Oh! Why did you not say so before? I am a clergyman -- a parson.”

"Now you talk! You see my blind, and straddle it like a man. Put it there!"-extending a brawny paw, which closed over the minister's small hand and gave it a shake indicative of fraternal sympathy and fervent gratification.

"Now we're all right, pard. Let's start fresh. Don't you mind me snuffling a little, becuz we're in a power of trouble. You see one of the boys has gone up the flume —” "Gone where?"

"Up the flume-throw'd up the sponge, you know.” "Thrown up the sponge?"

"Yes-kicked the bucket —"

"Ah-has departed to that mysterious country from whose bourne no traveler returns."

"Return? Well, I reckon not. Why, pard, he's dead!" "Yes, I understand."

"Oh, you do? Well, I thought maybe you might be getting tangled some more. Yes, you see he's dead again— "Again! Why, has he ever been dead before? "Dead before? No. Do you reckon a man has got as many lives as a cat? But you bet he's awful dead now, poor old boy, and I wish I'd never seen this day. I don't want no better friend than Buck Fanshaw. I know'd him by the back; and when I know a man like him, I freeze to him you hear me. Take him all round, pard, there never was a bullier man in the mines. No man ever know'd Buck FanBut it's all up, you know; it's

They've scooped him!

shaw to go back on a friend.
all up. It ain't no use.
"Scooped him?"
"Yes—death has.
Yes, indeed.

him up.

Well, well, well, we've got to give It's a kind of hard world after all, ain't it? But, pard, he was a rustler. You ought to seen him get started once. He was a bully boy with a glass eye! Just spit in his face, and give him room according to his strength, and it was just beautiful to see him peel and go in. He was the worst son of a thief that ever draw'd breath. Pard, he was on it. He was on it bigger than an Injun!' "On it? On what?"

"On the shoot. On the shoulder. On the fight. Understand? He didn't give a continental - for anybody. Beg your pardon, friend, for coming so near saying a cuss word- but you see I'm on an awful strain in this palaver, on

account of having to cramp down and draw everything so mild. But we've got to give him up. There ain't any getting around that, I don't reckon. Now if we can get you to help plant him"

66

"Preach the funeral discourse. Assist at the obsequies?'' Obs'quies is good. Yes. That's it; that's our little game. We are going to get up the thing regardless, you know. He was always nifty himself, and so you bet you his funeral ain't going to be no slouch; solid silver door-plate on his coffin, six plumes on the hearse, and a nigger on the box, with a biled shirt and a plug hat on-how's that for high? And we'll take care of you, pard. We'll fix you all right. There will be a kerridge for you; and whatever you want you just 'scape out, and we'll 'tend to it. We've got a shebang fixed up for you to stand behind in No. 1's house, and don't you be afraid. Just go in and toot your horn, if you don't sell a clam. Put Buck through as bully as you can, pard, for anybody that know'd him will tell you that he was one of the whitest men that was ever in the mines. You can't draw it too strong. He never could stand it to see things goin' wrong. He's done more to make this town peaceable than any man in it. I've seen him lick four greasers in eleven minutes, myself. If a thing wanted regulating, he warn't a man to go browsing around after somebody to do it, but he would prance in and regulate it himself. He warn't a Catholic; but it didn't make no difference about that when it came down to what a man's rights was—and so, when some roughs jumped the Catholic boneyard and started to stake out town lots in it, he went for 'em, and he cleaned 'em, too! I was there, pard, and I seen it myself."

"That was very well, indeed · at least the impulse was whether the act was entirely defensible or not. Had deceased any religious convictions? That is to say, did he feel a dependence upon, or acknowledge allegiance to a higher power?

More reflection.

"I reckon you've stumped me again, pard. Could you say it over once more, and say it slow?"

"Well, to simplify it somewhat, was he, or rather, had he ever been connected with any organization sequestered from secular concerns and devoted to self-sacrifice in the interests of morality!"

"All down but nine-set 'em up on the other alley, pard.”

"What did I understand you to say?'

"Why, you're most too many for me, you know. When you get in with your left, I hunt grass every time. Every time you draw, you fill; but I don't seem to have any luck. Let's have a new deal."

"How? Begin again?"
"That's it."

"Very well. Was he a good man,

and-"

"There - I see that; don't put up another chip till I look at my hand. A good man, says you? Pard, it ain't no name for it. He was the best man that ever-pard, you would have doted on that man. He could lam any galoot of his inches in America. It was him that put down the riot last election before it had got a start; and everybody said that he was the only man that could have done it. He waltzed in with a trumpet in one hand and a spanner in the other, and sent fourteen men home on a shutter in less than three minutes. He had that riot all broke up and prevented nice before anybody had a chance to strike a blow. He was always for peace, and he would have peace he could not stand disturbances. Pard, he was a great loss to this town. It would please the boys if you could chip in something like that and do him justice. Here once when the Micks got to throwing stones through the Methodist Sunday-school windows, Buck Fanshaw, all of his own notion, shut up his saloon, and took a couple of six-shooters and mounted guard over the Sundayschool. Says he, 'No Irish need apply.' And they didn't. He was the bulliest man in the mountains, pard; he could run faster, jump higher, hit harder, and hold more tanglefoot whisky without spilling it than any man in seventeen counties. Put that in, pard, it will please the boys more than anything you could say. And you can say, pard, that he never shook his mother."

"Never shook his mother?"

"That's it

any of the boys will tell you so.
"Well, but why should he shake her?
"That's what I

say- but some people does."

"Not people of any repute?"

Well, some that averages pretty so-so.

"In my opinion, a man that would offer personal violence to his mother, ought to

"Cheese it, pard; you've banked your ball clean outside the string. What I was a drivin' at was that he never throwed off

on his mother don't you see! No indeedy! He give her a house to live in, and town lots, and plenty of money; and he looked after her and took care of her all the time; and when she was down with the smallpox, I'm cuss'd if he didn't set up nights and nuss her himself! Beg your pardon for saying it, but it hopped out too quick for yours truly. You've treated me like a gentleman, and I ain't the man to hurt your feelings intentional. I think you're white. think you're a square man, pard. I like you, and I'll lick any man that don't. I'll lick him till he can't tell himself from a last year's corpse! Put it there!"

I

"could desire.

[Another fraternal handshake - and exit.] The obsequies were all that "the boys Such funeral pomp had never been seen in Virginia. The plumed hearse, the dirge-breathing brass bands, the closed marts of business, the flags drooping at half-mast, the long plodding procession of uniformed secret societies, military battalions and fire companies, draped engines, carriages of officials and citizens in vehicles and on foot, attracted multitudes of spectators to the sidewalks, roofs and windows; and for years afterward, the degree of grandeur attained by any civic display was determined by comparison with Buck Fanshaw's funeral.

FROM "ROUGHING IT," BY MARK TWAIN.

MARY QUEEN OF SCOTS.

It was a laboring bark that slowly held its way,

And o'er its lee the coast of France in the light of evening lay; And on the deck a lady sat who looked with tearful gaze Upon the fast-receding hills within the distant haze.

The past was fair, like those dear hills so far behind her bark; The future, like the gathering night, was ominous and dark. One gaze again, one long, last gaze: "Adieu, dear France,

The breeze comes forth—she's there alone upon the wide, wide sea.

The scene was changed. It was an eve of raw and surly mood, And in a turret-chamber high of ancient Holyrood

Sat Mary, listening to the rain and sighing with the winds, That seemed to suit the stormy state of men's uncertain minds.

The touch of care had blanched her cheeks, her smile was

sadder now,

The weight of royalty had lain too heavy on her brow ;

And traitors to her councils came, and rebels to the field; The Stuart sceptre well she swayed, but the sword she could not wield.

She thought of all her blighted hopes, the dreams of youth's brief day,

And summoned Rizzio with his lute, and bade the minstrel

play

The songs she loved in early years, the songs of gay Navarre, The songs perchance that erst were sung by gallant Chatelar. They half beguiled her of her cares, they soothed her into smiles,

They won her thoughts from bigot zeal and fierce domestic broils.

But hark, the tramp of armed men! the Douglas' battle-cry! They come, they come ! and lo! the scowl of Ruthven's hol

low eye!

Around an unarmed man they crowd Ruthven in mail com

plete,

George Douglas, Ker of Fawdonside, and Rizzio at their feet! With rapiers drawn and pistols bent they seized their wretched

prey,

Wrenched Mary's garments from his grasp, and stabbed him

where he lay.

I saw George Douglas raise his arm, I saw his dagger gleam;
Then sounded Rizzio's dying cry and Mary's piteous scream.
I saw her writhe in Darnley's arms as in a serpent's fold :
The coward! he was pale as death, but would not loose his

hold.

And then the torches waved and shook, and louder grew the

din,

And up the stairs and through the doors the rest came trooping in.

But Mary Stuart brushed aside the burning tears that fell: "Now for my father's arm!" she gasped; "my woman's heart, farewell!"

The scene was changed. It was a lake with one small lonely

isle,

And there within the prison walls of its baronial pile,