"Gawoh! gurrah! gu-r-r-r! Kowpff! Gawaw-wah! gawahhah! gwock! gwart! gwah-h-h-h woof!"

Just as the other passengers had consulted together how they might slay him, morning dawned, and "lower number three" awoke. Every body watched the curtain to see what manner of man it was that made the sleeping-car a pandemonium. Presently the toilet was completed, the curtains parted, and "lower number three" stood revealed.

Great heavens!

It was a fair young girl, with golden hair and timid, pleading eyes, like a hunted fawn.

-Burlington Hawkeye.

CLXXIX. THE DEACON'S STORY.

THE solemn old bells in the steeple
Are ringin'. I guess you know why!
No? Well, then, I'll tell you, though mostly
It's whispered about on the sly.
Some six weeks ago, a church meetin'
Was called-for-nobody knew what;
But we went, and the parson was present,
And I don't know who, or who not.

Some twenty odd members, I calc'late,
Which mostly was women, of course;
Though I don't mean to say aught ag’in' 'em,
I've seen many gatherin's worse.

There, in the front row, sat the deacons,
The eldest was old Deacon Pryor;
A man countin' four-score-and-seven;
And gin'rally full of his ire.

Beside him, his wife, countin' four-score,
A kind-hearted, motherly soul;
And next to her, young Deacon Hartley,
A good Christian man on the whole.

Miss Parsons, a spinster of fifty,

And long ago laid on the shelf,

Had wedged herself next; and, beside her,
Was Deacon Munroe-that's myself.

The meetin' was soon called to order,
The parson looked glum as a text;
We gazed at each other in silence,

And silently wondered "What next?"
Then slowly uprose Deacon Hartley;

His voice seemed to tremble with fear, As he said: "Boy and man you have known me, My good friends, for nigh forty year.

"And you scarce may expect a confession
Of error from me; but-you know,
My dearly loved wife died last Christmas,
It's now nearly ten months ago.
The winter went by long and lonely,
The spring hurried forward apace;
The farm-work came on, and I needed.
A woman about the old place.

"The children were wilder than rabbits,
And still growing worse every day;
No help to be found in the village,
Although I was willing to pay.
In fact, I was nigh 'bout discouraged
For every thing looked so forlorn;
When good little Patience McAlpin
Skipped into our kitchen one morn.

"She had only run in of an errand;
But she laughed at our miserable plight,
And set to work, jist like a woman,
A-putting the whole place to right.
And though her own folks was so busy,
And illy her helpin' could spare,
She flit in and out like a sparrow,

And most every day she was there.

"So the summer went by sort of cheerful,
And one night my baby, my Joe,
Seemed feverish and fretful, and woke me,
By crying, at midnight, you know.

I was tired with my day's work, and sleepy,
And could n't, no way, keep him still;
So, at last, I grew angry, and spanked him,
And then he screamed out with a will.

"Just then I heard a soft rapping,
Away at the half-open door;
And then little Patience McAlpin
Walked shyly across the white floor.
Says she: 'I thought Josey was cryin',
I guess I'd best take him away;
I knew you'd be getting up early,
To go to the marshes for hay;
So I stayed here to-night to get breakfast;
I guess he'll be quiet with me.
Come, Josey, kiss papa, and tell him
What a nice little man you will be!'
She was stooping low over the pillow,
And saw the big tears on his cheek;
Her face was so close to my whiskers,
I darsn't move, scarcely, or speak;
Her hands were both holdin' the baby,
Her eye by his shoulder was hid;
But her mouth was so near and so rosy,
I-kissed her. That's just what I did."

Then down sat the tremblin' sinner,

The sisters they murmured of "shame," And "she should n't oughter a let him, No doubt she was mostly to blame." When straightway uprose Deacon Pryor, "Now bretherin and sisters," he said (We knowed then that suthin' was comin', And all sot as still as the dead),

"You've heard Brother Hartley's confession, And I speak for myself when I say

That if my wife was dead, and my children
Were all growin' worse every day;
And if my house needed attention,
And Patience McAlpin had come,
And tidied the cluttered up kitchen,

And made the place seem more like at home;
And if I was worn out and sleepy,

And my baby would n't lie still,
But fretted and woke me at midnight,
As babies, we know, sometimes will;
And if Patience came in to hush him,
And 't was all as our good brother sez-
I think, friends-I think I should kiss her,
And 'bide by the consequences."

Then down sat the elderly deacon,
The younger one lifted his face,
And a smile rippled over the meetin'
Like light in a shadowy place.
Perhaps, then, the matronly sisters
Remembered their far-away youth,

Or the daughters at home by their firesides,
Shrined each in her shy, modest truth;
For their judgments grew gentle and kindly,
And-well-as I started to say

The solemn old bells in the steeple

Are ringing a bridal to-day.

-N. S. Emerson.

CLXXX. THE GUILELESS WITNESS.

"Do you know the prisoner well?" asked the attorney. "Never knew him sick," replied the witness.

"No levity," said the lawyer, sternly.

"Now, sir, did you ever see the prisoner at the bar?” "Took many a drink with him at the bar."

"Answer my question, sir!" yelled the lawyer. "How

long have you known the prisoner?"

"From two feet up to five feet ten inches."

"Will the court make the

K. N. E.-36.

"I have, Jedge," said the witness, anticipating the lawyer, "I knowed the prisoner when he was a boy two feet long and a man five feet ten

"Your Honor ———.”

"It's a fac', Jedge; I'm under my oath," persisted the witness.

The lawyer arose, placed both hands on the table in front of him, spread his legs apart, leaned his body over the table, and said: "Will you tell the court what you know about this case?"

"That aint his name," replied the witness.

"What aint his name?"

"Case."

"Who said it was?"

"You did. You wanted to know what I knew about this case-his name's Smith."

"Your Honor," howled the attorney, plucking his beard out by the roots, "will you make this man answer?"

Witness," said the Judge, "you must answer the question put to you."

"Land o' Goshen, Jedge, hain't I bin doin' it? Let him fire away, I'm ready."

"Then," said the lawyer, don't beat about the bush any more. You and this prisoner have been friends?"

"Never!" promptly responded the witness.

"What! Was n't you summoned here as a friend?" "No, sir; I was summoned here as a Presbyterian. Nary one of us was ever Friends—he's an old line Baptist, without a drop of Quaker blood in him."

"Stand down," yelled the lawyer in disgust.

"Hey?"

"Stand down."

"Can't do it; I'll sit down or stand up

"Sheriff, remove that man from the box.”

Witness retires, muttering: "Well, if he aint the thick headedest chap I ever laid my eyes on!"