One day last summer, at the great Centennial Exhibition in Philadelphia, I overheard a conversation that interested me very much. The subject of it was a queer little animal called a "gopher," which sat stuck up in a case with its comical little head perched up in the air; for it wasn't even alive, but was a poor little stuffed gopher.

In front of the case I noticed two farmers, who were talking about my little friend in a very earnest way: so I listened to their remarks.

"Yes," said one, "I tell you he is a dreadful creature to dig. Why, he makes us a sight of trouble out our way! can't keep anything that he can dig for, away from him."

"Is that so?" said the other man.

"Yes. Why, I pay my boys five cents for every one of 'em they catch; and it's lively work getting 'em, I tell you! See his nose, now! doesn't that look sharp? I tell you, when that fellow gets hold of a job, he keeps right at it! There is no giving up in him."

"Dear me!" thought I, "how nice of little gopher! Ugly as he is, I quite fall in love with him." And I drew nearer, and showed, I suppose, my interest in my face; for the speaker turned around, and addressed me.

"Yes, ma'am, he steals my potatoes, and does lots of mischief. Just look at those paws of his! Doesn't he keep them busy, though!"

"Are gophers so very industrious, then?" I asked.

"Industrious, ma'am! Well, yes: they've got the work in them, that's true; and, if they begin any thing, they'll see it through. They don't sit down discouraged, and give up; but they keep right on, even when there's no hope. Oh, they're brave little fellows!" And the honest old farmer beamed in admiration upon the stiff, little unconscious specimen before us in the case.

"It is very interesting," I said, "to know of such patience in a little animal like this."

"Yes, ma'am," he responded: "you would think so if you could see one. Why, working is their life. If they couldn't work, they'd die. I know, 'cause I've proved it. Once, we caught one, and I put him in a box, and my boys and I threw in some sand. The box was considerably big, and the little fellow went right to work. He dug, and threw it all back of him over to the other side; then back of him again, till he went through that sand I don't know how many times. Well, he was as lively as a cricket, and, to try what he would do, I took away the sand, and 'twas but a few hours before he was dead. Yes, dead, ma'am! just as dead as this one, here!" pointing with his finger to our friend in the case, who preserved a stolid indifference to the fate of his gopher-cousin.

I stopped to take a further look at "little gopher," with whom I felt pretty well acquainted by this time.