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ho had forgotten to close the back shutters, and she thought she heard burglars in the yard.

Then Butterwick arose in wrath and went down to see about it. He ascertained that the shutters were closed as usual, and as he returned to bed he resolved that Mrs. Butterwick's mother would leave the house for good in the morning, or he would.

However, he thought he might as well give the almanac plan another trial, and setting the sheep in motion he began to count. This time he reached two hundred and forty, and would probably have got to sleep before the three hundredth sheep jumped, had not Mix's new dog in the next yard become suddenly homesick, and began to express his feelings in a series of prolonged and exasperating howls.

Butterwick was indignant. Neglecting the sheep, he leaped from the bed, and began to bombard Mix's new dog with boots, soap-cups, and every loose object he could lay his hands on. He hit the animal at last with a plaster bust of Daniel Webster, and induced the dog to retreat to the stable and think all about home in silence.

It seemed almost ridiculous, to resume those sheep again, but he determined to give the almanac man one more chance, and so as they began to jump the fence he began to count, and after seeing the eighty-second safely over, he was gliding gently into the land of dreams, when Mrs. Butterwick rolled out of bed and fell on the floor with such violence that she waked the twins and started them crying, while Butterwick's motherin-law came down-stairs, four steps at a time, to ask if they felt that earthquake.

The situation was too awful for words. Butterwick regarded it for a minute with speechless indignation, and then seizing a pillow he went over to the sofa in the back sitting-room and lay down on the lounge.

He fell asleep in ten minutes without the assistance of the almanac, but he dreamed all night that he was being butted around the equator by a Cotswold ram, and he awoke in the

morning with a terrible headache and a conviction that sheep are good enough for wool and chops, but not worth a cent as a narcotic.

Greek Humor.

Eli Perkins.

The writings of Eschines are full of Greek humor which is often spoiled by the translators. Socrates was the founder of the Greek school of humor as well as philosophy. When Socrates died in Athens, Plato, Antisthenes and other pupils opened schools to teach the Greek boys. Much of the humor of the seven wise men of Greece was by proving a lie to be For instance, Chrysippus said one day to Cleanthes : "I can prove you to be a very foul man."

true.

"How so Chrysippus?"

"This way, listen: Whatever you say comes out of your mouth?"

"Yes."

"Well, you say snakes; therefore snakes come out of your mouth "

Bret Harte on Ah Sin.

Which I wish to remark

And my language is plain

That for ways that are dark

And for tricks that are vain

The heathen Chinee is peculiar,

Which the same I would rise to explain.

Ah Sin was his name;

And I shall not deny

In regard to the same

What that name might imply;

But his smile it was pensive and child-like,
As I frequently remarked to Bill Nye.

It was August the third;

And quite soft was the skies;

Which it might be inferred

That Ah Sin was likewise;

Yet he played it that day upon William
And me in a way I despise.

Which we had a small game,

And Ah Sin took a hand:

It was Euchre. The same

He did not understand;

But he smiled as he sat by the table,

With the smile that was child-like and bland.

Yet the cards they were stocked

In a way that I grieve,

And my feelings were shocked

At the state of Nye's sleeve;

Which was stuffed full of aces and bowers,

And the same with intent to deceive.

But the hands that were played

By that heathen Chinee,

And the points that he made

Were quite frightful to see

Till at last he put down a right bower,
Which the same Nye had dealt unto me,

Then I looked up at Nye,

And he gazed upon me;

And he rose with a sigh,

And said, "Can this be?

We are ruined by Chinese cheap labor "-
And he went for that heathen Chinee.

In the scene that ensued

I did not take a hand,

But the floor it was strewed

Like the leaves on the strand

With the cards that Ah Sin had been hiding,
In the game "he did not understand."

In his sleeves, which were long,

He had twenty-four packs

Which was coming it strong,

Yet I state but the facts;

And we found on his nails, which were taper, What is frequent in tapers-that's wax.

Which is why I remark,

And my language is plain,

That for ways that are dark,

And for tricks that are vain,

The heathen Chinee is peculiar—

Which the same I am free to maintain,

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Tim Crane and Widow Bedott.

--

Frances M. Whicher.

but for a

O no, Mr. Crane, by no manner o' means, 'tain't a minnit tew soon for you to begin to talk about gittin' married agin. I am amazed you should be afeerd I'd think so. See how long's Miss Crane ben dead? Six months! - land o' Goshen! why, I've know'd a number of individdiwals get married in less time than that. There's Phil Bennett's widder t' I was a talkin' about jest now she't was Louisy Perce - her husband hadent been dead but three months, you know. I don't think it looks well for a woman to be in such a hurry man it's a different thing - circumstances alters cases, you know. And then, sittiwated as you be, Mr. Crane, it's a tur rible thing for your family to be without a head to superintend the domestic consarns and tend to the children-- to say nothin o' yerself, Mr. Crane You dew need a companion, and no mistake. Six months! Good grievous! Why Squire Titus dident wait but six weeks arter he buried his fust wife afore he married his second. I thought ther wa'n't no partickler need o' his hurryin' so, seein' his family was all grow'd up. Such a critter as he pickt out, tew! t was very onsuitable — but every man to his taste I hain't no dispersition to meddle There's old tarmer Dawson, tew

with nobody's consarns.

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his pardner hain't ben dead but ten months. To be sure he ain't married yet but he would a ben long enough ago if somebody I know on 'd gin. him any incurridgement. But tain't for me to speak o' that matter. He's a clever old critter and as rich as a Jew-but-lawful sakes! he's old enough to be my father. And there's Mr. Smith-Jubiter Smith - you know him, Mr. Crane his wife (she 't was Aurory Pike) she died last summer, and he's ben squintin' round among the wimmin ever since, and he may squint for all the good it 'll dew him so r as 'in consarned tho' Mr. Smith's a respectable manquite young and hain't no family very well off tew, and quite intellectible but I'm purty partickler. O, Mr Crane! it's

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