"O, don't mind it, don't mind it; the fault was my own, no doubt,-though I did think it clear enough for " Clear! Why, you stated it as "Don't say a word. clear as the sun to anybody but an abject idiot, but it's that confounded cocktail that has played the mischief." "No, now don't say that. I'll begin it all over again, and-"

"Don't now, for goodness' sake, don't do anything of the kind, because I tell you my head is in such a condition that I don't believe I could understand the most trifling, question a man could ask me."

I'll put it so plain this "Now, don't you be afraid. time that you can't help but get the hang of it. We will begin at the very beginning." [Leaning far across the table, with determined impressiveness wrought upon his every feature, and fingers prepared to keep tally of each point as enumerated; and I, leaning forward with pain. ful interest, resolved to comprehend or perish.] "You know the vein, the ledge, the thing that contains the metal, whereby it constitutes the medium between all other forces, whether of present or remote agencies, so brought to bear in favor of the former against the latter, or the latter against the former, or all, or both, or compromising as possible the relative differences existing within the radius whence culminate the several degrees of similarity to which—"

I said: "Q, blame my wooden head, it ain't any use! -it ain't any use to try,-I can't understand anything The plainer you get it the more I can't get the hang of

it."

I heard a suspicious noise behind me, and turned in time to see Hingston dodging behind a newspaper, and qnaking with a gentle ecstasy of laughter. I looked at Ward again, and he had thrown off his dread solemnity and was laughing also. Then I saw that I had been sold, that I had been made the victim of a swindle in the way of a string of plausibly worded sentences that didn't mean anything under the sun.

Artemus Ward was one of the best fellows in the world, and one of the most companionable. It has been said that he was not fluent in conversation, but, with the above experience in my mind, I differ.

S. C. Clemens.

OVER THE HILL TO THE POOR-HOUSE.
From Harper's Weekly.

Over the hill to the poor-house I'm trudgin' my weary way-1, a woman of seventy, and only a trifle gray

I, who am smart an' chipper, for all the years I've told,
As many another woman, that's only half as old.

Over the hill to the poor-house-I can't make it quite clear! Over the hill to the poor-house-it seems so horri? queer! Many a step I've taken a-toilin' to and fro,

But this is a sort of journey I never thought to go.

What is the use of heapin' on me a pauper's shame?
Am I lazy or crazy? am I blind or lame?
True, I am not so supple, nor yet so awful stout,
But charity ain't no favor, if one can live without.

I am willin' and anxious an' ready any day,
To work for a decent livin', an' pay my honest way;
For I can earn my victuals, an' more too, I'll be bound,
If any body only is willin' to have me round.

Once I was young and han'some--I was upon my soul-
Once my cheeks was roses, my eyes as black as coal;

And I can't remember, in them days, of hearin' people say,
For any kind of a reason, that I was in their way.

'Taint no use of boastin', or talkin' over free,
But many a house an' home was open then to me;
Many a han'some offer I had from likely men,
And nobody ever hinted that I was a burden then.

And when to John I was married, sure he was good and smart
But he and all the neighbors would own I done my part;
For life was all before me, an' I was young an' strong,
And I worked the best that I could in tryin' to get along.

And so we worked together and life was hard but gay,
With now and then a baby, for to cheer us on our way;
Till we had half a dozen, an' all growed clean an' neat,
An' went to school like others, an' had enough to eat.

So we worked for the child'r'n, and raised 'em every one; Worked for 'em summer and winter, just as we ought to 've done;

[demn,

Only perhaps we humored 'em, which some good folks con But every couple's child'rn's a heap the best to them.

Strange how much we think of our blessed little ones!

I'd have died for my daughters, I'd have died for my sons; And God he made that rule of love; but when we're old and gray,

I ve noticed it sometimes somehow fails to work the other way.

Strange, another thing: when our boys an' girls was grown, And when, exceptin' Charley, they'd left us there alone; When John he nearer an' nearer come, an' dearer seemed to be,

The Lord of Hosts he come one day an' took him away from

me.

Still I was bound to struggle, an' never to cringe or fall—
Still I worked for Charley, for Charley was now my all;
And Charley was pretty good to me, with scarce a word or
frown,

Fill at last he went a courtin', and brought a wife from town.

She was somewhat dressy, an' hadn't a pleasant smile-
She was quite conceity, and carried a heap o' style;
But if ever I tried to be friends, I did with her, I know;
But she was hard and proud, an' I couldn't make it go.

She had an edication, an' that was good for her;
But when she twitted me on mine 'twas carryin' things too fur;
An' I told her once 'fore company (an' it almost made her sick),
That I never swallowed a grammar, or 'et a 'rithmatic.

So 'twas only a few days before the thing was done-
They was a family of themselves, and I another one;
And a very little cottage for one family will do,

But I have never seen a house that was big enough for two.

An' I never could speak to suit her, never could please her eye,
An' it made me independent, an' then I didn't try;
But I was terribly staggered, an' felt it like a blow,
When Charley turned ag'in me, an' told me I could go.

I went to live with Susan, but Susan's house was small,
And she was always a-hintin' how snug it was for us all;
And what with her husband's sisters, and what with child'ın
three,

Twas easy to discover that there wasn't room for me.

An' then I went to Thomas, the oldest son I've got,
For Thomas' buildings 'd cover the half of an acre lot;
But all the child'rn was on me-I couldn't stand their sauce-
And Thomas said I needn't think I was comin' there to boss.

An' then I wrote to Rebecca,-my girl who lives out West, And to Isaac, not far from hier-some twenty miles at best; And one of 'em said 'twas too warm there, for any one so old, And t'other had an opinion the climate was too cold.

So they have shirked and slighted me, an' shifted me about—
So they have well-nigh soured me, an' wore my old heart out;
But still I've borne up pretty well, an' wasn't much put down,
Till Charley went to the poor-master, an' put me on the town.

Over the hill to the poor-house-my child'rn dear, good-bye!
Many a night I've watched you when only God was nigh;
And God 'll judge between us; but I will al'ays pray
That you shall never suffer the half I do to day.

Will. M. Carleton.

THE MOTHER AND HER CHILD.

BESIDE her mother, sat a darling child,

Wasted by sickness, from whose cheek the bloom
Had passed away: her large blue eyes,-as mild
And soft-
t-as lovely as the sky in June,
Were fixed upon the morning star, so soon,
Like her own life, to melt in glorious day;

And as its pale beams trembled in the room,*
Her heart throbbed wildly, for they seemed to say
In whispers, to her spirit, "Come with us away!"

"Mother, dear mother, lift my weary head,

And lay it gently on your own dear breast;
Now kiss me, mother-let your smiles be shed
Upon my heart; for soon your child will rest,
Far from thy care, with saints and angels blest;
For I have had a dream of that bright land

Where spirits dwell; and like the golden west
At sunset was the glory of the band I saw,
And soon shall with them near the Saviour stand.

"Dee, mother, that bright star is almost gone!
It wears to me a blissful smile, and fain
My aching heart would have it live-it şhone
So sweetly on it that it hushed its pain.
Come, lift me up, and let me see again
Its mellow light before it dies, and sing-
I feel so well-the little hymn, the same
You taught me, months ago, that e'er would bring
Our souls so near to heaven as on an unseen wing."

The mother's heart was lifted up in prayer,
As rose the infant voice upon her ear;
The note hung quivering on the balmy air,

Like that of some sweet birdling, soft and clear;
While round the child, dispelling every fear,
Came floating visions from the land her dream
Had pictured to her happy soul so near;

Then, as the song poured forth, the warbled theme
But seemed an anthem echoed from a brighter scene.

She stopped, her head drooped low; the trembling strain
Was broken where the gushing melody

Was softly lingering on the hallowed name
Whose praises angels sound eternally.
Quickly the mother sunk upon her knee,
And from her snowy forehead threw the long,
Dark tresses, and gazed upon her wildly;

The note seemed fluttering yet upon her tongue!

But she was dead-her heart had broken with her song!

TRIUMPH OF FAITH.

COME, now, my incredulous friends, and follow me to tne bed of the dying believer. Would you see in what peace a Christian can die? Watch the last gleams of thought which stream from his dying eyes. Do you see anything like apprehension? The world, it is true, begins to shut in. The shadows of evening collect around his senses. A dark mist thickens and rests upon the objects which have hitherto engaged his observation. The countenances of his friends become more and more indistinct. The sweet expressions of love and friendship are no longer intelligible. His car wakes no more at the well-known voice of his children; and the soothing accents of tender affection die away, unheard, upon his decaying senses. To him the spectacle of human life is drawing to its close; and the curtain is descending which shuts out this earth, its actors, and its scenes. He is no longer interested in all that is done under the sun.

Oh! that I could now open to you the recesses of his soul; that I could reveal to you the light which darts into the chambers of his understanding! He approaches The imag the world which he has so long seen in faith.