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Out of Work. An English Workingman's Story Were you ever out of work? No? Then you’re lucky ; for I don’t care what your trade is, you’ll find this— that whether from accident, neglect or foolishness, you get out of harness, it is a horribly hard job t"get in again, for the simple reason that for every job that wants doing, there are two fallows ready to do it. I had a long spell of 1 afing—I called it loafing booauso I couldn’t, get a job —but at last I was in full swing at some very good works, and after hav ing my hands quite soft, and mv face alean, I was regularly delighted to be knockiug the iron about once more, tiling an i turning, getting oily, and then nit only having a good appetite, but something to put in your mouth io quiet it. One day, when I was precious busy, a man who had lately lieen taken on at our shop, but whose lathe had been more often idle than going, came up to me witn a green baize bag in his hand. “Want to buy a fiddle, mate?" he says. “Bah! Wh.it should I do with a fiddle?’’ I says. “Play it and enjoy it,” be says, “it’s a good one and will keep you home o’ nights when you might go out and spend your money.” “Then you keep it and enjoy It, Abe Brown,” i says, “and spend more o’ your nights at home, and your lathe won’t be so often stauding still.” He looked at me rather curiously and slowly pushed the fiddle back Into its green bag, went to his lathe, hung up the fiddle on a nail and began Working, and I thought no more of him till I’d had my wash for ditAier and turned to my j ocket pocket to see what was there. Nice piece of salt pork an I a two* *nny crusty, rolled up in a clean c4h along with an old smelling hot- 6 of mustard and a pill tx * of salt. As I tell you, I d had rather a long spell of work; now I was in full wing and felt ravenous. I'd just in my dinner in the shop—all the other men had, I thought, gone- hen I looked up, and there was town, sitting with his elbows on his nees and his chin in his hands. “HelloI not going to dinner?” I ed. “Anything the matter ?” ee,” he said angrily. “How’s a to go to dinner without a penny is pocket?” “Didn’t I tell you that I had no oney?” “Not you.” “Didn’t I tell yon to buy that fid dle?” 'How was I Here oome on. to know?” I said. Have a cut along ith me. Hflp yourself, old man ; there’s plenty.” And after some hesitation, he cut himself a morsel of pork and about a 'darter of the bread, and then ate a t, but laid it all down. "Can’t eat,” be says, in a dull, heavy ay. “Must get some money and go ok. Bhe’s very bad.” “Who’s very bad ? I says, with my mouth full. “The missus,” he says, laying his head againtt the wall. “I was out of werk sir months, and it did for us both, mate. Couldn’t get a j >b, and when at last I got on hei$, it was too late like, and the money seemed no good. I’ve sat up with her every night for a week, and I am about beat kii.” \“Wby didn’t you say so afore,” I growled. “I thought you’d been on the dnuk.” “Drinkl” he oried. “No; but I ve felt ready to fly to it, only I wouldn’t for her sake. Hhe’s been bad now for tlx months, and the few things I got together have all gone again. I’d some eut to try to raise a little on the fiddle, for I’d kept it to the last.” “Look here!” I oried. “What do you mean by coming and spoiling low’s dinner like this?” I said It banterlngly, so as to hide feeling a bit q leer, for I couldn’t elp thinking of my own bad times ut he turned his eyes upon me with oh ft dreary, wistful look that outed oat: "Here, let’s look at tbs fiddle.” He fetched It from win re it hung, it out, drew the bow across the gs, and it was wonderiul what a ett, sad tone It had. “It’s a good one,” he said, smiling •i It as if he loved it. “I think it’s Italian, bat they only offered me five shillings on It at the shop.” muoh did you want?” said, “but if you would let me have o>i« for It I should—T should ” He ohoked like »nd turned away, and I started after him, thinking be was playacting to humbug me ; but it seemed all real enough,and sotnehowe from a sort of fellowfeeling for a chap in despair, like I might be myself, if I’d had five pounds he might have borrowed it all. As It was, I pulled out my old leath er parse, whers I’d got a sovereign, a half and eleven shillings in silver. 80 I put back one of the shil lings, and clapped him oa the shoul der. “Here you are, Brown,” I says, making believe to be laughing like. “I don’t want, no fiddles, but there’s a couple of pounds hard earnings from one who knows what It is to be out of work. Catch hold, and I phall keep the fiddle till times are better.” He turned upon me quite fiercely, clutohed at the money and made for the door, but the next moment be was bas k again to get hold of my hand. “God bless you, mate!” he said, and he gave ma such a look with those wild eyes of his as made me shiver. “Poor old chap,” I says, beginning to whistle as I put the fiddle in the bap, and then, trying to forget all ahont it. I went on with mv dinner. The first mouthful or two wouldu’t go down,but the third would, and feel ing a bit Light-hearted at having done a feilow a good turn, I finished that cold pofk and bread to the last bit,and shook the crumbs out of the window to the sparrows that were waiting. I began to wonder what my wife would say, for I d promised to go with her the next day to buy a bit of drug get for our floor, for she said that now work seemed to be regular we might treat ourselves to a bit of carpet for our feet. "Strikes me I’ve put my foot in it,” I says to myself, and (hen I began to wonder what she’d say. When it was knocking off time I tucked the green baize bag under my arm and walked OS’ home as defiant us o< uid be, and stamped in Id the room where the missus was outting bread aud butter, just like a man who would not be sat down on by his wife; but I began to feel awkward directly. “Why, for goodness, gracious, Bill,” she cried, “what have you got there?” “Where?” I says. . “Why, there—under your arm.” ‘ Oh !” I said “that fiddle.” “That what?” “That ft idle.” “Aud what are you going to do with a fiddle?” “Learn to play it,” I said, as I hung it up on a nail in the wail. “Why, you rnuBt be mad, Bill/’ says she, “You’ve no more ear for mu sic than an old cow. Did you buy it?” "Well, not exactly,” I said, “be cause he may hrmg the money back “Haw much did you give for It?” “Two pounds.” “Two wnat.” “Pouods, my lass, pounds.” Tea was ready, and »s neat and nice everything was as could bo, though there was do drugget on the fl tor; and then, as she poured out for me, I told her all about it. "Aud if you’ve been such a precious baby as to be taken in by the first piti ful tale that you hear, I’ll never for give you,” Bhe said. But suppose bis tale was all true, Patty ?” “Why, th#h, Bill,” she says, very slowly, “all I have to say Is, that if eytr you are as hard pushed, I hope you may meet with as good a friend.” It was about a month later that went home, and I says : “It’s all true enough, Patty.” “What’s all true, Bill ?” she says, for we had never mentioned the fiddle since that night. “ About the fiddle,” I says. “ The hard times when we were out of work were too much for poor Abel Brown’s wile. She’s dead.” “ Dead I” she said, softly, aud I saw the tears oome lulo her bright gray eyes. A ter a time I used to get in the habit of taking that fiddle down and making noise with it, and often and often, as I’ve soraped away, making the most horrid noises, Patty would sit theie stitching away, and quite satisfied; for as Abel Brown said, It used to keep me at home. I never got to be a good player, but at last I could scrape out any popular tune from the notes, and many’s the pleasant evening I’ve had, playing polkas and waltzes and quadrilles, and ail the new songs; but, somehow, I never hung that old fiddle up on Its 1 without seeing Abel Brown’s sad again, and our shop was closed, and pound by pound ail our savings went,,- try how I would to get work else where, that fiddle was about the only consolation I had. Month after month went by, and my hands were growing as white and soft as poor Patty's face ; but she never complained, only spent her time working with her needle, and trying to persuade me tint she had no appe tite, or that she had something while I was out, so as to save a few pence. One day, feeling half mad, and ready to do anything, after hanging about the shut-up gates of our work shop, and v idling I could have turned my hand to some o’her trade, I went back home rtoly to tell Putty that we had better emigrate. There was Patty at her needle, in our room, trying hard to keep our bodies and souls together with shop- work, and there hung the old fiddle in its happy green bag from the pic ture nail, but there was no picture there— now that, and all our best things, had gone loDg enough before. 1 took the old fid le down, as my habit was, tightening the bow ha r, and was beginning to play some very old a r, “ Grammaohree,” I think h was, when it seemed to strike me that ths fiddle hud brought wh»t was like ourse to my little home, and that I was to suff r as Abel Brown had suf fered before, aud that I should see my poor weary-faced wife die belcro my eyes. Then I felt a kind of reproach that I could be so unmanly as to have kept that instrument which might have been sold and saved poor Patty’s weary fingers from eome of her toil. I thought about it all that night and the next morning I took the fiddle down, tuned it and ran the bow ove/ the strings and shivered, for ttu sounds catne and diet! away as I had heard them oome and die away when Abel Brown had touched the instru ment at our workshop. Feeling half savaga I thrust it back into the bag and strode out of the house, not even turning my head when Patty called aft« r me to know where l was going, f< r she would have stopped me from selling it, I know. “Ho said it was a good one and wortn the money,” I muttered. “I must have my two pounds back now.” I hardly know how it was. I suppose my legs t>ok me naturally toward our works, as if I was to find the friend there—when I could hardly believe my eyes, for there were about a dozen of our b flows—haggard, gaunt-looking chaps—talking excitedly as they went in, fpr the gates were open, and as I half staggered up I saw the two gov. i ruors were theie too. "Ah, Johnson,” said one of them— “glad to see you, my man. We’ve got a large contract and you may begin work to-morrow morning,” The gates seemed to swim, and all was blank, and when I came to I was in the counting room and some one was holding a gia«s of water to my lips. “Indeed, my lad,” said one of my employers, kindly, when he had questioned me a bit. “I’m sorry it has been so bad as that. But oome, the trouble’s over now, and perhaj^ you would like a sovereigu on ac count.” I went back home like a man in a dream, walked straight to the nail and hung the old fiddle up in its place before going to Patty’s side and put ting the sovereign in her hand, Bay ing, aB I did so, the governor’s words, "The trouble’s over now.” Anecdote of Webster. An incident in the eerly life of the great Daniel Webster will better Ulus trate one *f those r ire, but well-defin ed characters to which is here refer red. Webster’s father was a farmer, and he wanted Daniel to beoome a farmer too. But Daniel did not take to the idea very kindly. One day the old gentleman took Daniel with birn to the hay field and gave him a scythe, and he says, “Daniel. 1 am going to start off here, and I want you to start right along behind me aud mow.” Daniel said nothing, bnt teok the scythe, for he always fried to mind his father. The old gent went along right ahead, never looking back, hut Dan took one or two ntiokes and stop ped. He looked at his soythe and be gan tinkering it. Meanwhile the old gent went right through with his swarth, and when he got to the end of the field he turned around, and lot there wa^ D.iu away in the other part of the field. He shouldered his scythe and marched back to where Daniel was, and says he : “Daniel, what is the matter with you ?” “Well,” Dan says, “this scythe don’t hang to suit me.” The old man took the soythe and hung It as Dan directed. Beveral throughs were made In oacces- slon, and each lime tin old man tam ed round at theend he would discover Dauiel in the same position at the other end fixing his scythe. Finally the old man, after trying in vain lor ao many times to hang it to suit Dan’s notion came back, and in an angry tone, said: "Daniel, you are lazy. You will never make a farmtr. Now, take that scythe and just hang it to suit yourself.” Dad took up the scythe aud marched quietly by the fence and hung it up in a sapling. He looked up in the tree and said: “Well, old fellow, now you hang to suit me.” There are many Websters In the land who could never make successful farmers. Bnt fur every Webster whom we find at the plow we might discover asaoreof natural-born farmers who are trying to praetloe law or medicine or teach sohool. Arabi Pacha’s Home Lif.e The Fast Judge and the Slow Juror. , M When I was a young man I spent several years in the South, residing for awhile at Port Gibson, on the Mis- I sisslppi river. A great deal of litiga tion was going on there about that time, and it was not always an easy matter to obtain a Jury. One day, I was summoned to aot in that capacity and repaired to Cour. to get excused. On my name being oalled I informed his Honor the Judge that I was not a freeholder, and therefore not qualified to serve. “ I am stopping for the time being at this place.” “ You board at the hotel, I presume?’’ "I take my meals there, but have rooms in aimher part of the town, where I lodgeft’ " So you keep bachelor’s • Yes, sir.” “H >w long have ed in that manner?” " About nths.” " I think you are qual- gravely remarked t;he Judge, I have never known a man to I had airea 1y senn and spoken with Arahi, writes Lady Gregory, but it was not until the end of February that I went, with Lady Anne Blnnt, to see hiB wife. They bad moved some little time before to a new house, large and dilapidated-looking, and which Arab! was represented as having fitted up in a luxurious style ; in fact, at that time the crime mo.-t frequently alleged against him was that he had bought oar pets to the amount of £120 pounds. There were some pieces of new and not beautiful European carpets in the ohief reoms, but if Arab! paid £120 for them he made a very bad bargain. I have benri very lately from one who has taken the trouble to investigate the truth rf the Btories of his avarioe*, that he has the same small amount of money to his credit now that he had before he was either Pacha or Minis ter, and that the foundation of the story of his having become a large landed proprietor is his having become trustee for the old Id of an old friend who had been kind to him. The sole furniture of the reception room of Arabi’s wife consisted of small hard divans, covered with brown linen, and a tiny table, with a crochet antimacassar thrown over it. On the whitewashed walls the only orna meats were photographs of him in black wooden frames and one larger photograph of the Saored Stone at Meooa. In the room where Arabi himself sat and received were a Bind lar hard divan, two or three chairs, a table%ud an Inkstand oovered with stains. | His wife was ready to reoeive us having heard an hour or two earlier of oar intended visit. She greeted us warmly, speaking in Arabic, which Lady Anne interpreted to me. She has a pleasau ^intelligent ex pres ion ; but having five children living out of four teen that have been born to her, look ed ratht r overoome w.tU the cares of maternity, her beauty dimmed since the time when the tail, grave soldle Bhe had seen passing under her vjQ dow every day looked up at last, aud saw and loved her. She wore a long dress of green Bilk. “My husband hates this loDg train,”she told us afterward; "he would like to take knife and out it off, but I must havea fashionable dress to wear when I visit the Khedive’s wife and other ladies, k there kf^^Snglish h again to sea hh wi'e. 8u a little sad ler, a little rn ir^ than when I had !a r <t seen iv was on hospitable cure* Intent, soon went out of itoe room t> the prepara'Ion of dinner, r iii Italian lady with me ai ii >r >; jtsr, who spoke French ail A m, >L; nr/ well. They had exoeoted *ue bills time, And made mire prepirj,,l>u; and when the mial waa rnlv ail [ saw dish after dish oimlnj in, I vr « in despair until I fund tut wi >f the children, my little h -i chb-cyat friend H«ssan, wnq iite ready to oik by me and be fa 1 fro n u y p s, j, 111 so I disposed of my share to hi ut satisfaction. “I lik« thD b itto • m having to wait, down til dinner is over,” he said; * then t'uy forget me, and eat up all the *»>l things.” By the time dessert arrive 1 he said he liked me bat hated oilier ladies, and would like to come and see me In England, hut did not ku vw how he oould manage it, as bis papa wanted the carriage every day. I advised him to learn Euglisb, and his mother said she would like to send him to oa© the Christian sohools in Cairo, Bat how can I send him where he would hear his father epokeu 111 of?** Bhe seemed troubled, poor woman, be cause the Khedive’s wife, who used to be good and kind to her, now says: H ow can we be friends w nen your husband is such a bad man ?” The old mother sat in t’ie ooraer attending to the ohildren and count ing over her beads. I said : “ Ar; yon not pioud now your son is a Paohaf" No,” she said; “we were happier in the old days when we had him with us always and feared nothing. Now he gets up at daybreak, and ha* only time to say his prayers before there are people waiting for him with, petitions, and he has to attend to them and then go t > his business, and often he is not back here anti! after mid night, and until he comes I cannot sleep, I cannot rest, i can do nothing but pray for him all the time* There are many who wish him evil, and they will (ry to destroy him. A few days ago he came home suffering great pain, and I was sure he had beea poi soned ; but I got him a hot bath and remedies aud he grew better, and th keep even the water that he drin‘ looked up. But, say all loan, I o not frighten him or make him take care of himself. Ha always aayat “ God will preserve me.” Provisioning a Steamboat* Three thousand five hundred poun of butter, 8000 hams, 16)0 pounds cult—not those supplied to the or 1080 pounds of "dessert stoies,” catels, almonds, figs, etc., exclmlv fresh fruits, which are taken i every port; 1600 poun 1s of jams lellies, 6000 pounds of tiuued meats, 1000 pounds of dried beans, 83Mi pouuds of rioe, 6900 pounds of onions, 40 tons of potatoes, 60,000 pounds of flour, and 20,000 eggs. Fresh vegeta bles, dead meat, and live bullocks, sheep, pigs, geeee, turkeys, guinea birds, ducks, fowls, fish, and oasual game, are generally supplied at ea port of call, or replenished at the f ther end of the journey, so that it is difficult to obtain complete estimates of them. Perhaps two dozen bullocks and 60 sheep would be a fair average for the whole voyage, and the rest may be inferred in proportion. The writer has known 25 fowls sacrificed in a siugle day to makeohicken broth. Four thousand sheets, 2,000 blankets, 8000 towels, 2000 pounds of various soaps, 2000 pounds of oandles—exoept in those vessels which are fitted with the electric light; 1000 knives, 2300 plates, 800 cups and sauoers, 8008 glasses—fanoy what a handsome In come the amount represented by an nual loss from breakage would be I —800 table-cloths, 2000 glass-olotbs —all these are figures exhibited by the proveditorof one ship alone. Think what they would amount to when multiplied by the number of ships In each company’s fleet, and then try realize the fact that this departme constitutes only one, and by no me the greatest of their incidental peases. D© Not Wear*Dycd Stock! Dyed stookings are danger >u-» oles to wear. At an inquest liel London, by Sir John Humphrey, epeoting the death of a child of eighty) It wagfhown that some time ago. youngster had taken tha skin o eel through ov<*