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"Why did you not say so down below?" inquires the man angrily.

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Why did you not tell me what you wanted when I asked you from the window? Did you not make me come down to the door?" retorts the Hodja.

The moral whereof is:

Be polite and considerate when you beg favors.

THE DOG AND THE BEES.

BY BIERCE.

A DOG being very much annoyed by bees, ran, quite accidentally, into an empty barrel lying on the ground, and looking out at the bung-hole, addressed his tormenters thus:

"Had you been temperate, stinging me only one at a time, you might have got a good deal of fun out of me. As it is, you

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have driven me into a secure retreat; for I can snap you up as fast as you come in through the bung-hole. Learn from this the folly of intemperate zeal."

When he had concluded, he awaited a reply. There wasn't any reply; for the bees had never gone near the bung-hole; they went in the same way as he did, and made it very warm for him.

The lesson of this fable is that one cannot stick to his pure reason while quarreling with bees.

SICILY BURNS'S WEDDING.

BY GEORGE W. HARRIS.

GEORGE WASHINGTON HARRIS was born in Allegheny City, Pa., in

1814, and died in Knoxville, Tenn., in 1869. He spent most of his life in Tennessee, and was at one time a river captain. His "Sut Lovingood Yarns" first appeared in Nashville journals.

"HEY, GE-ORGE!" rang among the mountain slopes; and looking up to my left, I saw "Sut" tearing along down a steep point, heading me off, in a long kangaroo lope, holding his flask high above his head, and hat in hand. He brought up near me, banteringly shaking the half-full "tickler," within an inch of my face.

"Whar am yu gwine? take a suck, hoss? This yere truck's ole. I kotch hit myse'f, hot this mornin frum the still wum. Nara durn'd bit ove strike-nine in hit-I put that ar piece ove burnt dried peach in myse'f tu gin hit color-better nur ole Bullen's plan: he puts in tan ooze, in what he sells, an' when that haint handy, he uses the red warter outen a pon' jis' below his barn-makes a pow'ful natral color, but don't help the taste much. Then he correcks that wif red pepper; hits an orful mixtry, that whisky ole Bullen makes; no wonder he seed 'Hellsarpints.' He's pisent ni ontu three-quarters ove the b'levin parts ove his congregashun wif hit, an' tuther quarter he's sot intu ruff stealin' an' cussin'. Ef his still-'ous don't burn down, ur he peg out hisse'f, the neighborhood am ruinated a-pas' salvashun. Haint he the durndes sampil ove a passun yu ever seed enyhow?

'Say, George, du yu see these yere well-poles what I uses fur laigs? Yu sez yu sees em, dus yu?”

"Yes."

"Very well; I passed 'em a-pas' each uther tuther day, right peart. I put one out a-head, jis' so, an' then tuther 'bout nine feet a-head ove hit agin, jis' so, an' then kep on a-duin hit.

"George, yu don't onderstan life yet scarcely at all, got a heap

tu larn, a heap. But 'bout my swappin my laigs so fas'-these yere very par ove laigs. I hed got about a fox squirril skin full ove biled co'n juice packed onder my shut, an' onder my hide too, I mout es well add, an' wer aimin fur Bill Carr's on foot. When I got in sight ove ole man Burns's, I seed ni ontu fifty hosses an' muels hitch'd tu the fence. Durnashun! I jis' then tho't ove hit 'twer Sicily's wedding day. She married ole Clapshaw, the suckit rider. The very feller hu's faith gin out when he met me sendin sody all over creashun. Suckit-riders am surjestif things tu me. They preaches agin me, an' I hes no chance tu preach back at them. Ef I cud I'd make the institushun behave hitsef better nur hit dus. They hes sum wunderful pints, George. Thar am two things nobody never seed: wun am a dead muel, an' tuther is a suckit-rider's grave. Kaze why, the he muels all turn intu old field school-masters, an' the she ones intu strong minded wimen, an' then when thar times cums, they dies sorter like uther folks. An' the suckit-riders ride ontil they marry; ef they marrys money, they turns intu store-keepers, swaps hosses, an' stays away ove colleckshun Sundays. Them what marrys, an' by sum orful mistake misses the money, jis turns intu polertishuns, sells ile well stock, an' dies sorter in the human way too.

"But 'bout the wedding. Ole Burns hed a big black an' white bull, wif a ring in his snout, an' the rope tied up roun his ho❜ns. They rid 'im tu mill, an' sich like, wif a saddil made outen two dorgwood forks, an' two clapboards, kivered wif a ole piece ove carpet, rope girth, an' rope stirrups wif a loop in hit fur the foot. Ole 'Sock,' es they call'd the bull, hed jis got back frum mill, an' wer turn'd intu the yard, saddil an' all, tu solace hissef a-pickin grass. I wer slungin roun the outside ove the hous', fur they hedn't hed the manners tu ax me in, when they sot down tu dinner. I wer pow'fully hurt 'bout hit, an' happen'd tu thinkSODY. So I sot in a-watchin fur a chance tu du sumthin. I fus tho't I'd shave ole Clapshaw's hoss's tail, go tu the stabil an' shave Sicily's mare's tail, an' ketch ole Burns out, an shave his tail too. While I wer a-studyin 'bout this, ole Sock wer a-nosin 'roun, an' cum up ontu a big baskit what hilt a littil shattered co'n; he dipp'd in his head tu git hit, an' I slipp'd up an' jerked the handil over his ho'ns.

"Now, George, ef yu knows the nater ove a cow brute, they is

the durndes' fools amung all the beastes ('scept the Lovingoods); when they gits intu tribulashun, they knows nuffin but tu shot thar eyes, beller, an' back, an' keep a-backin'. Well, when ole Sock raised his

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head an' foun' hissef in darkness, he jis twisted up his tail, snorted the shatter'd co'n outen the baskit, an' made a tremenjus lunge agin the hous'. I hearn the picters a-hangin agin the wall on the inside a-fallin'.

He fotch a deep, loud, rusty beller, mout been hearn a

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intu a onendin sistem ove backin'. A big craw-fish wif a hungry coon a-reachin' fur him, wer jis' nowhar. Fust agin one thing, then over anuther, an' at las' agin the beebainch, knockin' hit an' a dozen stan' ove bees heads over heels, an' then stompin' back'ards thru the

mess. Hit haint

"HEY, GE-ORGE!"

much wuf while tu tell what the bees did, ur how soon they sot intu doin' it. They am pow'ful quick-tempered littil critters, enyhow. The air wer dark wif 'em, an' Sock wer kivered all over, frum snout

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