Weekly Mail

A Reclaimed Pickpocket.j It was a bright, clear, Sunday morning I that 1 stood lingering on the Pont des Inva-I tides, looking at the interesting view that lay to the eastward. Towering above the green and lurbid waters of the Seine, the frails of the Louvre stretched in gray perspec- tive, while beyond was seen the dome of the Institute, the pointed turrets of that famous prison the Concierge, the bulky towers of Notre Dame, the dome of the Sorbonne. and the sharp, serrated spire of St. Chapelle, each and all historical. Memory was very busy with the scene, and the thoughts which it suggested, when, sud- denly, I felt a hand at my pocket, and turn- ing suddenly I grasped the hand of a lad at my side. He struggled fur a moment to escape from me, but when he found this im- possible he stood silent and sulky. I know not why, but as I regarded the little rogue I did not feel the least anger at bis audacity, but watched him with not a little interest. He wore the inevitable blouse, coming half down to his knees, the type of the humble class of artisans, wiih a slouched hat much the worse for wear. The fellow might have been good-looking, though it was difficult to judge upon this point, so thick was the coating of dirt upon his face. As I looked at his bands, his wrist being grasped firmly in my right, I observed that they were small and well formed; not one of those accus- tomed to labour, though, in the matter of want of cleanliness, they rivalled his face. He was rather tall, quite slim, and I should have judged not over seventeen or eighteen years of age. Neither of as bad spoken a word while I was making these observations; and I waa rather surprised that the fellow did not show fight, or at least struggle to get away. But he saw that I was more than a match for him, and 1 kept a firm grip upon his wrist, deter- mined not to let him go. (l You are hurting my wrist," he said, at last. I; Very likely," I replied. "You put iu where you had no right to just now." I didn't take anything." No; I was too quick for you." What are you going to do wit h me ?'' Hand you over to the police. IC Don't do that," said he, drawing closer to my side. You are not a hard man--l CIIA see that." <! I'ou deserve punishment." 61 Ah, but you will also punish those at home; they are not to blame, poor things." I was interested at once, and told the lad I would like to see his home. If he would show me to it, and promise not to run away, I would let go his wrist and not hand him over to the police. He looked at ms with a search- ing glance, and thought for a moment before he answered, then said, Y ou have a right to make terms. I don't see what good it will do, make terms. I don't see what good it will do, but I promise, and you can follow me." I released his wrist, and followed him 1 across the bridge to the other side of the Seine. After crossing the Boulevard St. Michael we struok into a labyrinth of streets that lie in this part of the city, the famous St. Giles of Paris, and finally stopped before a tumble-down house, into which my guide entered; and I followed him up a narrow flight of stairs to the garret. Here, taking a key from his pocket, he unlocked a door, and we entered a low room, in the middle of which, upon the floor, were a little girl and a boy at play with some toys. "My guide disappeared at once through a side door into what appeared to be an ante- room, saying he would be back in one moment; and I turned towards the children, both of whom had left their play to regard me with curious eyes. The oldest could not have been more than four years of age, a bright and pretty-faced boy, while this sister was perhaps a year younger, and extremely beautiful. They were coarsely dressed, but were clean and neat in appearance. The apartment, which contained little or no furniture beyond a bedstead and two ohaira, with a sort of bureau, surmounted by a looking-glass, showed unmistakable evi- dences of poverty; but yet no want of neat- ness outraged the eye. I had hardly made these observations when the door opened again, and there entered the room a young woman, scarcely more than twenty years of age. She was rather delicate in appearanoe, and quite pretty, not to say handsome her dress, like that of her ohildren, was coarse, but ne-it; she was very clean in her person and as she sat down upon one of the chairs, after plaoing the other for me, the two ohildren ran to her knees with the instinct and affection of offspring of their tender years. I had looked at her but a moment before I discovered that the pick- pocket of the Pont des Invalides was a woman "Did jou not suspect my sex ? she asked, after a moment. Ii I certainly did not." <! It is my one resort," she said, sadly, and never adopted until 1 am driven to it to fill those little mouths "Dangerous business—you might hare fallen into very different hands, as you must be aware." "True, but I work by instinct. I saw your face, and 1 said, I must have money. He is not a hard man if detected, I may, perhaps, appeal to his meroy." Why do you not ask for aid in place of I being thus a thief?" "That is a hard word, but it is merited. Do you not know that beggars are treated in Paris like thieves? Tue law punishes both nearly alike," I fear that you speak truly. Are these your ohildren r" Yes and she kissed them both tenderly. Are you mari-ied Monsieur I mean no reproach." I am a widow." I ff How did you lose your husband ?" Ho was one of the Comnvine, was tried, condemned, and fell by the muskets of the I loldiery on the plains of Satorp," I Alas for these eivi! tvarg Ab, but he was s ight," said she, with t'1 the dbstinaoy of.conviction and loyalty to his 1 memory. I then listened to her sto:y. He: husband had been an engraver, with £ C0*J wages, and Lad been alio to suf.pott his little family comfortAbly until the war, which was followed by the intestine troubles. He was arrested with tho; CcmiinumU, and sufTered I' the punishment of .death, Since then she had lived and supported her children by selling off everything that sroyld bring money. Had got isome wori: to do with he; needle occasionally, but it last all seemed to fail her, and by means of disguising het sex, she had successfully consummated several small robberies of money, arid once or twice had made attempts similar to that which had failed in my instance. She reasoned with me very ooollj, and said, If it were not for these dear children I should oe&se to sufter very soon • for," said she, the Seine is always there with open arms!" I found that her sense of morality, or con- scientiousness, could not be aroused, except in the matters of personal parity there she was immreulate. she said tenderly, « My husband is in heaven, but he is my husband •till, and I shall live Md die faithful to him." N otwithstanding her liolile sens o! honour in this respect, she felt aooomponottoct at V9 stealing. I' ¡be worM ewt;1 m m øq o&Mrw 4 u- bread. I take nothing from the poor; only 1 from suoh as can well afford to lose it." Honesty, as a matter of principle, she could not recognise. Have you no ft lendi r" None here." It nave you any any where else ?" "I have a sister at Kouen, the wife of a farmer. If I could get there she would give me a home for myself and children, in return for the work I could do for her." (( You shall go there," said 1. Monsieur II I say you shall go to your sister." fl It will cost fifty franes," II Just about." You will pay this for me, who would Have robbed you half an hour since ? I will. But I exact from you one pro- mise." She looked at me suspiciously for a mo- ment. "What is it?" That you will le-arn to be as honest and true in relation to the rights and property of others as you are with regard to your honour." "I believe I understand you," she said, thoughtfully, "and I will promise to try and dc as you have said." "That is all 1 oan a*k." She came towards me now, leading the children, and said, Monsieur, let them kiss you. I believe after all that there is disin- terested benevolence in the world, 1 have been more than once offered assistance, but it has been ooupled with conditions so hateful that I have felt insulted. Kiss him, Marie; kiss him, Gustavo; he is good—good, like your papa!" I bad been surprised at the excelleut manner in which she expressed herself, while, as she stood there now, her cheeks suffused with a slight colour and her eyes lighted by anima- tion and a feeling of trust and gratitude, l thought that she was extremely beautiful. "I am going to Havre to-morrow, by the way of Houen," said (j can you be ready so soon with your children?" I can be ready in one hour." "Pack up whatever is necessary for you to oarry. Ilere is money to get you a good- sized trunk. Ee ready to-morrow at noon, and I will come for you." She attempted to thank me, but her lips quivered, and she turned liway to hide the tears that coursed down her cheeks. As I passed towards the door she followed, and, taking my hand between her own, pressed it earnestly as she said Tbert* is a reward somewhere for such kind ncss." As I looked upon her now it seemed im- possible that this was the pickpocket of the Pont des Invalides-the dirty lad in a blouse, whom I hai detained be force. Stopping over for a few hours at llouen enabled me to witness the meeting of the young mother with her sister at a very com- fortable Norman farmhouse, as she described. Pressing a purse of fifty francs upon her, I left the sisters together, both happy at the re-union which should make them share the same home together, even as they had done in childhood. "Keep your resolve and the secret of the past," I said to her in a low voice, With heaven's help I will she replied .Et ol —Evening World,

A CELEBRATED CLOWN. lBy Ci.rTiCiTE."] Two celebrated clowns take part in tke two big London pantomimes this year. Ilarry Payne, the Drury Lane veteran, will keep the ball a-rolling as usual at Drury Lane, and Tom Lovell will knock the pantaloon about at Her Majesty's. These names are guaran- tees for plenty of fun, if they are only given a fair opportunity, but, atas now-a-days the harlequinade is always cut down to a couple —————————————— ———————————————— t of scenes, and a "curtain." Harry Payiic- mounts for the good old time", when a clown was thought something of, and he can ramein-1 ber those times. Kven the most inveterate playgoer can hardly remember how many years Harry Payne has been in the Drury Lane annual. When th", season is over he toils no more, but simply waits for the next, lie it a lien in society, and a great attraction at charifable bazaars, where he is frequently to be seen in the off season.

= When is a steamship wot a steamship ?—• j When she is a-building. j Retaliation is like the storm which sweeps through the forest in aestrimtioa. Kindness is like the combined infiuer.es of the sun and the rain of the cloud, which germinates seed and upholds their leaves, flowers, and odours. When tossed on the angry waves of a sea of trouble, a good motto it,, Never give up the ship." Put. when the ship mscifests a ten- dency to sink, it is a wise move to swim out and not go down with the wrcck. Ice value of labour as a tonic is not theo- retic<0. Work to do and the will to do it will arc- as certain to induce cheerfulness acd contentment as idleness or mere desultory occupation is likely to bring languor, initi- bility, and fancied ailments, j The editor of the Knohios/er Gem was mArried last Tuesday,, and in the most laconic j fashion that paper thus offers congratula- tions:—"Tke Gem congratulates its editor; and sympathises with his bride." Lowell Girl: "Da the fads of fashion obtain much among society people in Nashua?" Nashua Girl: We flatter our- selves we are not much behind the times. Why, some of the houses of our best people II are quite over-run with fleas."

Rescued From the Grave. There are some seasons when the grave- yard seems peculiarly beautiful. When hushed twilight wings her noiseless way from heaven to wrap the temples of the dead in her soft, transparent drapery—or the pleasant moon lights up the mossed graves, making lumi- nous the white sculptured marble—it is sweet I to march up the shaded aisles of the slum- brous city, and muse upon the holy memories of the departed. The stars burned with lustre peculiar to summer skies. A clear, mild atmosphere, 1. v gave a refreshing elasticity to my spirits. I wandered along I scarcely knew where, and found myself, after" a leisured walk, near the old-fashioned burial-ground at DaHston Falls. 1 was a happy man, for having that day received a diploma, I was really and profes- sionally an M.D. What directed my steps to the rural bury- ing-ground I cannot now tell, but I believed at the time (I was romantic and an enthusiast then) that some mysterious agency shaped my course. As I drew near the rustic gate was open. The walks glittered in the strong yellow light; the shadows leaned down from the trees, and trescoed the smooth gravel with quaint tracery; the buds and flowers, grouped in dark masses upon the gently curved mounds (I knew they were buds and flowers, for their fragrance betrayed them), seemed whispering in their silent language to the beautiful deadipelow. In my youth I was fond of symbolising. Every inanimate thing had its type in some ideal of Oriental fancy. This evening 1 felt particularly poetical. My imagination was as fertile—yes, I thought as fertile as Milton's if my thoughts were not as grand as my images sublime. I sauntered carelessjy along the side where a hawthorn hedge twined its iirm tendrils to- gether, dragging my cane after me and musing t,6 in careless reverie. Suddenly I paused. I leaned by a huge, hoary elm and closed my eyes, as the magic breathing of a flute, skil- fully touched, floated through my dreaming brain. As 1 look back it seems tc me that that was the most blessed hourof my existence, for, mingling with that plaintive melody, came a gentle face, with sparkling eyes, serene brow, and check, just crimsoned enough to resemble two pale roso leaves flushing the purett snow. Oh, how I loved that sweet May Kendall Love! Forgetting my God, [ idolised her, and, egotist that 1 was, fancied that my un- tpoken passion was returned, But I will not linger. In those few moments I was pouring my very soul's depth and fervour into the heart that I fondly imagined—as youth will sometimes—was. in a sort of spiritual pre- sence, ever beside me. My reverie was broken by the approach of a stranger, and a light, silvery laugh shut out the music of the liute, for it was so like my love, May's—so ringing, so joyous. Pre-ently, as a fine, manly form drew nearer [ recognised the features of one who had been my college mate two years ago. I would have sprung forward to meet him. His name was trembling on my lips when a sight .arrested my attention'that chilled my blood and made my teeth chatter with a sudden freezing fear. The two .had come almost beside me and there stopped charmed with the sylvan spot. The lady held her hat by the strings,one arm was passed confidingly through that of her companion, and when she turned her beaming face around towards me (1 wa. concealed by the shadow) I recognised, in the full flood of the moonlight—May Kendali. I do Dot like, even at this late day, to re- view the feelings that shook my frame when 1 heard them murmur such words of tender- ness to each other in subdued and happy tones. A deathly faintness came over me as I gathered from th"ir own lips the knowlegde that they were betrothed; and, when that passed away, a fierce revenge sent the blood boiling through my veins. I could have leaped upon him, and demanded my May, my love, without whom life would be a curse, and the world a dread, dead blank. Put then by what right could I call her mine ? True, she had been most kind to me, but never more than maidenly modesty might warrant towards the most intimate friend. inovy I knew—God forgive me for the rage that tugged at my heart-strings as I thought of it! —why she bad talked to Frederick. Oh, fool that I was not to comprehend before! She had smiled on me because I was his college mate- became I had ever some sweet recol- lection to tell, gome comely virtue of bis to pi 'se; and blinded by my own fondness, I fancied she loved me. How I stood there, weak, passionate, and panting with the violence of my emotions, even till I learned the day when the wedding would take place, I know not, for every nerve in my body seemed changed to an instrument of keen torture. Fortunately, they did not pass me, but retraced their steps and I, bending low with almost breaking heart, slowly left the pleasant graveyard, now only a valley of dry bones to me, and walked towards my dwelling, too wretched to think deli- berately, or feel all the crushing weight of disappointment. T he next day, before sunrise, I was on my way to a neighbouring city. I was in a strange tumult, that lknew not but might prove fatal to me. I was ready for almost any desperate deed, and had, more than once—I shudder as I think of it—contemplated self-destruction. Eut f called philosophy, nay, something higher, heiier, to my aid—religion and in i time I became soothed, if not comforted; j that is after I knew May was irrevocably wedded. Two months passed. I deemed myself i sufficiently fortified with good resolutions to return once more to my chosen place of resi- dence. It was high moon when I drove up t lie principal street. A carriage dashed by me—a light vehicle. In anether moment it bad turned; and Frederick, May's husband, was abreast. I involuntarily drew iR my horse. My friend's face denoted anguish, intense and concentrated. -1 For God's sake, Dr. Lane, my early friend, do not stop till you reach Mrs, Ken- dall's My May lies there-—sick—dying he gasped. How ashy pale he was My face blanched.! I felt a singular tremor. He dashed ahead, neither speaking: and in lifteen minutes l! stood by the oouch of the young bride. That was an awful hour. At its close 1 pressed her white eyelids over her dull, glazed eyes. Ah, heaven! thought I, kneeling with an aching heait, can such beauty be dead?' And still, for all, there was triumph in the! feeJing-triumph until I beheld the awful grief of the bereaved husband—saw the big drops, bead like, blood his pale, broad fore- head—almost forced him from the inanimate body to which he hung with the grasp of despair, clasping her to his bosom-kiesing the white lips, the whiter cheeks, even the gold locks that lay damp and uncurled over her shoulders, And, when 1 left that house of mouvning. was it not strange, the calmness felt settling over my spirits ? Could this thought, even in faintest tracery, pass through my mind at such a time ? Well, she is not mine; and neitktr is she Ms. I am glad that, as she could not be mint wnly, none but death can claim her now." I fear, had conscience rightly applied her torch, she might have read those scathing words written on the crimson portals of my he-art., The next day [ went over to be present at the funeral terries, and still I felt that ) sorrowful happiness. Poor Frederick was at times raving, then stupid with his great grief. I The mourners assembled: the beautiful dead lay robed in satin in her coffin already the large parlour was fitted with weeping friends. I took my station at the head of the corpse. With unutterable tenderness, yet without a tear, 1 gazed upon that heavenly counte- nance. It looked not like stern death, but soft and smiling slumber. There were all her young companions present, village maidens,' robed in wbite, whose silvery voices joined in a simple funeral song. But, oh! how those voices watered, trembled, until tears and sobs choked out their music; and one mournful, heartrending wail, sounded through the room. At last the hoary-headed man of God arose to pray. Never heard I a petition so mourn- fully tender, so simple, so powerful. llow gently he spoke of her youth and goodness; g the circumstances under which God was pleased to call her, just as it were, standing on the threshold of her happy life, and looking towards the rose-coloured future! I still kept my place at the head of the ccllin. My eyes, full of tears now, never once moved from that holy face. Was it fancy? I thought the dear features grew dim. My sight was failing, or—I bent close to the corpse; I drew back, wiped my eyeg, looked again. God of mercy God of compassion what sent a wild shock through my frame, and struck my brain as with a wand of lire ? I reeled. I fell almost upon the coinn. There was a moisture on the glass—moisture that, when I applied my sleeve, would not come off—moisture upon the inside of the glass. As was customary, every face was bowed towards the earth in prayer. What must I do ? There were fear- ful risks to run. My knees trembled and knocked together my heart beat against my side till my body rocked like a pendulum. The voice of the pastor whistled in my ear. Each moment was an hour; and yet—the conflict—the horrible temptation warring with my better nature came again. It was awful !—awful! if i kept my silence she was still the bride of death: and as much mine as another's. If I spoke she was again the wife of my rival! I dare not recall some of my emotions now. I could not have been myself when that fiend- ish temptation beset me, and whispered me to let the dark grave claim her, if I might not. The perspiration welled up from every pore, but the agony was passed, I could have throttled the old pastor that he did not cease, yet I feared for the life of the poor husband should he know the truth too suddenly. There was a tingling from my head to my fingers' ends. I shook like an aspen leaf. Amen Oh, how I thanked God for that sound! I clung to the coffin for one moment, weak and helpless as an infant. The chief mourners were called first, that they might be spared the shock of beholding the dear one borne out before their eye:. '1 he poor husband tottered out, supported on each side. What were my feelings as he passed me! Next moment the sobbing mother. i\*ow was my time. Quick friends f neighbours I gasped call the sexton in Now; fhan, off with the coffin-lid! For God's sake, delay not! She is not dead j I rather shrieked than said the last words. The change that came over that assembly Many swooned awav-a crowd rushed to the coffin—I pressed them back—the hand of the undertaker trembled—screw after screw fell I rattling to the floor—my heart beat dull j and heavy with the excitement of hope and j fear. The coffin top was thrown aside. In my I arms I bore the fair creature to a couch.' As; I returned for a moment, I saw her only 8ister-a girl of sixteen—standing as if riveted to the floor, her cheeks hollow and ghastly, her eyesiixed and frightfully glaring. I seized her by the arm, but she stirred not. I shook her rudely, saying: Unless you help me, Marie, she will really die. Quick: come, cut off her grave clothes She must not see them-must never know of this p The girl sighed, sh Terrd-then, with a wild, unnatural burst of laughter, roused her- self from her stupor. Then, as suddenly, a flood of tears came to her relief. All was right now. She followed me into the next room, untied the white satin ribbon that con- fined the delicate wrists, unloosed the iiiien bands on her breast, so that by the time the young bride opened her eyes she was lying as if she bad sought her bed for pleasant; slumber. And now, the most terrible excitement over I breathed freely. And yet another important task remained to be accomplished. Hy my orders the poor husband bad been briefly in-j formed that the ceremony would be detained for a moment. lie was so distracted with his grief that all news was alike to him. They led him where they liked. He sat in a little voom just across the entry so deadened were all his senses he had not heard the confusion, II went in, closed the door, and stood! beside him. lie glanced up but once, then buried his face in his hands with an unearthly moan that went to my very soul. Oh, such joy, such pure, exquisite ]oy as flooded my whole being as 1 fc:t what a heaven I should soon awake him to Only angels can tell how sweet it is to bring blessings to the way- worn and hope to the desponding. j Frederick," 81\id II placing my arm around his neck, my Jeer fellow." Don't try to comfort me, doctor," his broken voice responded; my heart is torn up by the roots." What should I next say? A thought oc- cnrred to me. j "Do you remember what Christ said about I the little maidF 'She is not dead, but sleepeth.' My. peculiar accent, my intonation, struck him instantly. lie shook suddenly, and raised his trembling hands, while a strange expres- sion shot over his face. There were tears in my eyes, but I smiled broad through them at; the same time. I tried to command my roice as I stammered, Did you—did you ever hear of people falling into tranoes ?—and lie sprang to his feet, clinched my hands. breathed hard through his shut teeth, His eyes glittered. "Whatf he cried, comprehending the hopeful faces looking 111 upon us; "dead;"— in a trance?—laid out?—buried P—alive—: alive!—Great God! Do you tell me she lives?—my May ?—who gasped in my arms ? —lay cold on this bosom ? Ob. have mercy .doll't mock me lie staggered against me, almost helpless. Frederick," I cried, tears raining down my cheeks, she lives! she lives! your precious May is saved 1" Another second, and I was in his arms, he dancing deliriously round with me. God bless you God bless you he cried. Oh, it is too beautiful, too good My dear I God I how I thank thee And he lifted his streaming eyes heavenward. Let me see her," be continued, looking my arm in his. I will be calm—very calm. And, doctor," he exclaimed, if at any time my life will bay yov a precioua boon, it is yours." He did not dream, poor fellow, that he had been my rival. The mother h«ng over her ohild—the bus- band bent over his bride, full of thanksgiving. She, with her large blue eyes moving languidly but fondly from one to the other, whispered: I am better, stronger. I shall soon be well again. I have been ill 10 long I" Frederiok kissed her white brow in reply aad imothered Uii »o!>i ui tbe pillow, And then I left them, a happier I)eitim --a be-Her. I man! May and her husband still live, a fonii beautiful pair, even now. I am an old bachelor; but have satisfaction of knowing I rescued her I loved from the grave \—Ecea '<ag World. —

"THE HEAD-WRITER." It was early in the morning when I hearth great puffing and blowing on the stairs, and pretty soon footsteps sounded in the hall, and a woman's voice said Now, John Quincy, you want to look IJ smart as you can The next moment the door opened, and a big fat woman and a small thin boy came into the room. She gave her dress a shake, snatched the boy's hat off, and then, looking at me, she inquired: Is the head-waiter in P" "lie is, madam." I replied. Be you him r'' she asked, I noddi-d. "Oh dear! she exclaimed, as she satdoWtl on a chair and fanned herself with her hand* kerchief, I like to have never got up" stairs." I smiled aud nodded. You see that boy tharshe inquired aftel" a while. Ii Your son. I suppose," I answered rice. looking lad." Yes, he's smart as a fox. There isn't a [thing he don't know. Why, he isn't but eight, and he composeys poetry, writes letters, and plays tunes on the fiddle II You ought to be proud of him," I said. Ii Wall, we kinder hope he'll turn out well, she answered. "Come up here, John Quiucy, and speak that piece about that boy that gtood on the busted deck." "1 won't I" replied the boy in a positi^s tone, He's a little bashful you see," giving m* an apologeiical smile. lie's rid fourteen miles this morning, and he doesn't feel well anyhow; 1 shouldn't wonder it he was troubled with worums." ""Worms be blowed replied John Quiucyi chewing away at his bat. He's awful 3keared when he's among strangers," she went on, "but he'll git over lit in a short time. What I cum in for will to see if you wouldn't take him and maks head writer of him. I don't want to be a darned old bald- headed head writer t" said John Quiiic/i picking his teeth with my scissors. "The young never knows what's good ror em," she went on. lie wants to be preacher, or a great lawyer, or a big doctor, but he seems to take to writing, and thought we'd make a head writer of him. I don't s' pose he'd earn over live or six dolIarll and board a week for the first year, but Yv* been told that Geu'ral Jackson didn't get half that when he begun." '•Madam, I commenced, as she stopped for breath, I'd like to take the boy. He loohi as smart as a steel trap, and no doubt he'll turfl out a great man." Then you'll take him P" If you agree as to the teriiis." What is them ter-ums P" You see my left eye is out r" Yes." Well, your son can never become a great writer unless you put his left eye out. If yoO will think back you will remember that yotf never saw a great writer whose left eye was not out. This is a matter of economy, & one eyed writer only needs half as much light a" a man with two eyes, and he isn't half SO apt to discover hair-pifis in his butter and buttons in his oyster soup. The best way to pu|J his eye out is to jab a red-hot needle into it. Good gracious! she exclaimed. And you observe that I am,bald-headed? Y oa may think that my baldness results front scalp disease, but such is not the case. Whe," a head-writer is bothered to get an idea he scratches his head. Scratching the hair. wouldn't do any good; it's the scalp he must agitate. The hair is, therefore, pulled ou* with a pair of pincers, in order that a can get right down to the scalp at once, and save time." Can that be possible P All this is strictly true, madam. You also observe that one of my legs is shorter tblØ. the other. Without an explanation on tof part you would attribute this to some acci- dent. Such is not the case. Every head writer is located in the fourth story of th* office and his left leg is shortened three inches to enable him to run up and dowtl stairs. You will have to have a doctor un. joint your son's leg at the hip, saw it off the proper length, and then hook it back ill its place." Did I ever hear the likes!" she exclaimed. And you also observe, madam, that two of my front teeth are gone. You miltht think they decayed, but such was not tW case. They were knocked out with a crowbar in order to enable m. to spit ten feet' According to a law enacted at the last session of Congress any head writer who can't spit ten feet is not entitled to receive Congres- sional reports free of postage." Can it be so she said, her eyes growing larger every moment. And you notice my corpulent build ?" 1 went on; "yon might think this the result of high living, but it is not. livery head writer of any prominence has one of these biff stomachs on him. They are members of secret society, and they tell each other outside of the lodge-rcom in this way I am naturally very tall and thin, but I had to conform to the rules. They cut a hole in my chest and filled me out with shilling in di-Y Indian meal. It took two bKshfta and a perk, and then it. lacked a little and they had to fill up witlJ oatmeal, Now, then, madam, you see what your sou must go through with, and I you to judge whether you will have him left! the head writer's trade or not. I like tbe looks of the boy very much, and if you desirØ to- I guess ivet tf/o /<«■>»!" sbe exclaimed, lift' ing herself off the chair. <;1 kinder wauj him to be a head writer, and yet 1 think ought to have a little mora talk with his father, who wants him to git to be boss iu saw-mill, I'm 'bleged to you, and if we con. clade to have bim-" Yes,bring him right in, day, or night. TtK first thing will be to unhinge his left let,, and But they were out in the hall, and 1 hearl Jofcn Quincy remark: Head writer be blowed

She: Who's is oo ? He Oors. She I,'ot ever and ever and ever f" He: Ess, I i* She: Has oo dut five pounds for oor babff dear?" II« Thunder J no, Melinda, ThinJ* v I'm no ads of money, don't you ? Drunkenness Cured.—A Wealthy Lady, whose only son for years was a glare Intemperance, Nervous Depression, and Vitality, after seeking in vain for a cure, a tryitg all known remedies, at last found a simpto means that cured and saved him from a drunkatët" grare. AnTone suffering or desiring to help oth«*{-1 ia this worthy cause, by sending (t eetf-address f stamped eavelops to Mr. James Holland, 25, Jlar!í' t street, High Holborr, Loidon, will receive tlilo f iaformatioa kta ef charge. Mention thiMfec £ r' raise Liver Comoaints.—Dr. Kiag's Dandelion,. a»f Quinine Liver RH», without Mereurj, are a pewfe remedy; remo*# *11 ;Li7er and Stomach Oompleifli Biiietiioeo. He«**ebe, Sicricneu. «U»ul4er Fsint Hes* bUTtb %052& •