papahs. Nebbahdeless, ter take yo' queschun ez hit am meant, in de figgertiv sense, I kin say dat I b'leebe de greatest po'shun of w'at I read in de nusepapahs, barrin' de advahtisemen's, de eddytoruls, does assershuns dat 'flict wid my sense ob de possible, an' dose tings dat am o'namented wid big lettahs on de top."

"W'at hab de big lettahs on de top ob a verse in de nusepapah gotter do wid de verse hitself, Uncle Joel ?” "Mistah Jacksen, truf doan' need any brass ban' fo'ter interduce hit; hit stan's on hits merits. I suspishun de varassity ob a piece in de papah dat am dus o'namented on de same principle dat I suspishun de enthusiasm ob an auctioneer ober a pa'cel ob secon'-han' furncher. But w'y did yo' ax me de interrogashun, Mistah Jacksen ?"

De

66 "Well, de reason I ax yo' de queschun am dis. last' poun' ob codfish dat I pu'chased war enclosed in a piece ob a nusepapah; an' in dat piece ob a nusepapah war an article tellin' 'bout a man obah in Chicago goin' widout vittles fo' mo' dan six weeks. Do yo' swaller any such fodder ez dat, Uncle Joel?"

"Not widout fust weighin' hit in de scales ob reason, an' cookin' hit in de fiah ob argyment, Mistah Jacksen. De Lawd created man wid a stomach, an' de stomach needs vittles jest ez shuahly ez a steam ingine requiahs watah an' fiah an' a balloon wind. De stomach am a peculiah apparatus, Mistah Jacksen, an' one dat am much abused. Ez long ez yo' treat hit wid kin' moderation yo' can bet on hit ez de safest fren' yo' po-sess; but de moment yo' go back on hit dat moment hit am yo' enemy. Some people treat dair stomachs as dough da war galvanized iron ketchalls, wid self-adjustin' patent ingyrubbah pockets. Ef yo' hiah a man ter lay a brick walk in front ob yo' residence, an' aftahwaads insist dat he shall not only do de job agreed on, but paint yo' house, clean yo' chimneys, black yo' stoves an' shake yo' caapets, yo' mus'n be took aback ef de man quits de primary job. Likewise wid

de stomach, wich war bestowed fo' de pu'poss ob assimylatin' plain provendah. Ef yo' impose on hit by arrangin' a rasslin' match 'tween hit an' sich tings ez frozen cawn staach, odahwise called ice cream, goose libbahs wid truffles, boned turkey wid mustaad sauce, be-devilled kidneys and cowcumbahs on de haf shell, yo' musn't plead igneruns ob de law ob cause an' 'fect wen yo' am bidden to yo' own obsequies. Yo'll fin' mo' evidence ob a centennial birthday in a good plate ob hash, seasoned wid ingins, Mistah Jacksen, dan yo' will in all de bills of faah ebbah put togeddah by de aid ob a French spellin' book."

"Dat may all be true, Uncle Joel, but wat am hit gotter do wid de man in Chicago?”

66 'Mistah Jacksen, w'en yo' ax my 'pinyun on a subjec', I 'sidah dat yo' want hit; but yo' musn't 'splay so much impashens. Did yo' ebbah see anybody eat a ches'nut widout fust removin' de burr an' den de shuck? Spose'n yo' got on de keers ter go ter Cohoes, an' w'en de train 'rived at Wes' Troy yo' shud pull de conductah by de coat tail an' hollah, 'Heah, dis am Wes' Troy. I wanter go ter Cohoes?' Doan yo' spose dat de conductah wo'd tell yo' dat Wes' Troy war a necessary stage ob de jurney, an' dat ef yo' wanted ter gitter yo' destynashun befo' de train did dat yo' had bettah go by tellygraf or walk? Yo' 'splay too much haste, Mistah Jacksen. Ef yo' want my 'pinyun on de queschun broached yo' kin obtain him. But yo' mus' 'membah dat I am de conductah ob dis train ob reasonin', an' dat ef yo' jump off'n de train befo' hit reaches hits destination yo' miss de connection."

"I'm ready fo' de train ter purceed, Uncle Joel," replied Mr. Jackson, in a conciliatory tone.

"Ter return ter de stomach," continued Uncle Joel. "W'ile hit am true dat yo' musn't gib a dog meat ebery time he wags his tail, hit am also true dat ef yo' doan' feed him 'cashunelly, de tail won't wag. Dahfo', yo' might ez well 'spec dat an eight-day clock will continner to make

hits roun' trips ef yo' hang hit's key up befo' hits face on de opposite side of de room once a week ez ter 'spec dat de stomach will support de body anytomic on wind pud'n. Mistah Jacksen, fools may die, but foolishness libs fo'ebbah. Men dat can't 'tract 'tenshun any oddah way, fool roun' wid flyin' masheens till da break dair necks, jump off'n high places inter de watah tell da git drown'd, 'speryment wid perpetual moshun till da get a life sentence in de lunytic asylum, push wheel-barrows 'cross de contynent till da git lost in de woods, or 'tempt ter cross de oshen in a peanut shuck. Dis alleged bisnis ob libbin' widout fodder war 'nawgyrated by Doctah Tannah, who don't diffah much f'om de prebious 'sperymentahs wid perpetual moshun. His theory dat fastin' 'll kuah disease am all right, but he fails ter add dat hit'll kill de fastah. De doctah misjedged de quality ob de foolishness ob mankind. Yo' can't find many flies 'roun' a mustaad pot, Mistah Jacksen, an' dough fools go in droves, da resemble de jackass in dat da nebbah lose any oats f'om lack ob brayin'. Ez ter de doctah's claim dat he didn't eat in fo' weeks, de people convicted him ob lyin' on suckumstanshel evydens, relyin' on de suckumstans dat he war still alive ter complete de chain. De only imytator de doctah hab had war de Chicago man, an' de jury ob de public convicted him on de same evydens widout leabin' dair seats. I read in de paper de oddah day dat de doctah war goin' fo' ter feed on 'lectricity durin' de comin' winter, an' call hit fastin'. Did yo' ebbah see a tellygraf message skippin' obah de wiahs, Mistah Jacksen ?"

"I hab watched de tellygraf wiahs fo' hours, Uncle Joel, wid dat objec' in view, but nevah seen one yit."

"Dat's de point pursisely, Mistah Jacksen. Dis am de age ob 'lectricity, an' da am squeezin' wondahs out'n hit. Aldo' yo' can't see de tellygraf message skip obah de wiah, de fac' remains dat hit skips; an' dough de doctah kin fool de multitude wid de 'lectricity bisnis, he can't strike

me wid lightnin'. He intends fo' ter encompass jes' ez much cawn beef an' cabbage ez ob yore, Mistah Jacksen, but hit'll be shot inter him by tellygraf, an' dahfo' hit'll be inwisible ter de lookahs on."

As Uncle Joel finished, he removed his cane from a projecting board, and without deigning to look at Mr. Jackson, departed. The latter sat for a moment as though bewildered; but after ejaculating, "Dis mus' be Cohoes," arose with an effort, and disappeared in the darkness with the labored motion of a heavily-loaded wheelbarrow in the hands of a boy.

THE NIGHT-WATCH.

From the French of François Coppée.

Soon as her lover to the war had gone,
Without or tears or commonplace despair,
Irene de Grandfief, a maiden pure

And noble-minded, reassumed the garb

That at the convent she had worn-black dress
With narrow pelerine-and the small cross
In silver at her breast. Her piano closed,

Her jewels put away-all save one ring,

Gift of the Viscount Roger on that eve

In the past spring-time when with tremulous joy
She had pledged her life-in quiet corner-mindless
Of what was done, unheeding what was said,

Pale, stoical, she waited.

When he learned

Our first defeat, the Viscount, as a man

Smitten when joyous at high festival,

Groaned; but his action gallant was and prompt.

Bidding farewell, and from Irene's brow

Culling one silken tress, that he might wear it

In gold medallion close upon his heart,

Without delay or hindrance, in the ranks

He took a private's place. What that war was

Too well is known.

Impassible, and speaking

Seldom as might be of her absent lover,

Irene daily, at a certain hour,

Watched at her window till the postman came
Down o'er the hill along the public road,
His mail-bag at his back. If he passed by,
Nor any letter left, she turned away,
Stifling a long-drawn sigh; and that was all.

But Roger wrote; nor were Irene's fears,
Up to mid-August, unendurable.
He with the army was in fact at Metz
Blocked in. Then, gathering from a fugitive
Who had fled thence that Roger had survived
The earlier battles, she in sight of all
Held back her rebel tears, and bravely strove
To live debarred of tidings. She became
More pious, passing many an hour at church.
Often she visited the village poor,

Freest of converse, liberal most, in homes
Whence by the war the sons had been withdrawn.

Then came the siege of Paris-hideous time!
Spreading through France as gangrene spreads, invasion
Drew near Irene's château. Uhlans foraged
The country round. But all in vain the priest
And the old doctor, in their evening talk
Grouped with the family around the hearth,
Death for their constant theme before her took.
No sad foreboding could that young heart know.
Roger at Metz was with his regiment safe,
At the last date unwounded. He was living;
He must be living; she was sure of that.
Thus by her faith in faithful love sustained,
Counting her beads, she waited, waited on.

Wakened, one morning, with a start, she heard
In the far copses of the park shots fired
In quick succession. "Twas the enemy!