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"I did not say," quoth Jones, that

Ate three, I only spoke of two!" "Two! in the name of truth, and who

you

Dared to say that? It is a spanker!" "Well, it comes retail from Bob Danker." "I'll Danker him," so off goes Weeks,

The blood high mounting in his cheeks. He meets Bob in the market place"Vile caitiff! come! we're face to face, How dare you say, to gull the flats, That I last night, ate two live cats ?" "Two," replied Danker-"that's rare fun, I promise you, I said but one!" "Well, one, you slanderer, why say that? How dare you say I ate a cat?" "'Twas Taylor told me so," said Bob. "If so," says Tim, "I'll knock his nob." So off he set, brim full of rage,

Vowing the fiercest war to wage

Against old Taylor-soon he meets him, And with a dreadful poke he greets him :"Taylor!" he cried, with flashing eye, "How could you utter such a lie?

You told the folks I ate a cat!"

"Oh! no, I never said that!

So pray your savage sputter spare,
I said a Puss, that is, a hare.
Your mother told me so, now there!"
""Tis false," said Tim, "I do declare,
I've never seen or touched a hare!"

He sought his mother-"Oh, mother, mother,
Your tongue has made a shocking bother;
You said I ate a hare-folks blab it."

"I didn't," said she, “I said a rabbit.”
"And that's not true!" "It is," said she,
"For your own wife told it to me."

"My wife," says Tim-" Then, 'tis a bouncer,
And I'll go home and soundly trounce her."
So Tim goes home, most sorely riled,

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""Tis true, indeed," she quick replied.
"You supped, as you have supped before,
On a Welsh rabbit, nothing more!"

Tim ope'd his eyes with wild surprise,
His breath he scarce could fetch it,

Aloud he cried, half petrified,

"Good gracious, how folks STRETCH IT!"

AUNT NANCY'S MIND ON THE SUBJECT.

From Harper's Bazar.

And this is the new New Testament,

MARGARET E. SANGER.

And 'tis come in the sweet o' the year,
When the fields are shining in cloth of gold,
And the birds are singing so clear;
And over and into the grand old text,
Reverent and thoughtful men,

Through many a summer and winter past,
Have been peering with book and pen.

Till they've straightened the moods and tenses out,
And dropped each obsolete phrase,

And softened the strong, old-fashioned words
To our daintier modern ways;

Collated the ancient manuscripts,
Particle, verb, and line,

And faithfully done their very best

To improve the book divine.

I haven't a doubt they have meant it well,
But it is not clear to me

That we needed the trouble it was to them,

On either side of the sea.

I cannot help it, a thought that comes

You know I am old and plain

But it seems like touching the ark of God,

And the touch to my heart is pain.

For ten years past, and for five times ten
At the back of that, my dear,

I've made and mended and toiled and saved,

With my Bible ever near.

Sometimes it was only a verse at morn
That lifted me up from care,

Like the springing wings of a sweet-voiced lark
Cleaving the golden air;

And sometimes of Sunday afternoons

'Twas a chapter rich and long,
That came to my heart in its weary hour
With the lilt of a triumph song.

I studied the precious words, my dear,
When a child at my mother's knee,
And I tell you the Bible I've always had
Is a good enough book for me.

I may be stubborn and out of date,
But my hair is white as snow,
And I love the things I learned to love
In the beautiful long ago.

I cannot be changing at my time;

It would be losing a part of myself.
You may lay the new New Testament
Away on the upper shelf.

I cling to the one my good man read
In our fireside prayers at night;
To the one my little children lisped
Ere they faded out of my sight.
I shall gather my dear one close again
Where the many mansions be,
And till then the Bible I've always had
Is a good enough book for me.

THE SPIDER.

A PARAGRAPHER'S IDEA IN REGARD TO THIS REMARKABLE INSECT.

From the Boston Transcript.

The spider belongs to the order Arachnida; and in order to write an interesting article about him, one must rack an idea or two from his poor brain.

The spider should be a good swimmer. As he is nearly always walking about on his web, of course he is webfooted.

He is very fly.

The spider is very fond of the fly. He has no head. He needs none. He always gets ahead of the fly.

The spider is a very devout insect, and is never ostentatious in its devotions; but you may often see one after

its prey.

They are wanting antennæ-that is to say, there antennæ on them.

The spiders are weavers by profession. Weaver notion you were aware of that, however.

There is a silk spider. He is always found among his 'ilk.

You have often seen the spider hanging to a single thread. It thread-ends to fall every moment.

The poet was thinking of the spider when he said, "Beauty draws us with a single hair." Every spider has its single lair. Something single lair about this.

The fly can never get the hang of the spider. Hang the spider, he says.

A woman always screams when she sees a spider. If the spider 'spied her first there might be a scream-age. Then there is the fry spider. It is made of iron. The maid of all work should keep her eye on it.

The female spider is very affectionate to its young. The

young are likewise fond of their mother. They have often They are never ashamed to

in their affection ate her.

live on their mother.

The spider is a good climber. It can be found in almost every clime.

The books mention tribes of men who eat the spiders, but most men shun them altogether.

As long ago as 1600, Sir John Davies sang of the "subtle spider." But in the army were sutler things. We do not refer to Sir John this time. The surgeon was all right.

There is the bottle spider. Men who are familiar with the bottle can see this variety in greatest profusion.

The spiders are diverse in their religious learnings. They are divided in sects.

The maiden spiders are all spinsters.

The most remarkable spider we ever beard of was the insect which Robert Bruce saw, swinging from a beam. He should not beam mentioned among ordinary spiders.

This spider had to swing himself to the next beam. He had hard work of it. Probably his 'wings were clipped.

If we remember rightly, he tried it a dozen times unsuccessfully. Dozen this speak eloquently of the spider's perseverance?

The spider weaves his web; the web is a tissue; this story about Bruce's spider is probably a tissue-of falsehoods. 'Tissuesual to get up such ridiculous stories about great men.

"TWO TOLLAR?"

From the Detroit Free Press.

There was a slight blaze on the roof of a house on Russell Street a few days ago, and when the insurance adjusters went up to make their survey they found that about two dollars would cover all the loss.

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