hed a way of correctin' all thet. And just by manniperlation. He worked over the face of the deceased ontil he perduced what the survivin' relatives called a look of resignation-you know, a sort of smile, like. When he wanted to put in any extrys, he perduced what he called-hevin' reg'lar charges for this kind of work-a Christian's hope."

The Other Man: "I want to know!"

"Yes. Well, I admit, at times it was a little startlin'. And I've allers said (a little confidentially) that I had my doubts of its being Scriptooral or sacred, we being, ez you know, worms of the yearth; and I relieved my mind to our pastor, but he didn't feel like interferin', ez long ez it was confined to church membership. But the other day, when Cy Dunham died-you disremember Cy Dunham ?”

A long interval of silence. The Other Man was looking out of the window, and had apparently forgotten his companion completely. But as I stretched my head out of the curtain I saw four other heads as eagerly reached out from other berths to hear the conclusion of the story. One head, a female one, instantly disappeared on my looking around, but a certain tremulousness of her window-curtain showed an unabated interest. The only two utterly disinterested men were the One Man and the Other Man.

The Other Man (detaching himself languidly from the window): "Cy Dunham ?"

"Yes; Cy never hed hed either convictions or purfessions. Uster get drunk and go round with permiscous women. Sorter like the prodigal son, only a little more so, ez fur ez I kin judge from the facks ez stated to me. Well, Cy one day petered out down at Little Rock, and was sent up yer for interment. The fammerly, being proud-like, of course didn't spare no money on that funeral, and it waz—now between you and me-about ez shapely and first-class and prime-mess affair ez I ever saw. Wilkins hed put in his extrys. He hed put onto that prodigal's face the AI touch-hed him fixed up with a 'Christian's hope.' Well, it waz about the turning-point, for thar waz some of the members and the pastor hisself thought that the line oughter be drawn somewhere, and thar waz some talk at Deacon Tibbett's about a reg'lar conference meetin' regardin' it. But it wazn't thet which made him onpop'lar."

Another silence; no expression nor reflection from the face of the Other Man of the least desire to know what ultimately settled the unpopularity of the undertaker. But from the curtains of the various berths several eager, and one or two even wrathful, faces, anxious for the result.

The Other Man (lazily recurring to the fading topic): "Well, what made him onpop'lar?"

The One Man (quietly): "Extrys, I think—that is, I suppose, not knowin' (cautiously) all the facts. When Mrs. Widdecombe lost her husband, 'bout two months ago, though she'd been through the valley of the shadder of death twice-this bein' her third marriage, hevin' been John Barker's widder-"

The Other Man (with an intense expression of interest): "No; you're foolin' me!"

The One Man (solemnly): "Ef I was to appear before my Maker to-morrow, yes! she was the widder of Barker."

"The Other Man: "Well, I swow!"

The One Man: "Well, this Widder Widdecombe, she put up a big funeral for the deceased. She hed Wilkins, and thet ondertaker just laid hisself out. Just spread hisself. Onfort'natelyperhaps fort'nately in the ways of Providence-one of Widdecombe's old friends, a doctor up thar in Chicago, comes down to the funeral. He goes up with the friends to look at the deceased, smilin' a peaceful sort o' heavinly smile, and everybody sayin' he's gone to meet his reward, and this yer friend turns round, short and sudden on the widder settin' in her pew, and kinder enjoyin', as wimen will, all the compliments paid the corpse, and he says, says he :

"What did you say your husband died of, marm?'

"Consumption,' she says, wiping her eyes, poor critter. 'Consumption-gallopin' consumption.'

"Consumption be d--d,' sez he, bein' a profane kind of Chicago doctor, and not bein' ever under conviction. Thet man died of strychnine. Look at thet face. Look at thet contortion of them fashal muscles. Thet's strychnine. Thet's risers Sardonikus' (thet's what he said; he was always sorter profane).

"Why, doctor,' says the widder, 'thet-thet is his last smile. It's a Christian's resignation.'

"Thet be blowed; don't tell me,' sez he. 'Hell is full of thet kind of resignation. It's pizon. And I'll'-why, dern my skin,

yes we are; yes, it's Joliet. Wall, now, who'd hev thought we'd been nigh onto an hour."

Two or three anxious passengers from their berths: "Say; look yer, stranger! Old Man! What became of”

But the One Man and the Other Man had vanished.

THE SHOPPER.

BY R. J. BURDETTE.

TRAMP, tramp, tramp!

With the morning clocks at ten,

She skimmed the street with footsteps fleet,
And hustled the timid men ;

Tramp, tramp, tramp!

She entered the dry goods store,

And with echoing tread the dance she led
All over the crowded floor.

She charged the throng where the bargains were,
And everybody made way for her;
Wherever she saw a painted sign,

She made for that spot a prompt bee-line;
Whatever was old, or whatever was new,
She had it down and she looked it through;
Whatever it was that caught her eye,

She'd stop, and price, and pretend to buy.
But 'twas either too bad, too common, or good,
So she did, and she wouldn't, and didn't, and would.
And round the counters and up the stairs,
In attic, and basement, and everywheres.
The salesmen fainted and cash-boys dropped,
But still she shopped, and shopped, and shopped,
And round, and round, and round, and round,
Like a winding toy with a key that's wound,
She'd weave and wriggle and twist about,

One way in and the other way out,
Till men grew giddy to see her go.
And by and by, when the sun was low,
Homeward she dragged her weary way,
And had sent home the spoils of the day :
A spool of silk and a hank of thread-
Eight hours-ten cents-and a dame half dead.

THE BUMBLE BEE.

BY JOSH BILLINGS.

THE bumble bee iz a kind ov big fly who goes muttering and swareing around the lots, during the summer, looking after little

A FLANK MOVEMENT.

boys to sting them, and stealing hunny out ov the dandylions and thissells. He iz mad all the time about sumthing, and don't seem to kare a kuss what people think ov him. A skool boy will studdy harder enny time to find a bumble bees nest than he will

to get hiz lesson in arithmetik, and when he haz found it, and got the hunny out ov it, and got badly stung into the bargin, he finds thare aint mutch margin in it. Next to poor molassis, bumble bee hunny iz the poorest kind ov sweetmeats in market. Bumble bees hav allwuss been in fashion, and probably allwuss will be, but whare the fun or proffit lays in them, i never could cypher out. The proffit don't seem to be in the hunny, nor in the bumble bee neither. They bild their nest in the ground, or enny whare else they take a noshun too, and ain't afrade to fite a whole distrikt skool, if they meddle with them. I don't blame the bumble bee, nor enny other fellow, for defending hiz sugar: it iz the fust, and last Law ov natur, and i hope the law won't never run out. The smartest thing about the bumble bee iz their stinger.

ANOTHER CHANCE FOR SOROSIS.

BY R. J. BURDETTE.

MRS. EWING says in the Woman's Journal that "she believes 50,000 women could earn a living in this country by the manufacture and sale of home-made bread." We believe so, too. There's a fortune in it. A paving material that will be yielding to the horse's foot, comparatively noiseless, and yet more durable than Belgian block, is something that has not yet been discovered.