face.
‘Don't ask ine to tell you anything
more about it,' lie said, tinning ab
ruptly away. ‘Men have lived through
it before tioW, add I shall,’ lie added,
with another laugh. ‘Don't trouble
your heAd about me, 1 pray, Helen,
but etijoy yourself the very best you
can /
ft was a pleasant ride home, in spite
of the thoughts which would keep coub
ing into Robert Braith’s mind. IBhe
was by his side and ho loved her !
'The old summer seemed to come
back again, with its “light which was
never on land or sea,’ to Robert. Tiie
dream of his heart was just as sweet
as it had been in the vanished days.—
She had not changed at all since then, ;
but was the same winning woman who
had won his heart away and would
keep it forever.
The days passed like charmed ones;
with rows upon the river, and long de- |
liglitful walks at sunset time ; with j
songs iu the brief, delicious evenings, !
and quiet talks about books and the J
men and women who wrote them.— I
Robert was not her inferior in thccuK
tore which comes from reading good j
books ; because he was a farmer was (
no reason with him why he should be !
ignorant and uncultivated.
lie had and formed wide
acquaintances with earnest, thought
ful men—through the books they had
written—and in this way lie had edu
cated himself to a much higher ievel
thau most of the young men Helen
Hunt met in her own circle of society
at home. But because ne lacked their
self-esteem and conceit, Robert always
thought of himself as lacking some
thing in mind and which those
she came in contact with in her own '
sphere in life ought to have, and did
have, for all he knew to the contrary.
Perhaps he was right in thinking that
they ought to have it. But she could
have told him that they did not al
ways.
One day Jerome Alstyne came out
from the city. Robert had heard that
he was a lover of Helen's, and he was
sure of it when he saw the man's face
at their nTeeting. But Helen's showed
no such sudden gladness as ought to
express itself in the face of a woman
when she meets the man she loves,
and Robert felt satisfied that she did
not care far Alstyne as he did for her,
and the thought brought a sense of
exultation to him.
Alstyne did not stay long. When
lie went away he carried a face which
had a look of defeat in it. lie had
striven to win the woman he loved and
failed. From the bottom of his heart
Robert pitied him. He had not liked
the man very well before, but when he
drove down to the station with him,
and saw how deeply he felt the loss of
of what he.had hoped to win, a feeling
ot kindness came over Him. Must they
not bear henceforth, a sorrow which
came from loving one neither might
•possess.
In some strange way Alstyne un
derstood what Braith was thinking of.
He turned to him suddenly and
said : *
'Braith, you are sorry for me—you
pity me,’ he said. ‘I thank you for it.
You understand what there is to pity
me for. You can well afford to pity me
since you have won what I have lost.
I wish von all the happ ness I had
hoped for myself'
’I—I don't understand you/ Robert
said with a strange thrill at his heart
‘I have won nothing y ou would have
prized.
‘Do you call Helen Hunt's love noth
ing?' Alstyne cried; ‘I W fluid give
the world for it if I had it to give/
‘You are mistaken,' Robert said.—
‘l—’
But Vlstync intoi rnpted him.
‘I am riot blind, he said. She loves
you, and you will find it so when the
time comes for you to tell her what you
must Some dAy.
She loved him ! There was a world
of rapture in the thought. But—and
tire haunting specter which comes to
sit by your hearth and mine came inti)
his heart then—their ways in life were
so wide apart that they could not be
bridged over. He could never ask this
Woman to stflop to his lowly life. And
he could not lift himself to hers. And
yet she loved him ! lie could not for
one moment forget that. And to know
it was so sweet, so unutterably
sad
The days. After that, went by more
like a dream than ever. lie tried to
keep away from her, but his heart
Would not let him. lie tried to school
himself to the thought that, since Ire
might not have her fur his own he
ought not to think of her as a man does
of the woman he hopes to win. But
he could not do that, lie coull only
love her and tell himself his love was
in vain.
But it could not always go on in that
way Fate took the matter in her own
hands at last.
Robert was at work in tire meadow
one afternoon. The loaded wagon was
driven away to the Lain, and he sat
down to rest until its return. As he
sat there, Helen came down the lane.
She saw him, and came across the
meadaw and sat beside him, under the
old maple tree.
What they talked about he never
con'd tell. He remembered in a vague
way that they saw a darkening sky,
but that was all, until the sudden fury
oft! e' summer shower broke upon them.
A flash of blinding brightness, a cry
from her, a crash, as if heaven and
earth Were being rent in twain—and
he was by her side, wish her head up
on his knee, and he was crying out to
her in a incoherent way, telling
her that he loved her.
‘Oh, my darling !' lie cried, kissing
her face in the wild outburst of long
pent-up pission, 'I love you ! I love
3 7 0 u ! and you are dead /
‘Are you sure of that Robert ?' she
said, struggling up into a sitting pos
ture, with tiie color coming back into
h>r cheeks. ‘I was stunned a trifle tor
a moment, nothing more/
‘I thought you must be you
were so pale/ lie said. Mf had only
known—'
‘Well, what V she asked shyly* when
he paused.
‘1 would not h ive said what I did/ j
lie answered slowly. “Forgive me, j
Helen. At such times we say things
EASTMAN, GEORGIA, THURSDAY, JULY 25, IS7B.
we would not say in sober moments/
‘Robert/ she Cried, suddenly, ‘you
said you loved me. If it is true, why
should you not tell me so ? What keeps
us apart V
His face was pale with the pain at
his heart. The time had come when he
must speak.
‘l‘ll tell you what keeps us apart,c
lie answered. ‘You belong to a sphere
of life so much abbve mine that love
cannot bridge over the distance be
tween us—'
‘Robert/ she cried, her whole face
aglow, ‘is that the reason why you have
kept silent? Because I have lived in
a world you know but little about, you
imagine it would be wrong lor you to
ask me to follow my heart! Poor sim
ple Robert ! love is more to me than
all the world beside, and your life is
the happiest one I ever knew I
should make no sacrifices in taking
it in place of the old one. I——'
but she stopped in sudden, sweet con
fusion.
‘My darling !‘ lie cried, and caught
her to liis breast. ‘Are you sure you
care enough for me to give up all you
would have to willii.g’y ? Think of
the change, Helen.'
r L have tli night/ she answered. ‘I
give it willingly. I tired of it long ago.
I want you;
There was a sudden breaking of the
clouds, and the sun came forth in new
radiance. The world was transfigured
with rare and wonderful glory- Robert
thought, as lie bent aud kissed the face
uplifted to his, full of love aud trust
and peace. And she laid her head up
on his shoulder and whisp -red softly,
‘Robert, my king.'
Two Remarkable Accidents.
In the transactions of the Medical
Society of New Jersey, for 1877, Dr.
Reyerson reports the case of a child
which lived four weeks with over an
inch of a No. 1 Sewing needle in the
heart. Search for the needle before
deatli was unsuccessful. At the au
topsy it was found to have passed pa -
Rally through the cartilage of the 4th
rib, in the wall of the right ventricle.
Pus welled up through the perforated
cartilage, and loose in an abcoss hold
ing an oiir.ee or more of pus, in the
muscular substance, lay the needle. It
was supposed that until loosened by
suppuration the broken end of the
needle remained fixed in the libs, thus
pinning the heart to the chest wall.
A still more remarkable accident,
With recovery, is reported in the trans
actions of the Medical Society of Penn
sylvania, for the same year. In this
case a boy of fourteen was impaled on
the end of a cairiage shaft, the point
of the shaft entering one inch below
the left nipple and c lining out at the
back. The victim was swung three
times in the air by the rearing of the
horses, then pushed himself off, and
walked home with some assistance.—
No cough or hemoptysis followed and
apparently little shock, Effusion into
the pleura occurred with discharge of
pus, front and back. This gradually
lessened, and finally both wounds
closed, the one in the breast last.—
The boy has recovered and is iu robust
health.
A Humorists’s Dinner.
‘Twenty minutes for dinner/ shouted
the brakeman as we approached La
throp.
Arrived there, I entered the dining
room and inquired of the waiter:
‘ Ah at do you have for dinuer?'
‘Twenty minutes,’ was the hurried
reply.
I told him I would try half a dozen
minutes raw on the half shell, just to
see how they went. Told him to make
a minute of it on his books. He
scratched his head trying to comprcs
hend the order, but gave it up and
waited on someone else.
I approached a man who stood near
the door with a lot of silver in his hand:
‘What do you have for dinner?’
‘Half a dollar/ said he.
1 told him I would take half a dollar
well done. I asked him if he couldn’t
give me in addition a boiled pocket
book stuffed with greenbacks, and
some seven thirties garnished with
postage stamps and ten cent scrip?
And I would like to wash my dinner
with national bank notes and a ‘draft/
lie said they were out of everything
except the bank n ites, and that as soon
as the traiy left he would order the
waiter to r draw’ some.
:
For a rich mau to make a will that
will please all his heirs, is about as j
difficult a ta-k as fur an editor to un
dertuke to print a newspaper that will
please all Jus readers. \
The Widow ami the Widower.
When Mr. Thomas Thompson was
courting the widow who became his
sixth wife, said he, taking a pinch of
snuff and looking wise, ‘I will tell you
what I expect of you, my dear. You
are aware that I have had a good deal
of matrimonial experience. Ilohum!
!it makes me sad to think of it. My
! lot in the cemetery is almost full, and
I may truly say that my cup of misery
would be running over at this moment
it it were not fer you. But to business.
I was about to remark that Jane, my
first, could make better coffee than
any other woman in this woild. I
trust’you will adopt her recipe for the
preparation of that beverage/
‘My first husband frequently re'*
marked ’ began the widow.
‘And there was Susan/ interrupted
Mr. Thompson. ‘Susan was the best
mender that probably ever lived. It
was her delight to find a button off
and, as for rents in coats and things,
1 have seen her shed tears of joy when
she saw them, she was so desirous of
using her needle for their repair. Oh,
what a woman Susan was/
‘Many is the time/ began the widow*
‘that my first has ‘
‘With regard to Anna, who was my
third/ said Mr. Thompson, hastily, ‘I
think her forte above all others was in
the accomplishment of the cake known
as slapjack. I have very pleasant
visions at this moment of my angelic
Anna as she appeared in the kitchen
of a frosty morning, enveloped in smoke
and the morning sunshine that stole
into the window, or bearing to my
plate a particularly nice article of s'ap
jack, with the remark, ‘That's the ni
cest one yet, Thomas. Eat it while
il*s hot.‘ Sometimes, I assure you,
my dear, these recollections are quite
overpowering. 4
lie applied his handkerchief to his
eyes, and the widow said, ‘Ah, yes, I
know how it is myself, sir. Many is
the time that I see in my lonely hours
my dear first bus ‘
‘The pride and the joy of Julia, my
fourth, and 1 may say, too, of Clara,
my fifth/ interrupted Mr. Thompson,
with some apparently accidental vio
lence of tone, ‘lay m the art of making
over tilth spring bonnets. If you will
believe, my dear, one bonnet lasted
those two blessed women through all
the happy years they lived with me.
They would return them, and make
them over so many, many times! Bear,
dear! what a changing world-—what
an unhappy, changing world. 4
‘I say so to myself a hundred times
a day, sir/ said the widow with a sigh
‘I frequently remarked to my first
bus ‘
‘Madame/ said Mr. Thompson, sud
denly and with great sterness, ‘oblige
me by never mentioning that cheap
man again. Are you not aware that
he must necessarily be out of the ques
tion forevermore? Can you not see
that your continual references to him
sicken my soul? Let us have peace,
madaine; let us have peace/
‘Very well, sir/ said the widow,
meekly. ‘1 beg your pardon, and
promise not to do it again. 4
And they were married, and their
lives were as bright and peaceful as
Mr. Miller's sundown seas.— Buffalo
Ecpress.
CHARLEY ROSS?
A Fair-Haired, Blue-Eyed Boy
at Milan—ln the Custody of
Italian Beggars - He Seems to
Understand English.
[From the Chicago Times,]
Milan, Italy, June 20, 1878.—About
one year ago some excitement was
created here among Americans by'the
appearance in the streets ofa strolling
party of musical beggars, having with
them a boy suppose! to be Charley
Ross, the stolen boy of America. This
opinion was based upon bis actions
and the picture and description of the j
boy seen in America. When attention
was first attracted to him there were
several children listening to the music
who continued speaking to each other I
in the English language, hearing which
he left the performers and joined them, !
and seemed to recognize the language.
• o O j
This was noticed by one of the keep- j
ers, who, in apparent alarm, hurried
to him and rudely jerked him out of
tins company, and the party left. This
excited the suspicion of a lady frmn
Cincinnati, who saw the affair, and
the circumstances and the resemblance
were talked over among -Americans.
In a few days afterward the party
was seen in another part of the city,
and a lady at a distance of a ro 1 or)
m re spoke in English saying. ‘Char
ley, come to me/ He seemed to un
derstand and started toward her, but
was again seized rudely, and with an
gry words hurried out of sight. All
further efforts were defeated by their
suddenly leaving the city. The party
is composed of a possibly deformed
m m who sits in a hand cart and is
drawn about by a villainous looking
man each about thirty-five or forty
years old, of very dark, swarthy skin,
hair and eyes black. The boy plays
an accordeon and the man-horse col
lects the coppers. The boy is judged
to be right or nine years old; eyes
large and bright blue; features open,
refined and delicate; fair, clear skin;
regular teeth; hair light, approaching
red; faint freckles about the nose; of
delicate or light build; seems bright
and cheerful. Ilis appearance and
manners will convince the beholder
that he Is not an Italian, and in no way
akin to his keepers. The interest in
this case was intensified by the knowl
edge of the practice in this country of
stealing children to aid in the practice
of beggary and all manner of catch
penny exhibitions. A bright hand
some child is a small fortune in the
hands of strollirfg vagabonds.
SPURGEON.
A Pen Picture of the Great Bap
tist Minister.
[London Correspondence of the Watchman ]
Imagine a man still on the morning
side of forty five, a little below the
ordinary height, solidly bu'lt, with a
large and, as the phrenologist would
say, round and well balanced head,
covered with a strong growth of dark
hair, closely cut, and a face more
homely than handsome yet impressive
with great earnestness and sincerity 7 ,
and at times even beautiful, when his
soul is stirred with symoathy for his
fellow-meu —and they will have a tol
erably correct idea of the man as he
appears in the MetropolitanTabernaole.
His chief bodily trials are gout and
rheumatism, and he is seldom free from
the pain of one or the other of these
trying maladies. It therefore happens,
frequently, that ho is in the pulpit when
it would seem that he had better be
in bed. I saw him once enter the
Tabernacle from the rear of t ie plat
form, od which 1 m preaches (he has no
inclosed pulpit, but a platform
ing quite out into the audience room,
upon which is his chair and table, with
his Bible and hynm book), so weak in
body that he could hardly stand. Ad
vancing to the front, and partly recli
ning upon tire railing, with one foot
supported by the chair, he prayed tlius:
“Blessed Master, we are very weak
this morning! Our poor limbs have
hardly been able to bear us hither;
yet, Dear Lord, we have so longed for
Thee, as pilgrims in a dry and thirsty
land, that we could not stay away from
Thy c mrts, and the place where Thine
honor dwelletb. Now, in our weak-,
ness, be Thou our strength. Without
Thine aid, we shall utterly fail in all
our attempts to worship Thee to day/*
And then it seemed there came up
an instantaneous answer to his prayer,
and out of his weakucss ho triumphed
gloriously. lie has a superb voice,
full of strength and melody. Take him
all in all, I never knew a better reader.
When he is well, he deacons out his
hymns, one verse at a time. A brother
stands by his side who gives the pitcli
to the tune, when the whole congrega
tion, rising, unite in singing, producing
at times a wave of harmony inspiring
in the extreme. I would willingly walk
a mile at any time to hear him read
‘Jesus, lover of my soul/ or ‘llock of
ages, cleft for me/ or ‘All hail Lite pow
er of Jesus’ name/ dhese master-piec
es of Christian psalmody fairly glow
and burn under his magical and almost
inspired rendering of them.
He is said to be growing more mel
low as he grows in years, and that he
does not take so much pleasure as lie
did in his early ministry in using his
sharp and well polished weapons of
defence and attack. While, therefore,
he is not less faithful in declaring the
whole truth, its enemies do not array
themselves against him as formerly.
Indeed, there are but few sober-mind
ed people who do not now speak of
him in terms of high respect and com
mendation.
Men and women make their own
beauty 7 or ugliness. Bulwer speaks in
one of his novels of a man ‘who was
uglier than he had any business to be/
and, if we could but read it, every hu
man being carries his life in his face,
and is good-looding, or the reverse, as
that life has been good or evil. On
our own features the fine chisels of
thought and cm it ion are eternally at I
work j
Don't expect to be called a good
fellow a moment longer than you con
sent to do just what other people wish
you to do.
‘I mi speaking/said a long-winded
orator, ‘for the benefit of posterity/
‘Yes/ said one his hearers, ‘and if you
keep on much longer your audience
will be there/
A gaod character ish pretty much
der same to a man ash a goot umbrel
la. Yen large glo ids dhreaten over
his head, all lie ish got to do vas to
bold him up, mid der storm basses
over, he is none der verse.
A man was writing an order for a
few things lie wanted, when the trades
man, glancing at the memorandum,
‘wun pond % of schott/ said, ‘You don’t
spell shot right/ ‘That is so,’ said the
customer, ‘put on another t/
When a man detects a missing but
ton, after getting on a clean s nrt, no
one in the house is aware of the fact.
He takes off the shirt and puts on ans
other, quietly smiling all the while.
He never, never speaks of it to a soul.
‘My dear, did you say or did you not
say why I said you said, because Mrs.
Grundy said you said you never did
say what I said you said ? Now, if
you did say that you did not any what
I said you said, then what did you say ? r
We always admire the cheerful and
hopeful spirit of the colored man who,
when struck by lightning, simply rub
bed the abraded spot of his skull and
remarked: ‘Dat makes free tim s I’ve
been struck, now; I shouldn't wonder
if it let me alone.’
An Irishman attending a Quaker'
meeting, heard a friend make the fol
lowing announcement: ‘Brethren and
sisters, I am going to marry a daugh
ter of the Lord/ ‘Och/ said Pat, ‘an'
it'll be a long time before see;
your father-in-law ’
‘I wish I w..s short-sighted/ said a
little hoy to his mother the other day.
‘Why, my dear?' said the fond parent..
‘Because/ replied the precious six-year
old, T should not then be blamed for
always taking the largest peaches off
the disk; fori should not be able to
see the small ones/
A gentleman observing a servant
girl, who was left-handed, placing the
knives and fonts on the dinner-table
in the same awkward posit on, remark
e 1 to her that sho was laying them
left-handed. ‘Oh, indeed/ said she,
‘so I have. Be pleased, sir, to help
me turn the table round!'
In the house of a Devonshire laborer
there were lying in an ordinary sized
bed two mothers, two sons, one daugh
ter, one grandmother, one grandson,
brother and sister, uncle and nephew,
all ot whom (eleven) were comprehen
ded in four persons, viz: A mother
and her daughter, each with an infant
son.
Two sweet little girls sat np >n the
side-walk in front of the post-office,
one of them nursing a large wax doll.
Her companion asked in tones of deep
earnestness, ‘Does oo have much twou*.
hie wif oor baby?' ‘Oh, d' #duess, yes/
was the reply, ‘ewies rnos' a!l 'e time.
She's jos ewiod an’ cwieJ ever since
she was horned. I/s jes discouraged,
an' I don't link I'll ever bom any more.’
A subscriber of a Hamilton paper
wants to know wlmt will stop hens
from pulling out their feathers. There
are two effectual preventative? of this
disgraceful habit ot the hens. The
most thorough is to puli all tue feath
ers out yourself. The hen don’t look
as well after this, but she cannot pull
out any more feathers. Another rem
edy consists in pushing her feathers
through and bending them into a hook
on the other side. This is a clincher.
Scene in a horse car: seats all occu
pied. Enters a pers n dressed as a
lady. Bright little boy rises and offers
bis seat. Lady drops into it with an
air of slight disdain. Boy—Oh! I beg
your pardon, did you speak? Ladv—
No, I didn't say anything. Boy— Oh!
excuse m>; I thought you said thank
you. Lady (in high dudgeon)—Ye*
111 have your rent. Boy (resuming
it) \\ eii, l'il thank vou. Baasecgeiife
convulsed. Lady disappears s.<■%s.
strcU crossing.
NO. 30.