The Reading-Club.

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“D’ye see it, pard?”

“See what, Rough?”

“The light from over the Range.”

“Not a bit, Rough. It’s not daybreak yet. Yer sick, an’ yer head bothers ye.”

“Pard, yer off. I’ve been sick, but I’m well again. It’s not dark like it was. The light’s a-comin’—comin’ like the boyhood days that crep’ inter the winders of the old home.”

“Ye’ve been dreamin’, Rough. The fever hain’t all outen yer head yet.”

“Dreamin’? ’Twa’n’t all dreams. It’s the light comin’, pard. I see ’em all plain. Thar’s the ole man lookin’ white an’ awful, just as he looked the mornin’ he drove me from home; and that woman behind him, stretchin’ out her arms arter me, is the best mother in the world. Don’t you see ’em, pard?”

“Yer flighty, Rough. It’s all dark, ’cepting a pine-knot flickerin’ in the ashes.”

“No—the light’s a-comin’ brighter and brighter. Look! It’s beamin’ over the Range bright and gentle, like the smile that used to be over me when my head lay in my mother’s lap, long ago.”

“Hyar’s a little brandy, Rough. Thar; I seen it though my eyes are dim—somehow—hyar, Rough.”

“Never, pard. That stuff spiled the best years of my life—it sha’n’t spile my dreams of ’em. Oh, sich dreams, pard! They take me to the old home again. I see the white house ’mong the trees. I smell the breath of the apple-blossoms, and hear the birds singin’ and the bees hummin’, and the old plough-songs echoin’ over the leetle valley. I see the river windin’ through the willers an’ sycamores, an’ the dear ole hills all around, p’intin’ up to heaven like the spires of big meetin’-houses. Thar’s the ole rock we called the tea-table. I climb up on it, an’ play a happy boy agin. Oh, if I’d only staid thar, pard!”

“Don’t, Rough; ye thaw me all out, talkin’ that. It makes me womanish.”

“That’s it, pard: we’ve kep’ our hearts froze so long, we want it allus winter. But the summer comes back with all the light from over the Range. How bright it is, pard! Look! How it floods the cabin till the knots an’ cobwebs are plainer than day.”

“Suthin’s wrong, Rough. It’s all dark, ’cept only that pine-knot in the chimbly.”

“No, it’s all right, pard. The light’s come over the Range. I kin see better’n I ever could. Kin see the moister in yer eyes, pard, an’ see the crooked path I’ve come, runnin’ clean back to my mother’s knee. I wasn’t allus called Rough. Somebody used to kiss me, an’ call me her boy: nobody’ll ever know I’ve kep’ it till the end.”

“I hev wanted to ax ye, mate, why ye never had any name but jist Rough?”

“Pard—it’s gettin’ dark—my name? I’ve never heard it since I left home. I buried it thar in the little churchyard, whar mother’s waitin’ for the boy that never come back. I can’t tell it, pard. In my kit you’ll find a package done up. Thar’s two picters in it of two faces that’s been hoverin’ over me since I took down. You’ll find my name thar, pard—thar with hers—an’ mother’s.”

“Hers? Will I ever see her, Rough?”

“Not till you see her by the light that comes over the Range to us all. Pard, it’s gettin’ dark—dark and close—darker than it ever seemed to me afore”—

“Rough, what’s the matter? Speak to me, mate. Can’t I do nuthin’ fer ye?”

“Yes—pard. Can’t ye—say—suthin’?”

“What d’ye mean, Rough? I’ll say any thing to please ye.”

“Say—a—pra’r, pard.”

“A pra’r! Rough, d’ye mean it?”

“Yes, a pra’r, pard. It’s the—last thing Rough’ll ever—ax of ye.”

“It’s hard to do, Rough. I don’t know a pra’r.”

“Think back, pard. Didn’t yer mother—teach ye—suthin’? One that begins—‘Our Father’—an’ then—somehow—says—‘forgive us’—”

“Don’t, Rough, ye break me all up.”

“The light’s a-fadin’—on the golden hills—an’ the night is comin’—out of the canyuns—pard. Be quick—ye’ll try, pard. Say suthin’—fer Rough”—

“I—Rough—Our Father, forgive us. Don’t be hard on Rough. We’re a tough lot. We’ve forgot ye, but we hain’t all bad. ’Cause we hain’t forgot the old home. Forgive us—be easy on Rough. Thy will be done”—

“It’s comin’ agin—pard. The light’s—comin’—over the Range”—

“Have mercy on—us, an’—an’—an’—settle with us ’cordin’ to—to the surroundin’s of our lives. Thy—Thy kingdom come”—

“Go on, pard. It’s comin’.”

“Now—I lay me down to sleep.”

“That’s—good—mother said that.”

“Hallowed be Thy name—pray—the Lord his soul to keep.”

“That’s good—pard. It’s all glory—comin’ over—the Range—mother’s face—her—face”—

“Thine is the glory, we ask—for Jesus’ sake—Amen.”

“Pard”—

“What, Rough? I’m all unstrung. I”—

“Fare”—

“Rough! Yer worse! What, dead?”

Yes, the wanderings were over. Ended with a prayer, rough and sincere, like the heart that had ceased to throb; a prayer and a few real tears, even in that lone cabin in the caÑon; truer than many a death scene knows, although a nation does honor to the dying; a prayer that pleased Him better than many a prayer of the schools and creeds. A rough but gentle hand closed the eyes. The first rays of the morning sun broke through a crevice in the little cabin, and hung like his mother’s smile over the couch of the sleeping boy. Only one mourner watched with Rough as he waited for the new name which will be given to us all, when that light comes to the world from over the Range.

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You sent for me, and I’ve come: if you have nothing to say, I go back again. How is it, brothers? The doubt seems on all your faces, and your young warriors grasp their fire-weapons, as if they waited the onset of the foe. You were like a small thing upon the great waters; you had no earth to rest upon; you left the smoke of your father’s wig-wam far in the distance, when the lord of the soil took you as little children to his home; our hearths were warm, and the Indian was the white man’s friend. Your great Book tells you to give good gifts. The Indian needs no book: the Great Spirit has written with his finger on his heart. Wisconego here? let me see his eye! Art thou not he whom I snatched from the war-club of the Mohegan, when the lips of the foe thirsted for thy blood, and their warriors had sung thy death-song? Say unto these people that they have bought thy tongue, and that thy coward heart has uttered a lie. Slave of the whites, go! (stabs him) follow Sassawan! White man, beware! the wrath of the wronged Indian shall fall on you like a mighty cataract that dashes the uprooted oak down its mighty chasm; the dread war-cry shall start you from dreams at night, and the red hatchet gleam in the blaze of your burning dwellings. Tremble, from the east to the west, from the north to the south, till the lands you have stolen groan beneath your feet! (Throws hatchet on stage.) Thus do I smite your nation, and defy your power!

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“Dear me, it’s time to go to bed. It will never do, sitting here. I shall be pale to-morrow, Mr. Pickwick!”

At the bare notion of such a calamity, Mr. Peter Magnus rang the bell for the chambermaid; and the striped bag, the red bag, the leather hat-box, and the brown-paper parcel, having been conveyed to his bedroom, he retired in company with a japanned candlestick to one side of the house, while Mr. Pickwick, and another japanned candlestick, were conducted through a multitude of tortuous windings to another.

“This is your room, sir,” said the chambermaid.

“Very well,” replied Mr. Pickwick, looking round him. It was a tolerably large double-bedded room, with a fire; upon the whole, a more comfortable-looking apartment than Mr. Pickwick’s short experience of the accommodations of the Great White Horse had led him to expect.

“Nobody sleeps in the other bed, of course,” said Mr. Pickwick.

“Oh, no, sir.”

“Very good. Tell my servant to bring me up some hot water at half-past eight in the morning, and that I shall not want him any more to-night.”

“Yes, sir.” And bidding Mr. Pickwick good-night, the chambermaid retired, and left him alone.

Mr. Pickwick sat himself down in a chair before the fire, and fell into a train of rambling meditations. First he thought of his friends, and wondered when they would join him; then his mind reverted to Mrs. Martha Bardell; and from that lady it wandered, by a natural process, to the dingy counting-house of Dodson and Fogg. From Dodson and Fogg’s it flew off at a tangent, to the very centre of the history of the queer client; and then it came back to the Great White Horse at Ipswich, with sufficient clearness to convince Mr. Pickwick that he was falling asleep; so he roused himself, and began to undress, when he recollected he had left his watch on the table down-stairs.

Now, this watch was a special favorite with Mr. Pickwick, having been carried about, beneath the shadow of his waistcoat, for a greater number of years than we feel called upon to state at present. The possibility of going to sleep unless it were ticking gently beneath his pillow, or in his watch-pocket over his head, had never entered Mr. Pickwick’s brain. So as it was pretty late now, and he was unwilling to ring his bell at that hour of the night, he slipped on his coat, of which he had just divested himself, and, taking the japanned candlestick in his hand, walked quietly down-stairs.

The more stairs Mr. Pickwick went down, the more stairs there seemed to be to descend; and again and again, when Mr. Pickwick got into some narrow passage, and began to congratulate himself on having gained the ground-floor, did another flight of stairs appear before his astonished eyes. At last he reached a stone hall, which he remembered to have seen when he entered the house. Passage after passage did he explore; room after room did he peep into; at length, just as he was on the point of giving up the search in despair, he opened the door of the identical room in which he had spent the evening, and beheld his missing property on the table.

Mr. Pickwick seized the watch in triumph, and proceeded to retrace his steps to his bed-chamber. If his progress downwards had been attended with difficulties and uncertainty, his journey back was infinitely more perplexing. Rows of doors garnished with boots of every shape, make, and size, branched off in every possible direction. A dozen times did he softly turn the handle of some bedroom door which resembled his own, when a gruff cry from within, of “Who the devil’s that?” or “What do you want here?” caused him to steal away, on tiptoe, with a marvellous celerity. He was reduced to the verge of despair, when an open door attracted his attention. He peeped in—right at last! There were the two beds, whose situation he perfectly remembered, and the fire still burning. His candle, not a long one when he first received it, had flickered away in the draughts of air through which he had passed, and sunk into the socket just as he closed the door after him. “No matter,” said Mr. Pickwick, “I can undress myself just as well, by the light of the fire.”

The bedsteads stood, one on each side of the door; and on the inner side of each was a little path, terminating in a rush-bottomed chair, just wide enough to admit of a person’s getting into or out of bed on that side, if he or she thought proper. Having carefully drawn the curtains of his bed on the outside, Mr. Pickwick sat down on the rush-bottomed chair, and leisurely divested himself of his shoes and gaiters. He then took off and folded up his coat, waistcoat, and neck-cloth, and, slowly tying on his tasselled nightcap, secured it firmly on his head, by tying beneath his chin the strings which he had always attached to that article of dress. It was at this moment that the absurdity of his recent bewilderment struck upon his mind; and throwing himself back in the rush-bottomed chair, Mr. Pickwick laughed to himself so heartily, that it would have been quite delightful to any man of well-constituted mind to have watched the smiles which expanded his amiable features as they shone forth from beneath the nightcap.

“It is the best idea,” said Mr. Pickwick to himself, smiling till he almost cracked the nightcap strings,—“it is the best idea, my losing myself in this place, and wandering about those staircases, that I ever heard of. Droll, droll, very droll.” Here Mr. Pickwick smiled again, a broader smile than before, and was about to continue the process of undressing, in the very best possible humor, when he was suddenly stopped by a most unexpected interruption; to wit, the entrance into the room of some person with a candle, who, after locking the door, advanced to the dressing-table, and set down the light upon it.

The smile that played on Mr. Pickwick’s features was instantaneously lost in a look of the most unbounded and wonder-stricken surprise. The person, whoever it was, had come in so suddenly and with so little noise, that Mr. Pickwick had no time to call out, or oppose their entrance. Who could it be? A robber! Some evil-minded person who had seen him come up-stairs with a handsome watch in his hand, perhaps. What was he to do?

The only way in which Mr. Pickwick could catch a glimpse of his mysterious visitor, with the least danger of being seen himself, was by creeping on to the bed, and peeping out from between the curtains on the opposite side. To this manoeuvre he accordingly resorted. Keeping the curtains carefully closed with his hand, so that nothing more of him could be seen than his face and nightcap, and putting on his spectacles, he mustered up courage, and looked out.

Mr. Pickwick almost fainted with horror and dismay. Standing before the dressing-glass was a middle-aged lady in yellow curl-papers, busily engaged in brushing what ladies call their “back hair.” However the unconscious middle-aged lady came into that room, it was quite clear that she contemplated remaining there for the night; for she had brought a rushlight and shade with her, which, with praiseworthy precaution against fire, she had stationed in a basin on the floor, where it was glimmering away like a gigantic light-house in a particularly small piece of water.

“Bless my soul,” thought Mr. Pickwick, “what a dreadful thing!”

“Hem!” said the lady; and in went Mr. Pickwick’s head with automaton-like rapidity.

“I never met any thing so awful as this,” thought poor Mr. Pickwick, the cold perspiration starting in drops upon his nightcap. “Never. This is fearful.”

It was quite impossible to resist the urgent desire to see what was going forward. So out went Mr. Pickwick’s head again. The prospect was worse than before. The middle-aged lady had finished arranging her hair, and carefully enveloped it in a muslin nightcap with a small plaited border, and was gazing pensively on the fire.

“This matter is growing alarming,” reasoned Mr. Pickwick with himself. “I can’t allow things to go in this way. By the self-possession of that lady, it’s clear to me that I must have come into the wrong room. If I call out, she’ll alarm the house; but if I remain here, the consequence will be still more frightful!”

Mr. Pickwick, it is quite necessary to say, was one of the most modest and delicate-minded of mortals. The very idea of exhibiting his nightcap to a lady overpowered him; but he had tied those confounded strings in a knot, and, do what he would, he couldn’t get it off. The disclosure must be made. There was only one other way of doing it. He shrunk behind the curtains, and called out very loudly,—

“Ha—hum.”

That the lady started at this unexpected sound, was evident by her falling up against the rushlight shade; that she persuaded herself it must have been the effect of imagination, was equally clear, for when Mr. Pickwick, under the impression that she had fainted away, stone dead from fright, ventured to peep out again, she was gazing pensively on the fire as before.

“Most extraordinary female this,” thought Mr. Pickwick, popping in again. “Ha—hum.”

These last sounds, so like those in which, as legends inform us, the ferocious giant Blunderbore was in the habit of expressing his opinion that it was time to lay the cloth, were too distinctly audible to be again mistaken for the workings of fancy.

“Gracious Heaven!” said the middle-aged lady, “what’s that?”

“It’s—it’s—only a gentleman, ma’am,” said Mr. Pickwick from behind the curtains.

“A gentleman!” said the lady with a terrific scream.

“It’s all over,” thought Mr. Pickwick.

“A strange man!” shrieked the lady. Another instant, and the house would be alarmed. Her garments rustled as she rushed towards the door.

“Ma’am”—said Mr. Pickwick, thrusting out his head, in the extremity of his desperation, “ma’am.”

Now, although Mr. Pickwick was not actuated by any definite object in putting out his head, it was instantaneously productive of a good effect. The lady, as we have already stated, was near the door. She must pass it to reach the staircase; and she would most undoubtedly have done so, by this time, had not the sudden apparition of Mr. Pickwick’s nightcap driven her back, into the remotest corner of the apartment, where she stood staring wildly at Mr. Pickwick, while Mr. Pickwick in his turn stared wildly at her.

“Wretch,” said the lady, covering her eyes with her hands, “what do you want here?”

“Nothing, ma’am,—nothing whatever, ma’am,” said Mr. Pickwick earnestly.

“Nothing!” said the lady looking up.

“Nothing, ma’am, upon my honor,” said Mr. Pickwick, nodding his head so energetically, that the tassel of his nightcap danced again. “I am almost ready to sink, ma’am, beneath the confusion of addressing a lady in my nightcap (here the lady hastily snatched off hers), but I can’t get it off, ma’am (here Mr. Pickwick gave it a tremendous tug in proof of the statement). It is evident to me, ma’am, now, that I have mistaken this bedroom for my own. I had not been here five minutes, ma’am, when you suddenly entered it.”

“If this improbable story be really true, sir,” said the lady, sobbing violently, “you will leave it instantly.”

“I will, ma’am, with the greatest pleasure,” replied Mr. Pickwick.

“Instantly, sir,” said the lady.

“Certainly, ma’am,” interposed Mr. Pickwick, very quickly. “Certainly, ma’am. I—I—am very sorry, ma’am,” said Mr. Pickwick, making his appearance at the bottom of the bed, “to have been the innocent occasion of this alarm and emotion; deeply sorry, ma’am.”

The lady pointed to the door. One excellent quality of Mr. Pickwick’s character was beautifully displayed at this moment, under the most trying circumstances. Although he had hastily put on his hat over his nightcap, after the manner of the old patrol; although he carried his shoes and gaiters in his hand, and his coat and waistcoat over his arm, nothing could subdue his native politeness.

“I am exceedingly sorry, ma’am,” said Mr. Pickwick, bowing very low.

“If you are, sir, you will at once leave the room,” said the lady.

“Immediately, ma’am; this instant, ma’am,” said Mr. Pickwick, opening the door, and dropping both his shoes with a loud crash in so doing.

“I trust, ma’am,” resumed Mr. Pickwick, gathering up his shoes, and turning round to bow again, “I trust, ma’am, that my unblemished character, and the devoted respect I entertain for your sex, will plead as some slight excuse for this”—But before Mr. Pickwick could conclude the sentence, the lady had thrust him into the passage, and locked and bolted the door behind him.

Dickens.

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[In the autumn of 1760, Louis XV. sent an army into Germany. They took up a strong position at Klostercamp, intending to advance on Rheinberg. The young Chevalier D’Assas was sent out by Auvergne to reconnoitre. He met a party advancing to surprise the French camp. Their bayonets pricked his breast, and the leader whispered, “Make the least noise, and you are a dead man.” D’Assas paused a moment, then cried out as loud as he could, “Here, Auvergne! here are the enemy!” He was immediately cut down, but his death had saved the French army.—History of France.]

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Let me tell you why I am interested in the labor question. Not simply because of the long hours of labor; not simply because of a specific oppression of a class. I sympathize with the sufferers there: I am ready to fight on their side. But I look out upon Christendom, with its three hundred millions of people; and I see, that, out of this number of people, one hundred millions never had enough to eat. Physiologists tell us that this body of ours, unless it is properly fed, properly developed, fed with rich blood and carefully nourished, does no justice to the brain. You cannot make a bright or a good man in a starved body; and so this one-third of the inhabitants of Christendom, who have never had food enough, can never be what they should be. Now, I say that the social civilization which condemns every third man in it to be below the average in the nourishment God prepared for him, did not come from above: it came from below; and, the sooner it goes down, the better. Come on this side of the ocean. You will find forty millions of people, and I suppose they are in the highest state of civilization; and yet it is not too much to say, that, out of that forty millions, ten millions at least, who get up in the morning and go to bed at night, spend all the day in the mere effort to get bread enough to live. They have not elasticity enough, mind or body, left, to do any thing in the way of intellectual or moral progress.

I believe in the temperance movement. I am a temperance man of nearly forty years’ standing; and I think it one of the grandest things in the world, because it holds the basis of self-control. Intemperance is the cause of poverty, I know; but there is another side to that: poverty is the cause of intemperance. Crowd a man with fourteen hours’ work a day, and you crowd him down to a mere animal life. You have eclipsed his aspirations, dulled his tastes, stunted his intellect, and made him a mere tool, to work fourteen hours, and catch a thought in the interval; and, while a man in a hundred will rise to be a genius, ninety-nine will cower down under the circumstances.

That is why I say, lift a man, give him life, let him work eight hours a day, give him the school, develop his taste for music, give him a garden, give him beautiful things to see, and good books to read, and you will starve out those lower appetites. Give a man a chance to earn a good living, and you may save his life.

If you want power in this country; if you want to make yourselves felt; if you do not want your children to wait long years before they have the bread on the table they ought to have, the leisure in their lives they ought to have, the opportunities in life they ought to have; if you don’t want to wait yourselves,—write on your banner, so that every political trimmer can read it, so that every politician, no matter how short-sighted he may be, can read it, “We never forget! If you launch the arrow of sarcasm at labor, we never forget; if there is a division in Congress, and you throw your vote in the wrong scale, we never forget. You may go down on your knees, and say, ‘I am sorry I did the act;’ and we will say, ‘It will avail you in heaven, but on this side of the grave never.’” So that a man, in taking up the labor question, will know he is dealing with a hair-trigger pistol, and will say, “I am to be true to justice and to man: otherwise I am a dead duck.”

Wendell Phillips.

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AN INCIDENT OF STRAIN’S EXPEDITION.

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CHARACTERS.

Adrastus. Crythes.

Adrastus discovered.—Crythes introducing Ion.

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Once upon a time, an old legend says, in a splendid palace a king lay dying. By his couch knelt his only son, with tears streaming down his face; but only a few quiet words were now and then spoken.

“Father, you remember the beautiful silver bell hanging above the palace,—the one you had made years ago, of such pure tone that the maker stood entranced at its first note, but which has ever since been still? Why did you hang it there, if it was never to be rung?”

“My son, when I was young, and full of life and hope, I commanded the best workmen in my kingdom to make a perfect silver bell, and hang it above my palace, that its sweet tones might tell my people that their king was perfectly happy. But alas! though I expected so much happiness, the moment has never come when I could say, ‘Ring the bell!’ and now I am dying, and it is still silent. My son, if your happiness is ever complete,—if you are without an anxious thought or wish,—then let the silver bell proclaim the fact to all your people.”

“But, father, if you were not lying here I should be happy now, and the bell should ring every day of my life.”

The old king smiled sadly, and, turning his face away, soon slept to wake no more. With much mourning he was laid away in the royal tomb, and his son became king in his stead. He could not ring the bell then, for he grieved for his father; but he thought that after a time he should be happy again.

And the days went by, and the young king married a beautiful girl; and he said, “Now, for the first time, the bell shall ring.”

But as he and his bride came from the church, a woman, young in years, but haggard with grief, carrying a little child in her arms, threw herself at his feet, begging him to spare the life of her husband, who was condemned to die for plotting against the king. “He saw so much splendor and wealth, and we were starving. Oh, on this day, pardon him!”

The king raised the wretched woman, and gave her her husband’s freedom; but a swift shadow had come over his happiness.

And the months went by, and a beautiful babe was born to be king after him. And he said, “Now at length the bell shall ring.” But just then came word that a terrible sickness raged among the children of the kingdom, that many mothers were mourners, and their hearts could not be comforted.

And the years rolled by, and the king was a great and good man, kind to his people, sharing their sorrows, and, so far as he could, lifting their burdens. The days were so full of thought and work, that he did not think of the bell, or of his own happiness.

At last he too lay dying; and when he knew that the end was drawing near, he asked to be carried to the room of state, and to be placed once more upon his throne, that his people might come to see him. And they crowded in, rich and poor, high and low, kissing his hands, his feet, and even the hem of his garment. And when he saw them so grief-stricken and tearful, a great light came into his dim eyes; and, lifting his trembling arms, in a clear voice he cried, “Ring the silver bell! ring the bell! My people love me; at last I am happy!” And as, for the first time, the bell pealed forth its ringing notes, his spirit took its flight to the unseen land.

—Mrs. Julia D. Pratt, in The Dayspring.

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Old Moses, who sells eggs and chickens on the streets of Austin for a living, is as honest an old negro as ever lived; but he has got the habit of chatting familiarly with his customers, hence he frequently makes mistakes in counting out the eggs they buy. He carries his wares around in a small cart drawn by a diminutive donkey. He stopped in front of the residence of Mrs. Samuel Burton. The old lady herself came out to the gate to make the purchases.

“Have you got any eggs this morning, Uncle Moses?” she asked.

“Yes, indeed I has. Jess got in ten dozen from de kentry.”

“Are they fresh?”

“Fresh? yas, indeed! I guantees ’em, an’—an’—de hen guantees ’em.”

“I’ll take nine dozen. You can just count them into this basket.”

“All right, mum;” he counts, “one, two, free, foah, five, six, seben, eight, nine, ten.—You can rely on dem bein’ fresh. How’s your son comin’ on de school? He must be mos’ grown.”

“Yes, Uncle Moses: he is a clerk in a bank in Galveston.”

“Why, how ole am de boy?”

“He is eighteen.”

“You don’t tole me so! Eighteen, and getting a salary already.—Eighteen (counting), nineteen, twenty, twenty-one, twenty-two, twenty-three, twenty-foah, twenty-five.—And how’s your gal comin’ on? She was most growed up de last time I seed her.”

“She is married, and living in Dallas.”

“Wall, I declar’, how de time scoots away! And you say she has childruns? Why, how ole am de gal? She must be jest about”—

“Thirty-three.”

“Am dat so?” (counting) “firty-free, firty-foah, firty-five, firty-six, firty-seven, firty-eight, firty-nine, forty, forty-one, forty-two, forty-free.—Hit am singular dat you has sich ole childruns. You don’t look more den forty years old yerseff.”

“Nonsense, old man; I see you want to flatter me. When a person gets to be fifty-three years old”—

“Fifty-free! I jess dun gwinter bleeve hit; fifty-free, fifty-foah, fifty-five, fifty-six,—I want you to pay ’tenshun when I count de eggs, so dar’ll be no mistake,—fifty-nine, sixty, sixty-one, sixty-two, sixty-free, sixty-foah.—Whew! Dat am a warm day. Dis am de time ob year when I feels I’se gettin’ ole myself. I ain’t long for dis world. You comes from an ole family. When yore fodder died he was sebenty years ole.”

“Seventy-two.”

“Dat’s old, suah.—Sebenty-two, sebenty-free, sebenty-foah, sebenty-five, sebenty-six, sebenty-seben, sebenty-eight, sebenty-eight, sebenty-nine.—And your mudder? She was one ob de noblest lookin’ ladies I ebber see. You remind me ob her so much! She libed to mos’ a hundred. I bleeves she was done past a centurion when she died.”

“No, Uncle Moses: she was only ninety-six when she died.”

“Den she wan’t no chicken when she died, I know dat.—Ninety-six, ninety-seben, ninety-eight, ninety-nine, one hundred, one, two, free, foah, five, five, six, seben, eight,—dar one hundred and eight nice fresh eggs,—jess nine dozen, and here am one moah egg in case I have discounted myse’f.”

Old Mose went on his way rejoicing. A few days afterward Mrs. Barton said to her husband,

“I am afraid we will have to discharge Matilda. I am satisfied that she steals the milk and eggs. I am positive about the eggs, for I bought them day before yesterday, and now about half of them are gone. I stood right there, and heard old Moses count them myself, and there were nine dozen.”

—Texas Siftings.

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“Down, down, down, ten thousand fathoms deep.”—Count Fathom.

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“Mr. Bingham,” said the “city editor” of the “Royal Bugle” one morning, “the ‘sporting editor’ is away, and it will be necessary for you to go down to Swampscott to report a race between centre-board yachts.”

“But I don’t know any thing about yachts or yacht-racing.”

“It’s not necessary to know. See the head man, and get the time. That’s about all we want.”

About nine o’clock that night, a forlorn, tramp-like looking object entered the office of the “Royal Bugle,” with the crown of his white Derby knocked in, the rim bent, and his clothing generally hanging limp,—the suit, once light in color, now spotted and stained. As he advanced into a better light, he was recognized as the “fire reporter;” and a chorus of exclamations followed: “Where’s the fire?” or, “Did they put the hose on you?” as the unfortunate man sank, apparently exhausted, into a chair.

“It’s not a fire,” he growled. “It’s a yacht-race.”

“What did they do to you?”

“Do to me? They did every thing except drown me, and almost did that. This morning,” continued the dejected man, “our local editor sent me down to Swampscott to report a centre-board yacht race. He said if I could get aboard one of the racing yachts I’d have a delightful time,—a regular marine picnic. Well, I had it,—yes, indeedy; enough picnic of the kind to last the rest of life. I knew the yachtsmen were spruce sort of fellows, dressed well; and therefore I put on my best suit,—new rig just from the tailor’s,—and hurried away to the Swampscott sands. I found the fleet of centre-boards tied up to a wharf. In making inquiries of a captain, I hinted that it would be agreeable to me to be a passenger on his yacht.

“He smiled serenely, the villain! and said he’d be delighted to have me come aboard. Oh, the baseness of the man! Very soon the race began; and when fairly under way, and I had settled into a comfortable seat to enjoy it, the captain shouted, ‘All down, down below the’—the—what do you call the rail that runs around the top of the boat?—the gun—the gun”—

“Whale!”

“Yes, the gunwhale. Well, he said we must keep our heads below that, in order to offer less resistance to the wind. Therefore three of us were obliged to lie on our stomachs on the bottom of the boat. If we wanted to see the race, we looked through the skipper’s windows”—

“The what?”

“Why, the skipper’s holes, as they call them,—a nautical term for windows, I sup”—

“Scupper-holes!”

“Well, yes, that sounds more like. The man who lay next to me kept himself busy and contented by eating peanuts. But that was nothing, comparatively. Soon we ran into a big wave. If the skipper’d had any sense of honor or regard for his passengers, he would have turned one side to let the wave pass; but he didn’t. He ran slap into it, and the crest of it came on board, caromed on the skipper himself, who stood at the helm, and then circulated among the shifting ballast. Owing to the peanut-eater, the skipper-win—no, the scupper-holes—were clogged; and the remnant of the wave, unable to escape from the boat, was absorbed by our clothing, and my new suit began to take additional shades and wrinkles.

“Suddenly that graceless captain shouted something about ‘hard lee,’ and then the boat lurched and tipped the other way; and we, lying prostrate, were ordered to creep carefully around the centre-board, and lie on the other side. That was the most fiendish! If my memory be good, we crawled back and forth around that centre-board a dozen times. If we were going to win the race, why didn’t we keep straight on, and not turn to the right or left every twenty minutes?

“But the climax came. The skipper decided to turn the boat around when she was going at full speed, and to drive her in the opposite direction. Well, when she turned around”—

“Jibed, you mean.”

“Yes, that sounds like it. When she jibed she turned over on her side, and a part of the shifting ballast, another man, and myself, went overboard; but we caught on the gunwhale, and, the boat coming down flat again, we crawled in. When I, forlorn and dripping, asked if they turned around usually in that way, they laughed.

“Well, about an hour afterward, after mopping the bottom of the boat some more with our clothing, we reached the landing from which we had departed.”

“We did not win.

“In response to an inquiry in regard to our defeat, the captain, ungrateful, said that he had too much ballast. Wasn’t that the refinement of cruelty? Wasn’t it a dastardly insult? After I’d spoiled a suit of clothes by exerting myself in his behalf in climbing around that centre-board, and nearly lost my life,—of course, if I had not caught the side of the boat when I went overboard, they would not stop to take me in, because the race was very important, and the prize was a three-cornered blue flag,—after all that, I say, ’twas rascally to hint that I’d lost the race for him.

“When the boat was a safe distance from the shore, after leaving me on the wharf, the captain cried, ‘Had a good time?’ Gentlemen, to reply would have been an indignity to myself; but I indulged in a little pantomime to show the pirate skipper that, if I’d had him there, I’d injure the wharf with him. ‘Why didn’t I come home sooner?’ Because I waited the coming of night to shield me from the gaze of the village constable, who has a personal enmity against tramps,—makes them saw wood. I knew that my tattered and begrimed appearance would bring me under the ban of the law. I walked home by way of the beach.”

George A. Stockwell.

---

He came into my office with a portfolio under his arm. Placing it upon the table, removing a ruined hat, and wiping his nose upon a ragged handkerchief that had been so long out of the wash that it was positively gloomy, he said,—

“Mr.———, I’m canvassing for the National Portrait Gallery; very valuable work; comes in numbers, fifty cents apiece; contains pictures of all the great American heroes from the earliest times down to the present day. Everybody subscribing for it, and I want to see if I can’t take your name.

“Now, just cast your eyes over that,” he said, opening his book and pointing to an engraving. “That’s—lemme see—yes, that’s Columbus, perhaps you’ve heard sumfin’ about him. The publisher was telling me to-day, before I started out, that he discovered—No; was it Columbus that dis—Oh, yes, Columbus, he discovered America—was the first man here. He came over in a ship, the publisher said, and it took fire, and he staid on deck because his father told him to, if I remember right, and when the old thing busted to pieces he was killed. Handsome picture, ain’t it? Taken from a photograph, all of ’em are; done especially for this work. His clothes are kinder odd, but they say that’s the way they dressed in them days.

“Look at this one. Now, isn’t that splendid? That’s William Penn, one of the early settlers. I was reading t’other day about him. When he first arrived, he got a lot of Indians up a tree, and, when they shook some apples down, he set one on top of his son’s head, and shot an arrow plump through it and never grazed him. They say it struck them Indians cold; he was such a terrific shooter. Fine countenance, hasn’t he? Face shaved clean; he didn’t wear a mustache, I believe, but he seems to have let himself out on hair. Now, my view is, that every man ought to have a picture of that patriarch so’s to see how the fust settlers looked, and what kind of weskets they used to wear. See his legs too. Trousers a little short, maybe, as if he was going to wade in a creek, but he’s all there. Got some kind of a paper in his hand, I see. Subscription-list, I reckon. Now, how does that strike you?

“There’s something nice. That, I think, is—is—that—a—a—yes, to be sure, Washington,—you recollect him, of course. Some people call him Father of his Country; George—Washington. Had no middle name, I believe. He lived about two hundred years ago, and he was a fighter. I heard the publisher telling a man about him crossing the Delaware River up yer at Trenton; and seems to me, if I recollect right, I’ve read about it myself. He was courting some girl on the Jersey side, and he used to swim over at nights to see her, when the old man was asleep. The girl’s family were down on him, I reckon. He looks like a man to do that, don’t he? He’s got it in his eye. If it’d been me, I’d gone over on a bridge; but he probably wanted to show off afore her,—some men are so reckless, you know. Now, if you’ll conclude to take this, I’ll get the publisher to write out some more stories, and bring ’em round to you, so’s you can study up on him. I know he did ever so many other things; but I’ve forgot ’em, my memory’s so awful poor.

“Less see! Who have we next? Ah, Franklin! Benjamin Franklin! He was one of the old original pioneers, I think. I disremember exactly what he is celebrated for, but I think it was a—flying a—oh! yes, flying a kite, that’s it. The publisher mentioned it. He was out one day flying a kite, you know, like boys do nowadays, and while she was a-flickering up in the sky, and he was giving her more string, an apple fell off a tree, and hit him on the head; then he discovered the attraction of gravitation, I think they call it. Smart, wasn’t it? Now, if you or me’d ’a’ been hit, it’d just ’a’ made us mad, like as not, and set us a-ravin’. But men are so different! One man’s meat’s another man’s pison. See what a double chin he’s got. No beard on him, either, though a goatee would have been becoming to such a round face. He hasn’t got on a sword, and I reckon he was no soldier; fit some when he was a boy, maybe, or went out with the home-guard, but not a regular warrior. I ain’t one myself, and I think all the better of him for it.

“Ah, here we are! Look at that. Smith and Pocahontas! John Smith! Isn’t that gorgeous? See how she kneels over him, and sticks out her hands while he lays on the ground, and that big fellow with a club tries to hammer him up! Talk about woman’s love! There it is for you! Modocs, I believe. Anyway, some Indians out West there, somewheres; and the publisher tells me that Captain Shackanasty, or whatever his name is there, was going to bang old Smith over the head with a log of wood, and this here girl she was sweet on Smith, it appears, and she broke loose, and jumped forward, and says to the man with a stick, ‘Why don’t you let John alone? Me and him are going to marry, and if you kill him I’ll never speak to you as long as I live,’ or words like them; and so the man he give it up, and both of them hunted up a preacher, and were married, and lived happy ever afterward. Beautiful story, isn’t it? A good wife she made him, too, I’ll bet, if she was a little copper-colored. And don’t she look just lovely in that picture? But Smith appears kinder sick, evidently thinks his goose is cooked; and I don’t wonder, with that Modoc swooping down on him with such a discouraging club.

“And now we come to—to—ah—to—Putnam—General Putnam: he fought in the war, too; and one day a lot of ’em caught him when he was off his guard, and they tied him flat on his back on a horse, and then licked the horse like the very mischief. And what does that horse do but go pitching down about four hundred stone steps in front of the house, with General Putnam lying there nearly skeered to death! Leastways the publisher said somehow that way, and I once read about it myself. But he came out safe, and I reckon sold the horse, and made a pretty good thing of it. What surprises me is, he didn’t break his neck; but maybe it was a mule, for they’re pretty sure-footed, you know. Surprising what some of these men have gone through, ain’t it?

“Turn over a couple of leaves. That’s General Jackson. My father shook hands with him once. He was a fighter, I know. He fit down in New Orleans. Broke up the rebel legislature, and then, when the Ku Kluxes got after him, he fought ’em behind cotton breastworks, and licked ’em till they couldn’t stand. They say he was terrific when he got real mad,—hit straight from the shoulder, and fetched his man every time. Andrew, his fust name was; and look how his hair stands up.

“And then, here’s John Adams, and Daniel Boone, and two or three pirates, and a whole lot more pictures, so you see it’s cheap as dirt. Lemme have your name, won’t you?”

---

Dipper Bay was a little inlet, almost land-locked, in which the water was deep enough to float his sloop at this time of tide, and its high rocky shores would afford him a perfect protection from the fury of any squall, or even hurricane. But Leopold felt that his chances of reaching this secure haven were but small, for the breeze was very light.

The sloop “Rosabel” was but a short distance from the shore when the wind entirely subsided, and the long rollers were as smooth as glass. The lightning glared with fearful intensity, and the thunder boomed like the convulsions of an earthquake. By this time Rosabel [for whom the sloop had been named], who had before enjoyed the sublimity of the coming storm, now began to realize its terrors, and to watch the handsome boatman with the deepest anxiety. The sails flapped idly in the motionless air, and Dipper Bay was still half a mile distant.

“Don’t be alarmed, Miss Hamilton,” said Leopold. “If the squall will keep off only a few moments, we shall be in a safe place.”

The skipper evidently “meant business;” and, shipping the long oars, he worked with a zeal which seemed to promise happy results, and Rosabel began to feel a little re-assured. But the sloop was too large, and too broad on the beam, to be easily rowed, and her progress was necessarily very slow.

“Can’t I help you, Leopold?” asked the maiden, when she saw what a tremendous effort the boatman was making.

“You may take the tiller, and steer for Dip Point, if you please,” replied Leopold, knowing that his beautiful passenger would be better satisfied if she could feel that she was doing something.

Leopold plied his oars with all the vigor of a manly frame, intent upon reaching the little bay, where the high rocks would shelter his craft from the fury of the storm. Then a breeze of wind came, and he resumed his place at the tiller. He had almost reached the haven when he saw coming down over the waters a most terrific squall. Before he could haul down his mainsail, the tempest struck the “Rosabel.” He placed his fair charge in the bottom of the boat, which the savage wind was driving towards the dangerous rocks. Before he could do any thing to secure the sail, the main-sheet parted at the boom. He cast off the halliards, but the sail was jammed and would not come down.

The “Rosabel” was almost upon the rocks. Seizing an oar, Leopold, satisfied that he could do nothing to save the boat, worked her away from the rocks, so that she would strike upon the narrow beach he had just left. The fierce squall was hurling her with mad speed upon the shore. By the most tremendous exertion, and at the imminent peril of his life, he succeeded in guiding her to the beach, upon which she struck with prodigious force, crushing in her keel and timbers beneath the shock. Without a word of explanation, he grasped the fair Rosabel in his arms, and leaped into the angry surges, which were driven high upon the rocks above him. The tide had risen so that there was hardly room under the cliff for him to stand; but he bore her to this only partial refuge from the fury of the storm.

The tempest increased in violence, and the huge billows rolled in with impetuous fury upon him. Grasping his fair burden in his arms, with Rosabel clinging to him in mortal terror, he paused a moment to look at the angry sea. There was a narrow shelf of rock near him, against which the waves beat with terrible violence. If he could only get beyond this shelf, which projected out from the cliffs, he could easily reach the Hole in the Wall, where Harvey Barth had saved himself in just such a storm. He had born Rosabel some distance along the beach, both drenched by the lashing spray, and his strength was nearly exhausted. The projecting shelf was before him, forbidding for the moment his further progress.

Placing his left foot on a rock, his fair but heavy burden on his knee, clasping her waist with his left hand, while his right was fastened for support in a crevice of the cliff, he paused for an instant to recover his breath and watch for a favorable chance to escape from his perilous position. Rosabel, in her terror, had thrown her arms around his neck, clinging to him with all her might. When he paused, she felt, reposing on his powerful muscles, that she was safe—she confessed it afterwards; though, in that terrible sea and near those cruel rocks, the strength of the strongest man was but weakness. Leopold waited. If the sea would only recede for an instant, it would give him the opportunity to reach the broader beach beyond the shelf, over which he could pass to the Hole in the Wall. It was a moment of hope, mingled with a mighty fear.

A huge billow, larger than any he had yet seen, was rolling in upon him, crested and reeking with foam, and might dash him and his feeble charge, mangled and torn, upon the jagged rocks. Still panting from the violence of his exertion, he braced his nerves and his stout frame to meet the terrible shock.

With every muscle strained to the utmost tension, he waited the coming wave. In this attitude, with the helpless maiden clinging to him for life, with the wreck of his fine yacht near, he was a noble subject for an inspired artist.

The coming wave, buried him and the fair maiden in its cold embrace. It broke, and shattered itself in torrents of milky foam upon the hard rocks. But the larger and higher the wave, the farther it recedes. Leopold stood firm, though he was shaken in every fibre of his frame by the shock. The retiring water—retiring only for an instant, to come again with even greater fury-gave him his opportunity, and he improved it. Swooping, like a strong eagle, beneath the narrow shelf of rock, he gained the broader sands beyond the reach of the mad billows. It blew a hurricane for some time. The stranded yacht was ground into little pieces by the sharp rocks, but her skipper and his fair passenger were safe.

Oliver Optic.

---

[Matt. xxii. 37-39.—“Thou shalt love the Lord thy God with all thy heart, and with all thy soul, and with all thy mind. This is the first and great commandment. And the second is like unto it, Thou shalt love thy neighbor as thyself.”]

---

(WITH A CHORUS.)

---

Scene.—Mrs. Mervin’s Sitting-room.

Emma. Well, mother, as our advertisement appeared in the paper last evening, I suppose we may expect any amount of answers in the shape of Irish girls.

Mrs. Mervin. Quite likely; and I must confess I dread the ordeal. It is better, however, to advertise, and have the girls call at the house, than to seek them at the intelligence office.

Emma. Oh, yes, indeed! I made a vow the last time you sent me there for a girl, that if I could possibly help it I would never enter such a place again.

Mrs. Mervin. Well, I hope our present plan will be successful, and we shall be fortunate enough to secure a good girl. If we had less company, and our family were not so large, we would try to do the work together, and get along without help.

Emma. I wish we might, mother. I have often felt, after the disorderly reign of some tyrannical Bridget, that I would like to banish them all from whence they came, and wield the kitchen sceptre alone. (Bell rings.) There comes number one, I’ll warrant.

Enter Bridget Rooney.

Bridget. The top of the mornin’ to ye, ma’am; and sure is yer name Mervin?

Mrs. Mervin. It is; and I suppose you have come to answer my advertisement for a girl.

Bridget. Indade I have, ma’am. Is it a cook ye would be afther wantin’?

Mrs. Mervin. I wish a girl to do general housework, and of course that includes a knowledge of plain cooking. Would you like such a place?

Bridget. And sure I can’t tell, ma’am, till I ax ye a few questions, and finds out the characther of the place intirely. What wages do ye give?

Mrs. Mervin. Three dollars.

Bridget. And how many have ye in the family, ma’am?

Mrs. Mervin. Seven persons.

Bridget. Well, indade, and if ever I heard the like! Sivin persons, and only three dollars wages! Shure me cousin, Kate Murphy, gits four dollars, and there’s only three in the house. I’ll come for no three dollars, unless yer house has all the modern convainyences. Do ye have gas in the kitchen and girl’s room?

Mrs. Mervin. We have gas in the kitchen, but we do not think it necessary in the girl’s sleeping-room.

Bridget. And, faith, it’s as much wanted there as anywhere. A poor girl doesn’t want to be groping about with a nasty kerosene-lamp. How much time in a week do you give a girl to herself, ma’am?

Mrs. Mervin. One afternoon and evening a week. I believe that is a general rule.

Bridget. It’s not a rule I goes by, ma’am. I wants two afternoons a week, and every evenin’ besides, and I’m used to have my friends come whenever I like.

Mrs. Mervin. I see you wouldn’t suit me at all, so you had better not remain here any longer. I don’t intend to pay a girl wages, and give her half her time besides.

Bridget. And shure yer no lady, ma’am; and I wouldn’t set fut in yer house if ye’d give me five dollars a week, bad luck to ye.

[Exit Bridget.

Mrs. Mervin. Not a very promising specimen to begin with, surely.

Emma. I should think not, indeed. The idea of her asking four dollars a week, and wanting, as you said, nearly half her time! (Bell rings.) There’s another. I shall find full employment in tending the door-bell, at this rate.

Enter Norah McCarty.

Norah. Are you the lady, ma’am, the paper said wanted a girl?

Mrs. Mervin. Yes, I advertised for one yesterday. Can you do general housework?

Norah. Faith I can, ma’am; it’s a gineral’s housework I’ve been doing, and I might have staid in the place foriver, only that herself was that fussy that niver a soul could plaze her.

Mrs. Mervin. Can you make good bread?

Norah. Good bread is it ye say? And indade I can make that same. I makes it with imtens, ma’am; and if it sours a bit, I puts a handful of salerathus into it, and it comes out of the oven as swate as a nut, and a fine color on it besides.

Emma. Dear me! I should think it might have a fine color with a handful of saleratus in it!

Mrs. Mervin. At what other place have you lived besides the one you mentioned?

Norah. Nowheres at all, ma’am; that’s the first place I wint when I came from the ould counthry.

Mrs. Mervin. How long did you live there, and what part of the work did you do?

Norah. Well, ma’am, I lived there three weeks, ’liven days, and a fortnight—barrin’ the two days that I staid out to take care of me cousin Mike; and I did the fine work, mostly, ma’am,—scrubbing, sifting ashes, and ’the likes of that. Do ye think ye would like to hire me, ma’am?

Mrs. Mervin. I guess not. I am afraid you haven’t had experience enough to do my work properly.

Norah. Well, ma’am, if that’s any thing I could buy at the store, I would be willing to spend a thrifle to get some, for the sake of livin’ wid ye.

Mrs. Mervin. Experience in housework cannot be bought at the stores; so you had better look somewhere else for a place.

[Exit Norah.

Emma. Well, mother, did you ever hear of such stupidity before?

Mrs. Mervin. She’s the greenest specimen I’ve seen yet. I wonder who will come next? (Bell rings.)

Emma. We shall soon see.

Enter Ellen Flynn.

Ellen. A fine day, ma’am. Is it yerself that wants a girl?

Mrs. Mervin. Yes, if I can find a good one; but I am sorry to say they seem to be growing very scarce.

Ellen. You are mistaken there, ma’am; it’s good places that’s gittin’ scarce. How big a family do ye have?

Mrs. Mervin. There are seven of us, and we of course have company occasionally.

Ellen. That’s too many intirely; but I s’pose with all thim ye keep two girls and a man besides.

Mrs. Mervin. No, we keep but one servant.

Ellen. Servint is it! Well, ma’am, that’s what I niver allows meself to be called. What sort of convainyences is there in the house? Is there a rocking-chair in the kitchen, where I can rest meself while the pot’s a-bilin’?

Mrs. Mervin. No, I don’t consider that a necessary article of kitchen furniture.

Ellen. We differs there, ma’am; I can’t do without a rocking-chair. I see you have a pianny. I s’pose ye wouldn’t mind if I learned to play on it afther me work is done—would ye?

Mrs. Mervin. I should object very strongly to giving a girl such a privilege.

Ellen. Well, ma’am, it’s gittin’ quite the fashion for the ladies that live out to play. Me cousin Kate Donnelly plays “St. Pathrick’s Day in the Mornin’,” and “Rory O’More,” illigant; and I’ve made up me mind I’ll live in no place agin where I can’t have the chance to play the pianny.

Mrs. Mervin. Then the quicker you look for such a place, the better. It isn’t worth while for me to spend any more time talking with you.

Ellen. Indade, it’s a very uncivil tongue ye have, ma’am; and it’s meself that ought to grumble for spendin’ me precious time talkin’ to the likes of you.

[Exit Ellen.

Emma. It grows worse and worse, mother! What are we coming to?

Mrs. Mervin. Dear me! I don’t know! I am fairly discouraged! (Bell rings.)

Enter Joanna.

Joanna. Are ye afther wantin’ a girl, ma’am?

Mrs. Mervin. Yes; I want a good one.

Joanna. Faith, thin, it’s glad I am that my brother Pathrick read me the scrap in the paper last night, for I’m wantin’ a place.

Mrs. Mervin. What can you do?

Joanna. Well, thin, I can do any thing at all that ye likes. I washes beautiful; and me clothes has such a fine blue color on thim, when I takes thim in, it would do yer sowl good to see thim.

Mrs. Mervin. Oh, dear! I don’t like so much bluing in my clothes.

Joanna. Faith, thin, I’ll jist lave out the blue a few times, and they’ll be as fine a yaller as ye wish; any thing to suit ye, ma’am.

Emma. Can you do common cooking?

Joanna. I niver does any thing common, miss; all I cooks is in the fust style. I can make Meringo pies that would melt in your mouth, Charlotte Russians, and Blue Munge, too.

Emma. Indeed! you seem quite like an adept in cooking.

Joanna. I don’t know what an adipt is; but if you mean I’m a good cook, I am that. Ye ought to see the fine roast pig I cooked the other day; sich a handsome baste was niver set before on a gintleman’s table, I’ll warrant.

Mrs. Mervin. You seem to despise common cooking. I have very little else done in my family. We live quite plainly, and I hardly think you would suit me.

Joanna. Well, now, ma’am, we won’t let the cooking come betwixt us. I can cook plain, if I like; so, if ye plaze, I’d like to come and try.

Mrs. Mervin. Can you bring me a certificate of good character from the lady who last employed you?

Joanna. A stifkit! What’s that, shure?

Mrs. Mervin. A paper, stating what character you bear.

Joanna. Indade, ma’am, I niver carries my charactercher round in a dirty piece of paper, that’s liable to be torn up any day. I thinks more of meself than that.

Mrs. Mervin. Very well; I cannot take you, unless you can bring me such a paper.

Joanna. Faith, ye won’t have the chance; and I’m thinkin’ it’ll be a long time before ye gets suited. Ye’ll find no dacent girl will carry her charactercher loose in her hand.

[Exit Joanna.

Emma. Another verdant specimen. These interviews grow interesting. I’m beginning to enjoy them. I wonder who will come next? (Bell rings.)

Mrs. Mervin. We shall soon see who has given the bell such a gentle pull.

Enter Angelina Simper.

Angelina. Are you the lady who manifested her desire to secure an assistant in her family, by inserting an advertisement in “The Gazette” of last evening?

Mrs. Mervin. Yes; I advertised for a servant-girl. Do you wish such a situation?

Angelina. I might be induced, madam, to accept a position in your family for a sufficient consideration.

Mrs. Mervin. Are you familiar with housework?

Angelina. Yes, in a certain way. I am in the habit of idealizing and etherealizing every thing which I undertake. I think I have discovered the method of extracting the poetry from housework; and instead of regarding it as a wearisome drudgery, I make it a grand poem.

Emma. I think you must be an inventive genius if you can find any poetry in washing greasy dishes, or scrubbing kitchen floors.

Angelina. Ah, miss, there is poetry in every thing. I revel in it, morning, noon, and night. Its glorious beams brighten my pathway at every step of my earthly progress. I have written a volume of sweet verses; and if they can only be properly brought before the public, my name will be immortalized, and the poet’s laurels forever crown my brow. It is to gain a sufficient sum to publish this gem among poetical works, that I have decided, for a short time, to put in practice my ideal method of housekeeping.

Mrs. Mervin. Can you make bread, and do up shirts?

Angelina. Yes: I can insert the rising element in a liquid form into the snowy flour; or I can use those subtile powders that permeate the mass of doughy particles, and make them rise in comely proportions.

Emma. Indeed! but how about the shirts?

Angelina. Well, after bringing them in from their bath in the sunlight, I immerse them in starch of pearly whiteness, and after sufficient time has elapsed I press to their bosoms a hot iron. I am reminded by this that only through fiery trials we can be made to shine with becoming lustre ourselves.

Mrs. Mervin. I think you will have to find some other place in which to practise your fine ideas of housework. You soar quite too high for us.

Angelina. Adieu; this weary birdling seeks another nest.

[Exit Angelina.

Emma. O, mother! I thought I should burst out laughing in her face. She is an escaped lunatic, I do believe.

Mrs. Mervin. I should think she was. (Bell rings.) There’s another; this time an artist, perhaps. I’ll go straight to the office, and have that advertisement taken out.

Enter Mary.

Mary. Is this Mrs. Mervin who advertised for a girl?

Mrs. Mervin. Yes, I am the lady. Do you know of any good girl?

Mary. I would like to get a place myself. I have worked in a shop since I left my home in the country, three years ago; but I find the confinement doesn’t agree with me, and I had rather do housework.

Mrs. Mervin. You understand it, then, I suppose.

Mary. Oh, yes! I am next to the oldest in a family of nine children, and my mother commenced teaching me to do housework almost as soon as I could go alone. As soon as the sister next me could take my place, I left home to see if I could earn something to help along. A man like my father, with a small farm and a large family of children, finds it rather hard to get along sometimes.

Mrs. Mervin. Yes, he must find it hard to feed and clothe so many, with so little ready money as farmers generally have. You are a dutiful daughter to endeavor to assist him what you can; but would your parents approve of your living out in the city?

Mary. Yes: ever since my side has ached with such constant sewing, mother has been urging me to live out; and I should have tried to get a place long before this, only I dreaded so much to go to an intelligence-office. When I saw your advertisement, I decided to apply here immediately.

Mrs. Mervin. I am very glad you did, for I should like to engage you without further delay. How soon can you come?

Mary. To-night, if you wish; my week is out at my boarding-place, and I shouldn’t care to commence another.

Mrs. Mervin. Very well, you can come, then, and I will give you three dollars a week. Will that be satisfactory?

Mary. Quite so: that is more than I clear some weeks now; and it will be such a relief to have done with so much sewing. Good-morning, ma’am. I’ll be here about five o’clock.

[Exit Mary.

Emma. There, mother, see what has come by advertising in a respectable paper. I think you have secured a jewel,—so tidy and civil,—and I know by her looks she knows how to do every thing.

Mrs. Mervin. Yes, I am greatly pleased with her appearance; and how much more sensible in her to do housework than kill herself sewing in a shop! I hope the time will soon come when a great many more in her circumstances will go and do likewise.

Mrs. S. E. Dawes.

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