แ

And Madam Y said she was always so,~

But then folks will make up reports, you know.

"However, I should think that might be true,

But I don't know-and so I would n't let it

Go further." "No," said Madam W.

She's promised, but she'll easily forget it; But if she tells, it will make mischief-fudge it Is the very beauty of a budget.

So she walks out to call on Mrs. U.

"And now I think of it, pray did you hear That Madam Z gets drunk?"

Why, no; it's new Indeed! Well, I do really fear

To me."
She'll not get over it.

She gets dead drunk!” A mustard seed will swell to a huge chunk

If handled freely by a tattler's tongue;

And barrel'd water can't more freely run When you have turned it down and pulled the bung, Than secret scandal: and indeed the fun

Is not in having secrets, but it is

In telling secrets, that's the tattler's bliss.

Next, Madam U went out a-shopping, and she
Just dropped in to call on Madam V-
Talked over matters as they came in hand,

And soon inquired, "Did you know Madam Z
Gets clear dead drunk, and that too every day?
You don't believe it! Why, yes-so they say."
But both believed it long before the call

Was finish'd. Thus a story runs and grows And gathers size and weight, just like a ball Of snow; and all the while there's no one knows Just how it is. This tale's an illustration.

Th' amount of Madam Z's intoxication

Was that she now and then did take a little,
A very little, for her head was shallow,
(Rare thing in a tattler!) and the smallest tittle
Would set it swimming-even a moderate swallow.
A "friend" once caught her in the very act,
And in a week it got to be a 'fact"

(I. e., a current falsehood) through the town
That Madam did get drunk every day!
Good Christians would assert it up and down;
Ask them their reason for 't-"Why, so they say."

CLXXVIII.—THE CHAMPION SNORER.

It was the Cedar Rapids sleeper. Outside it was as dark as the inside of an ink-bottle. In the sleeping-car people slept. Or tried it.

Some of them slept like Christian men and women, peacefully, sweetly, and quietly.

Others slept like demons, malignantly, hideously, fiendishly, as though it was their mission to keep every body else awake.

Of these the man in lower number three was the worst.

We never heard any thing snore like him. It was the most systematic snoring that was ever done, even on one of these tournaments of snoring, a sleeping-car. He didn't begin as soon as the lamps were turned down and every body was in bed. Oh, no! There was more cold-blooded diabolism in his system than that. He waited until every body had had a taste of sleep, just to see how nice and pleasant it was; and then he broke in on their slumbers like a winged, breathing demon, and they never knew what peace was again that night.

He started out with a terrific

"Gu-r-r-rt!"

that opened every eye in the car. We all hoped it was an accident, however; and trusting that he would n't do it again, we all forgave him. Then he blasted our hopes and curdled the sweet serenity of our forgiveness by a longdrawn

"Gw-a-h-h-hah!"

that sounded too much like business to be accidental. Then

every head in that sleepless sleeper was held off the pillow for a minute, waiting in breathless suspensé to hear the worst; and the sleeper in "lower three" went on in longdrawn, regular cadences that indicated good staying qualities,

"Gwa-a-a-h! Gwa-a-a-a-h! Gahwayway! Gahway wah! Gahwa-a-ah!"

Evidently it was going to last all night; and the weary heads dropped back on the sleepless pillows, and the swearing began. It mumbled along in low, muttering tones, like the distant echoes of a profane thunder-storm. Pretty soon "lower three" gave us a little variation. He shot off

a spiteful

"Gwook!"

which sounded as though his nose had got mad at him and was going to strike. Then there was a pause, and we began to hope he had either awakened from sleep or strangled to death-nobody cared very particularly which. But he disappointed every body with a guttural

"Gurroch!"

Then he paused again for breath; and when he had accumulated enough for his purpose he resumed business with a stentorious

"Kowpff!"

Then he went on

that nearly shot the roof off the car. playing such fantastic tricks with his nose, and breathing things that would make the immortal gods weep, if they did but hear him. It seemed an utter, preposterous impossibility that any human being could make the monstrous, hideous noises with its breathing machine that the fellow in "lower three" was making with his. He then ran through all the ranges of the nasal gamut; he went up and down a very chromatic scale of snores; he ran through intricate and fearful variations until it seemed that his nose must be out of joint in a thousand places. All the night and all the day through he told his story;

"Gawoh! gurrah! gu-r-r-r! Kowpff! Gawaw-wah! gawahhah! gwock! gwart! gwah-h-h-h woof!"

Just as the other passengers had consulted together how they might slay him, morning dawned, and "lower number three" awoke. Every body watched the curtain to see what manner of man it was that made the sleeping-car a pandemonium. Presently the toilet was completed, the curtains parted, and "lower number three" stood revealed.

Great heavens!

It was a fair young girl, with golden hair and timid, pleading eyes, like a hunted fawn.

-Burlington Hawkeye.

CLXXIX. THE DEACON'S STORY.

THE solemn old bells in the steeple
Are ringin'. I guess you know why!
No? Well, then, I'll tell you, though mostly
It's whispered about on the sly.
Some six weeks ago, a church meetin'
Was called-for-nobody knew what;
But we went, and the parson was present,
And I don't know who, or who not.

Some twenty odd members, I calc'late,
Which mostly was women, of course;
Though I don't mean to say aught ag'in' 'em,
I've seen many gatherin's worse.

There, in the front row, sat the deacons,
The eldest was old Deacon Pryor;
A man countin' four-score-and-seven;
And gin'rally full of his ire.

Beside him, his wife, countin' four-score,
A kind-hearted, motherly soul;
And next to her, young Deacon Hartley,
A good Christian man on the whole.

Miss Parsons, a spinster of fifty,

And long ago laid on the shelf,

Had wedged herself next; and, beside her,
Was Deacon Munroe-that's myself.

The meetin' was soon called to order,
The parson looked glum as a text;
We gazed at each other in silence,

And silently wondered "What next?"
Then slowly uprose Deacon Hartley;

His voice seemed to tremble with fear, As he said: "Boy and man you have known me, My good friends, for nigh forty year.

"And you scarce may expect a confession
Of error from me; but-you know,
My dearly loved wife died last Christmas,
It's now nearly ten months ago.
The winter went by long and lonely,
The spring hurried forward apace;
The farm-work came on, and I needed
A woman about the old place.

"The children were wilder than rabbits,
And still growing worse every day;
No help to be found in the village,
Although I was willing to pay.
In fact, I was nigh 'bout discouraged
For every thing looked so forlorn;
When good little Patience McAlpin
Skipped into our kitchen one morn.

"She had only run in of an errand;
But she laughed at our miserable plight,
And set to work, jist like a woman,
A-putting the whole place to right.
And though her own folks was so busy,
And illy her helpin' could spare,
She flit in and out like a sparrow,

And most every day she was there.