Q. What! Impossible! That would make you a hundred and eighty years old.

How do you account for that?

A. I don't account for it at all.

Q. But you said at first you were only nineteen, and now you make yourself out to be one hundred and eighty. It is an awful discrepancy.

A. Why, have you noticed that? (Shaking hands.) Many a time it has seemed to me like a discrepancy; but somehow I could n't make up my mind. How quick you notice a thing!

Q. Thank you for the compliment, as far as it goes. Had you, or have you, any brothers or sisters?

A. Eh! I-I-I think so,-yes-but I don't remember. Q. Well, that is the most extraordinary statement I ever heard.

A. Why, what makes you think that?

Q. How could I think otherwise? Why, look here! Who is this a picture of on the wall? Isn't that a brother of yours?

A. Oh, yes, yes, yes! was a brother of mine.

him. Poor old Bill!

Now, you remind me of it, that
That's William,-Bill we called

Q. Why, is he dead then?

A. Ah, well, I suppose so. We never could tell. There was a great mystery about it.

Q. That is sad, very sad. He disappeared, then?

A. Well, yes, in a sort of general way. We buried him. Q. Buried him! Buried him without knowing whether he was dead or not?

A. Oh, no! Nor that. He was dead enough.
Q. Well, I confess that I can't understand this.

buried him, and you knew he was dead

A. No, no! We only thought he was.
Q. Oh, I see! He came to life again?
A. I bet he did n't!

If you

Q. Well, I never heard any thing like this. Somebody

was dead. Somebody was buried. Now, where was the mystery?

A. Ah, that's just it! That's it exactly! You see we were twins,-defunct and I; and we got mixed in the bathtub when we were only two weeks old, and one of us was drowned. But we didn't know which. Some think it was Bill; some think it was me.

Q. Well, that is remarkable. What do you think?

A. Goodness knows! I would give whole worlds to know. This solemn, this awful mystery has cast a gloom over my whole life. But I will tell you a secret now, which I never have revealed to any creature before. One of us had a peculiar mark, a large mole on the back of his left hand; that was me. That child was the one that was drowned. Q. Very well, then, I don't see that there is any mystery about it, after all.

A. You don't; well, I do. Anyway, I don't see how they could ever have been such a blundering lot as to go and bury the wrong child. But, 'sh! don't mention it where the family can hear of it. Heaven knows they have heartbreaking troubles enough without adding this.

Q. Well, I believe I have got material enough for the present; and I am very much obliged to you for the pains you have taken. But I was a good deal interested in that account of Aaron Burr's funeral. Would you mind telling me what particular circumstance it was that made you think Burr was such a remarkable man?

A. Oh, it was a mere trifle! Not one man in fifty would have noticed it at all. When the sermon was over, and the procession all ready to start for the cemetery, and the body all arranged nice in the hearse, he said he wanted to take a last look at the scenery; and so he got up, and rode with the driver.

He was very

Then the young man reverently withdrew. pleasant company; and I was sorry to see him go.

CXCVI.-PAT AND THE PIG.

WE have read of a Pat so financially flat
That he had neither money nor meat;
And when hungry and thin, it was whispered by sin
That he ought to steal something to eat.

So he went to the sty of a widow near by,
And he gazed on the tenant-poor soul!
"Arrah, now," said he, "what a trate that'll be,"
And the pig of the widow he stole.

In a feast he rejoiced, then he went to a priest;
For, in spite of the pork and the lard,

There was something within that was sharp as a pin,
For his conscience was pricking him hard.

And he said with a tear, "Will your riverence hear
What I have in sorrow to say?"

Then the story he told, and the tale did unfold
Of the pig he had taken away.

And the priest to him said, "Ere you go to your bed,
You must pay for the pig you have taken,

For 't is thus, by my soul, you'll be saving your soul,
And will also be saving your bacon."

"Oh, be jabers," said Pat, "I can niver do that,
Not the ghost of a penny have I,

And I'm wretched indade, if a penny it nade,
Any pace for me conscience to buy.”

Then in sorrow he cried, and the priest he replied,

Only think how you'll tremble with fear

When the Judge you shall meet at the great judgment-seat, And the widow you plundered while here.

"Will the widow be there?" questioned Pat, with a stare, "And the pig? Be me sowl, is it thrue?"

"They will surely be there," said the priest, “I declare, And, O, Paddy, what then will you do?"

"Many thanks," answered Pat, "for your telling me that;

May the blessings upon you be big!

On that sittlement day to the widow I'll say,

Mrs. Flannegan, here is your pig."

CXCVII.-CALLING A BOY IN THE MORNING.

CALLING a boy up in the morning can hardly be classed under the head of pastimes, especially if the boy has taken a great deal of active exercise the day before. And, it is a little singular that the next hardest thing to getting a boy out of bed is getting him into it. There is rarely a mother who is a success at rousing a boy. All mothers

know this; so do their boys; and yet the mother seems to go at it in the right way. She opens the stair door and insinuatingly calls, "Johnny." There is no response. "Johnny." ." Still no response. Then there is a short, sharp, "John," followed a moment later by a long and emphatic "John Henry."

A grunt from the upper regions signifies that an impression has been made, and the mother is encouraged to add: "You'd better be down here to your breakfast, young man, before I come up there, an' give you something you'll feel." This so startles the young man that be immediately goes to sleep again. This operation has to be repeated several times.

A father knows nothing about this trouble. He merely opens his mouth as a soda-bottle ejects its cork, and the "John Henry" that cleaves the air of that stairway goes into that boy like electricity, and pierces the deepest recesses of his nature. He pops out of that bed and into his clothes, and down the stairs, with a promptness that is commendable. It is rarely a boy allows himself to disregard the paternal summons. About once a year is believed to be as often as is consistent with the rules of health. He saves his father a great many steps by his thoughtfulness.

K. N. E.-39.

-J. M. Bailey.

CXCVIII.

PROVISIONAL FORGIVENESS.

OLD Hodge was sick; so very sick, in sooth,
His life, 't was thought, was drawing to a close;
And, pondering on this all-unwelcome truth,
Remorseless memories robbed him of repose.
The duty of forgiveness to his foes
His ghostly counselor had urged with zeal,
Assuring him most earnestly that those
Who anger or resentment should conceal,
Would surely hazard their immortal weal.

แ

'Twas hard on Hodge; for he and Deacon Giles Had been at daggers' points for many a day; And now to meet the enemy with smiles,

Whom he had kept for twenty years at bay, And quarreled, snarled, and fought with all the way, Was passing tough; but, with a wholesome fear Of what might chance by reason of delay, Hodge sent for Giles, and bidding him draw near Beside his couch, observed with face severe:

'Giles, it is meet the truth should be confessed; You are, of all the knaves I ever knew,

The very meanest, and the mealiest,

A rascal out and out, and through and through;
But, as the doctors and the parson too,

Will have it that I'm ebbing out to sea,
And that I must be reconciled to you,

Why, here's my hand, let by-gones by-gones be;
Heaven may forgive you,-but it's tough to me."

Giles wrung his hand, and straightway turned to go,
But, at a motion from the sick man, came
Back to his couch again, and, bending low,

He heard him faintly syllable his name,

And add, his cheeks suffused with hectic flame: "I may recover, and get round once more;

So I was thinking, Giles, before you came, That if the doctor should my health restore, I'd like to have it just as 't was before."