THE OLD ATTIC ROOM. I remember the dear old attic room, ‘Where I slept when a little boy, In the farmhouse over beside the hill, When life was a perfect joy. I remember the chairs so old and quaint, And the bed whereon I slept, And the chest of drawers beside the door, Where the apples were always kept. 1 remember well how the early sun Through the window small would stray, And how the bird in the tree outside Would warble his morning lay. And bow my mother's “Time to get up!” On my heedless ear would fall, And the unpretentious print that hung 80 orooked!y on the wall, I remember the ceiling, cracked and low, Where the bunches of peppers hung, And the old green curtain suat wouldn't roll up, But in every wild breeze swung. I remember the barrels with stovepipes filied, And various other things, And the memory of this dear old room Remembrance also brings Of the nights I had of innocent rest, What wouldn't I give to be Again in those rosy, boy hood dreams A wanderer, happy and free? And on its carpetiess floor to romp, A merry and boisterous boy, And see my little sister pinay With her latest painted toy? The room was not fair to look But to me "twas a jolly nest, Ah, that now as then I could lay me down, | Its tired and willing guest, And dream the dreams that then 1 dreamt, In the nights so cool and still, On the homely bed in that attic room In the farm-house by the hill! upon, A HOSPITAL ROMANCE. It 18 the height of the London season, we are in the thick of it—at least, as far as we can well manage to push our- selves. That is to say, we have taken a house in a good neighborhood, and have induced a titled country acquaint- ance to introduce usat court, and then to appear at our over-crowded receptions i for a few minutes, on her way to some | more fashionable entertainment; for there is no doubt about it—we are not in the highest circle, our friends are not the creme, though very charning a.u well-connected in their Way. Aunt has managed, indeed, lately, to add to ber visiting list a baronet, two countesses, and a marquis, in addition 1 to the {1 The baronet is rather weak and silly, but is, 1 believe, sans reproche, is not king, and has a good property rarded as the treasure trove ol cousin Louise. The ather out-at-the-elbows, and is a little doubtful. The marquis is better known at Newmarkel than at St. James’, is rather shaky u the mornice after a fashion which potations over night, and RE or less coun $3 . Ladin } 1% sugrestive of bis | 18 more wit But and pains taken to secn and tl i t garnished 1S & marquis, 8 80OCH then he i 3 60 YW Coun a tier cause ent, and talk cratic colerie is happy state o© 11 bas fallen, I am ill ¢, having been called in, pro- s t§e ailment scarlet fever, (othibg to be alarmed about, my madam,” he says blandly, “‘only it utdack; we shall have the young lady around in no time;” ard with #4 | kindly smile he goes away. “Nothing to be alarmed about! cries my sunt hysterically, regardiess o my feverish state. When this horrid fever will spread through the house, and we shall be tabooed ever so long when will quite spoil Louise’s pros. | pects—for Sir Robert was going Lo pro- pose— 1 know he was—and now he will not sae her for months!”’ ““He is not worth regretting.” I ven- ture, “if he could forget her in so short atime." “You know nothing about it chuld!” | sobs my aunt, ‘These people of rank have 30 many temptations, 1 have tried so ha: make up a nice little circle, | and, now that I have done 80, it is too bad to have everything spoiled, 1 must say it is very inconsiderate of you, Rose, I shall you a nurse, but I cannot | risk the precious health of my childrer by going in and out to see you myself.” | So she too takes her departure, and |] am ieft the gut-at ¢ i rot t wis in bed. What ami i how endu this trouble? 1 have no home, poor litttle desolate waif that I am! I have been my aunt's ward | until within the last few months, when, | being eighteen, 1 ceased, by the terms | of my father’s will, to bea minor, I] am not voor in money, for I have five | hundred a year; but, oh, how poor 1 am | in that love which makes earth’s true | riches! Would that I might die, and lie | down by my dead mother's side, and | trouble no one any longer! i Suddenly a bright thought flashes | through my brain. When we first came | to town, the housemaid had the mea- | sles, and was sent to the fever hospital, Why shonid I not go there—not a ward, of course, but a privateroom? No soon- er thought than acted on. [1 seribble a | hasty note, ring the bell, and ask the servant who answers, to take it at once to Dr. Trail, He is fortunately at | home, and comes immedigtely. “What is it, my dear?” inquires the old gentleman, very kindly. “Not worse, 1 hope?’ “Oh, no, but 1 want you to help me." He looks surprised. “You must see that I am in the way here,”” 1 continue hurriedly, ‘‘that my aunt is afraid I shall infect the house- hold, or, at any rate, shut her out from society, It is not my fault!” And I in to sob. “‘My dear, my dear,” and the kindly old face smiles down on me as I fancy my father's might have done-~the father, whom, save in my dreams, 1 never saw "you must not fret. These things are ruled by a Higher Power, Our part is to suffer with patience and with hope.” “1 want to go to the fever hospital Doctor. Could you not manage it tor | me? Telegraph or something -please | do! I shall go mad if 1 #tay neve!” i **But what will your aunt say? Have | you consulted her?”’ “Oh, no; she will pretend to be an- | noyed; but she will be glad—I know she will. And, Daetor, p send the ambulance,” I continued, “No, no,” he answers; *sha’n’t want You ean My carriage is at the that in your present stage, infect nobody. door, to help you dress, and put up a few I shall drive in the meantime to nearest post oflice, send the telegram, and come back and take you myself,” I know that he can ill spare the time ~time that means money-—and I am room, side and that I must go into a ward. “Have yeu no room on the side in which she could go?" “I do not like putting ladies but if you wish it-—-—"' “I do wish it. This young there; the other plan, at all.” And so I am half led, half earried passages, up a fight of stairs, and deposited in a chambel where a fire is burning brightly. “This room was intended for another him.” I am soon in bed. Dr. Traill comes to say good-bye promising to see me I ery and laugh by turns, now over- I am have lie till I am weary of the wooden wainscoting, the pale blue painted walls, To relieve nurses; if one has any latent love of man has not?—life in a hospital will develop it. “Who are my fellow sufferers? W vy Lal 80 I inquire, and learn that the Lwo one student at King's } College, the other a sch thay RY » Lhe y hale health, 88 caused itirely to disfigure ston of my mind, » romance of eigh- takes my fancy, and ver, have been able ¢ He hol § DAaine redness long to see him, ten for the faint sounds of his voice, wind, when Dr. Br has been in the Zulu that 4 owne tells me that ne campaign, he has been wounded there, It f him as a hero, I long, as 1 say, to see him, I do so ng, all too soon. The evening of the second looks sad and worried, for the school boy down stairs is very ll indead, can scarcely leave him, ans Major McDonald 18 restless and uneasy. After a time, 1 fall into a doze—how but, when I awake, 1 Some one is sitting by 18 blazicg brightly, and turned full on. The figure she the gas is moves; il istening, the steel, involunta ily i slightly, and he starts to Lis feet. What Even though disfigured now, with unshorn beard and the redness of fever, the expression was a brave and a good one. Delirium gleams in his eves, snd gives strength to his uplifted arm, which grasps the knife, “Alone, alone,’ he mutters, “amongst fendish Zulus, and my sword broke#n: but 1 shall not die unavenged!™ He springs to my bedside, his arm raised above me, and the ernel steel glittering in the an They tell me that heaven my coutage now, or hia life m undying regret! I speak softly: “Major McDonald!” “Who calla?’ he cries, **That is an English voice! Is there any one here in distress?’ “Yes,” I answer. wounded, 1 am Thank fail me | ain brave, does not “I am very ill— not a Zulu, but an He takes my hand in his, and looks at it tenderly. “How small and delicate,” he says, “You must be very young. * Only a not, we can die together, Here is the foe mn full force!" —and he stands near the door, with his head thrown back, hisarm upraised to strike, I know who is about to enter—-it is the head night nurse, who has heard the noise in my room, and is coming up —and unless 1 can turn him away, her fate is sealed, for he has In him, for the time being the strength of twenty men. I call out feebly: “You are wrong! That is the ambu- lance nurse; you would not harm her! There is the foel” and I point to the corner where my gown 18 lying, pre. senting somewhat the shape of a human figure, He dashes at it with a deep, vengeful ery, and the knife pierces it with such force that it snaps in two, leaving the point buriedjin ‘he wood-work beneath, The head night nurse now enters, a sweet-faced woman with golden hair, Dear nurie cruel koife did not seek ner heart’ mind. He passes his hand qver his brow, and looks bewildered. His Spreng seems to fail, and he murmurs: “1 fear 1 have “ fool of myself. I thought I was in Africa, 1 am sorry and he turns away dejectedly. The next day | am worse—-more fo- verish—and Major MeDonald is beyond measure distressed, He recollects the [ contrition sends out for a bouquet, which the nurse brings me, with his compliments—also a tiny note, feebly | written, imploring me to forgive him, and to send himgZeven a leaf in ! thereof. 1 select a rose bud, will think no more about it, Evening comes; and cheered by the doetor’s assertion that nothing of the | pight nurse has been assigned to Major McDonald, I compose myself, and look- ing at my sweet flowers to the last, I thing. awake the freshed, I do not see Major McDonald for | three weeks: nor do I hear much about { him, as, soon after, a private room on next morning tor, do I hear any news of him, given him, 1 that when I am in my coffin it {aid upon my breast. When next we meet, I am sitting in the garden, wrapped in shawls and oaks, looking, I doubt not, a very fra- gile and insignificant piece of humanity. | The resident medical offcer comes for- will | broad shouldered, who, though weak be the id=al of a soldier and a hero, Browne lutroduces him “Major McDonald -~Miss Rose Mor- ley. does not look much like a Zulu chieftain to-day, doeashe Major?" The young doctor laughs and chats, for a few moments, and then strolls | away towards the men’s convalescent ward. Major McDonald who was sit- ting beside me, now bends forward, “Miss Morley,” he says earnestly, **I have to thank you deeply for the cour- age which saved me from taking either your life or the nurse’s, or both. I do not ask your pardon, fer I have it here;"’ and he touches his breast, What does be mean? Is my rosebud { next to his heart, as his is next to mine? It cannot be. I am only a silly girl of eighteen, and he 1s thirty-six, and a gallant soldier above all such sentiment. I blush and falter stupid, and we enter into conversation, How different it is from the twad ise's silly baronet, and “horsy” marsuis! I hive from which ti nurse's rouse hat tea is ready. i or Ho She sone I me Lo say t McDonald yt nexy, wre of Major he next and the TP ‘} Seal, Wich, worm-eaten and brit- at day; but on t beside though somewhat me on the + 3 Lie, seems Lo me, rious enough to be a rest How 1 hate since he is ther ing-place for wel day thn alter a few , to go back to so-called pleasure, in my room one wet day. “No visitors," tl 1 ng in—‘‘not even Dr. Trail? not so well off as the major Mrs. McDonald with lnm,’ A great surging comes into my head, a blindness comes before my eyes, “Mra McDonald!" 1 say in surprise. There is a mischievous twinkle in the doctor's eyes, “She is a beautiful woman,’'’ he says; “and it 1s only natural soe should come WerKs 3 the says r, Coin- Y ou are He has “Oh, yes!" and 1 laugh idiotically and talk so gaily that the doctor stays for what seems to me hours, ‘*Will he never go?’ I ask myself, He rises at last runs down the stairs, and I hear him whistling "Nancy Lee’ a8 he crosses the low corridor. 1 rise and look out of the window. The rain has ceassxi: but evervihing looks damp and dreary. I call myself ugly names “Fool, idiot, weak, coutemptible, mean-spirited wretch, to love a man whom [ have only known a fortnight just fifteen days! No, I don’t love him,” I say fiercely. ‘It is only a fancy which will pass away when | leave this place, and have other things to cocupy me.” Aud yet, and yet 1 know its no fancy, but the love which can never pass away while earth shall hold me. And he-—-he nas no right to act as he did, since he was a married man. He even told the doctor he was single, and the nurse said it was on the bosrd containing his de scription. True, I was a fool! I tooka him: but it was only fancy, and he fan- ned it inte love, His voice softened when he spoke to me, his eyes lighted when he looked at me. Oh, cruel, cruéll Well, I shall despise him; and 1 take flerce pleasure in thinking how I shall show him that I do. It is fine the next day, and I go out in the afternoon. I resolve to be dig- nified—at least, so {ar as my five feel ter down the walk, slowly and with my head in the air. It is all thrown away ing my contempt for him, my silly heart sinks, At last he comes striding down the path, with eager eyes and oul stretched hands, “I am glad to see you again,’ he says warmly, “How dull you must have been yesterda: “Oh, not atall!” I answered frigidly. “Doctor Brown sat with me for a long time, and was so agreeable” this with empressement., iis face falls, “Iam glad,” he says; but somehow he does not look so, *‘l had a very wel- come visitor, who stayed nearly all day;"’ and he smiles, “Yes; I heard your wife was with you,” He flushes, and looks bewildered, 1 suppose he is surprised that I have dis- covernd his treachery, “Was it not pleasant to see my wife?” and laugh as he says it, “It is ob "1 say SOL on ie she allowed you to be brought and never came to see you before, ’’ “B ut “ ory,” he answers > yon see she a it was remiss on her part—very. You would not act so, would you?’’—and he smiles down oun me. 1s he enjoying my misery?’ Hateful idea, “On, I don’t know!" I answer reck- lessly. ‘‘1 dare say I should be very glad to get him out of the way fora time,” A pained look comes into his face, “You don’t mean it?” he says ear- nestly. “You are not a ‘girl of the period’—1 cannot believe 1t,”’ “Yes, I am,” 1 cry fiercely, “I could not care for any one much-—un- sacasset. I don’t believe m sentiment,” We walk on in silence, and sit down At last he asks; “Where do you go when you leave “I don’t know,” I say drearily. “My some place,” “She will go with you?” “No, 1 shall have only a wald.” “(zo alone? How old are you? Oh, excuse my rudeness, mere child!” A child! Is that how he regards me? as possible, “] am eighteen years, four months, with crushing dignity. “And how many hours?” with a twinkle in his eye. I feel inclined to cry, and my lips pout; he is making fun of me. He rises, he “1 expect a visitor again to-day. Will you excuse me?” Then, seeing the cloud still on my face, he lays his hand for one moment on mine, ‘Forgive ‘little’ — I cannot quite catch the last but it sounds like ‘*darling,”’ foolish heart throbs, I ought angry; but I am not, His made me glow with momenta ness, Half an hour comes again, accompanied by a lady. I can not see her face; but she has a noble air and a queenly tread, They come nearer. Yes, she is, as Dr, Brown said, beautiful, notwithstanding her sixty years, her snow-white hair--the most beautiful woman I have ever seen. jut she is not Major McDonald's wife; her years, her striking likeness to him, he sald: word; and my to be has happi- iM h i passes and bearing, 'r 48 he speaks name, takss both my and looks at me |} ngly, Did 1 MeDounold should i All Cas the my hands, ts on her, key of her parently the scr SHe Araws LO her, you leave here.” “Yesn' 1 answer afraid to have ma.” “I have a better plan propose. I want you to come with us to Dinard, where we are going for change of air for my son.” How fondly and proudly she says ‘‘my son.” *'i think 1 have a little claim on you, my dear, for 1 believe 1 was at school with your grandfather—at least, a schoolfel- low of mire—Rose Dalrymple—married a Mr. Morley. [ was one of her brides. maids.’ “My grandmother's name was Dalry- mple,” 1 answer eagerly. “Ah, I thought so! But, after 1 mar- ried, we Jost sight of each other, as 1 went out tolndia. Iam giad to see you, my dear; it reminds me ot youth, and you have a look of Rose about your eyes, | shall write to your aunt about your visit to us,” than that to to leave, and her son escorts her as far me. “How beautiful she is,” I cry enthu- siastically, and how kind!" Then with forced guletv, I add, “We shall be a nice little partic cares —yon, your wife, your mother, and L*’ “1 am not married, he answers gravely. foolish jest; though Miss Morley.” “It was only a the young lady trust, be one of our party.” Worse and worse! The quiet affec- been endurable; but the fooling of be- trothed lovers would drive me He looked at me long and meaningly. heart is not his to bestow? Without doubt it is 50; and yet 1 cannot refuse to go with them. Iam powerless. | am the steel, he the magnet; and 1 can- not-—cannot tear myself away. My aunt is only too glad to get nd of me, So in ten days’ time 1 am at Dinard with my new friends. Mrs, McDonald, who is not very strong, sits a good deal on the beach of the French bathing-place, and sends her son and myself for a daily walk. We ramble cliffs, but, though three weeks pass [ am bhappy-—wildly, childisuly, frantic. ally happy. It is bliss to me tO hear his voice, to see his face, to walk by his side; the mere touch of his hand as he helps me over a rough piece of ground sends a thrill of rapture through me, “I have heard from Anna,” Mrs, McDonald, one morning to her gon. “She can come Lo us soon,” “Ah, that is pleasant ’ he answers, with a beaming face, and, turning, to me, explains, ‘Anna is my mother’s and my favorite cousin, one of the best women the world holds.”’ “Here she 18 at last!’ I moan to my- self. *‘I cannot bear it; 1 must go home. I shall just wait to see her, and then go. Aunt Margaret cannot be afraid of me now." Major MeDon+ld and I take our walk almost in silence to-day. 1am nervous, distraite; fool that I am, I cannot over. come my feelings! What must he think of me? hut we url 1s Shuts Hime. © agrees; but, Ins of going 4 stand facing seawards, I look up last and meet his eyes, which have expression in them which has often been there of late. I tremble, flush, look down, and say, in my nervousness, just what I ought not. “When is your flancee coming?” 1 ask, with a forced laugh which sinks into a feeble giggle, whilst I dig holes into the ground with my parasol. “My flanceel” he says, in amazement. “Yes, Anna,” I answer, “Are you not engaged to her? You told me the young lady who was to be your wife would be with you abroad.” “Anna is fifty-five,” he says, laugh- ing gaily. *I call her my second mother, for I was sent home to her from India when I was achild, And the young lady I hope to ake my wife is with my mother and me now, Good heaven! what a child you are to have misunderstood me.” And then there is silence. I have dug a hole deep epough for a robin’s blank “Rose —the voice is low and thrill- I am neither rich nor His eyes are full of intense longing, Perhaps it would be more maidenly, more dignified to hold back coyly; but I don’t—I simply fly into with unseemly haste, He ses nothing wrong about it, however, for bolds me close to his breast, as “My own he love—my darling!" Ah, how good, how precious it 1s to far back in my desolate childhood, when ’ eaus—————— fl —— Wile Seiitng in Esginnd. I'be custom of selling and purchasing wives in England certainly can claim a laws If a freeman took was to o buy another bly is based upon the ancient pay his full weregeld, t wife for the injured husband, and de- In the reign of Canute the law received some modifica tion—no guardian could compel the money paid for her was to be a vol- untary gift, and not a compulsory pay- ment, t is not unnatural to that the commodity thus money was transferable to similar cons become Suppose another fora deration whenever it may useless or disagreeable to its original purchaser. It seems, howeve ot impossible that the commencement a custom would be found even antecedent, wh women guilt) faithfulness were either put to or sold as » value of a wife yostly held in light i Gloucester 1 for half t slaves, have for by a it to esteem, market a Crown, an ¢ purchaser frequent- himself “bar pomercial sense he be jubilant the i in anew white bonnet ornament iuded, ion for his % charms. BLISS on nis “@ CO 18LA ind ler in the her instance of ioral degredation was furnished by the of Dudley, where hundreds of were assembled in Hall one evening to attend a wife sale, § first town people glreet The bid was three halfpence, and ulti Her husband in his ignorance, thought that after the ceremony had been repeated three times she actually had no claim upon him. In 1861 a wife was sold at Sheffield for the paltry consideration of a quart of beer, and in 1862 asiumilar purchase was made at Selby market cross at the cost of only one-half that amount, merely a pint of beer, which was thought suffi- The tariff would seem to be on a in the century, for a case occurs, re- corded by the South Wales Daily News, May 1882, at Alfreton, where a woman was sold by her husband fer a still lower valuation in a public house. The modus operandi had the charm of simplicity, in a room full of men Le of- fered to sell her for a glass of ale, and the offer being accepted by a young man she readily agreed, took off her wedding ring, and from that time considered herself the property of the purchaser, A ay i —— A Modest Domestic, —————————————— Mrs, Sam Smart advertised for a col- ored servant. An elegantly dressed colored lady put in an appearance. She wanted fifteen dollars a month in ad- where she could receive the visits of was to be allowed to attend church day Sunday and twice during the week. This and several other conces- is fanatically opposed to doing any hard work herself, and who will put up with everything from a servant rather than soil her precious hands. “And I wants hit understood about ial, **I likes to eat hearty. We has to ham or tongue about ten o'clock, so | I don’t takes coffees with my dinner. De coffee and cakes comes about half-past five o'clock in the afternoon, which wiil make me hold out till tea at six. De best time for supper am about eight o'clock. Good supper | wants,” “I say,” said Smart, who had boss d atoning atten tively with grows ng on; “suppose we keep you b all the time, how much more will you charge by the month?" AAAI — a inion or JANG Mago Bape od 1m Swaden to paper the half decomposed moss which has soonmulgied in many places in Norway and Sweden to a thickness of a foot or more, The substance may be pressed into boards, which bave the desirable qualities of wood without such defects as warping and splivting, Mark Twain at Work. Mr, Clemeus divides his year into two parts, which are not exactly for work snd play respectively, but which differ very much in the nature of their cooun- pations, From the first of June to the middle of Beptember the whole family, consisting of Mr, snd Mrs, Clemens and their three little girls, are at Elmira, N. Y. They live there with Mr. T. W, Crane, whose wile is a sister of Mrs, Clemens, A summer-house has been built for Mr. Clemens within the Orane grounds, on a high peak, which stands six hundred feet above the valley which lies spread out before it, The house is bait almosi entirely of glass, and is modeled exactly on the plan of a Mis- sissippi steamboats pilot-house, Here, shut off from all oulside communica- tions, Mr, Clemens does the hard work of the year, or rather the confining and engrossing work of writing, which de- mands continuous application day after day. The lofty work-room is some dis- | tance from the house, He goes there | every morning about half-pist eight and stays there until called to dinner | by the blowing of a horn about five i o'clock, He takes no lunch or noon | meal of any sort, and works without eating, while the rules sre imperative not to disturb him during this working period, His only recreation is has ci- gar, He 18 an inveterate smoker, snd | smokes constantly while at work, and, indeed, all the time from half-past eight in the mourning fo halp-past ten | at night, stopping only when at his | meals, A cigar lasts him about forty | minutes, now that be has reduced to an | exact science the art of reducing the { weed to ashes, Se he smokes from fifteen to twenty cigars a day. Bome | time ago he was persuaded to stop the | practice, and actually went a year or more without tobacco, but he found | himself unable to carry along import. sut work which be undertook, and it | was not until he resumed smoking that he could do it. Bince then his faith in his cigar has not wavered, Ldke other American smokers, Mr, Clemens 1s un- ceasing in hus search for u really satis- factory cigar at sa satisfactory price, and, first and last, has gathered a good deal of experience in the pursuit, It is related that, having entertained a party of gentiemen one winter evening in Hartford, he gave to each just be. fore they left the house one of a new sort of cigar that he was trying to be. lieve was the object of his search, He made each guest light it before start- ing. The next morning he found all that he had given away lying on the snow beside the pathway scross his lawn. Each smoker had been polite enough to smoke until he got out of the house, but every one gaining his liberty bad yielded to the instinet of | self-preservation and tossed the cigar away, forgetting that it would be found there by daylight, The testimony of | the next morning was overwhelming, and the verdict against the new brand was accepted, ansmn—— I ——— Carl Dunder’s Taxes. 1 likes to know,” he said to the cap y at the Central station the other day, *vhat you call deos men who go aroundt und make our taxes for us?” “You mean assessors,’ “Ah! dot vhas her. How many bave we got in Detroit?” “Three, I believe.” “Not more ash dot?” “No. How many did you suppose we had?’ “Vheil! vhelll but 1 pelief I vhas der biggest fool 1m dis country! One day last vheck tree men comes inlo my Sa- loon und pegins io look all aroundt und ask questions, und by und by one of "em says to me: “i Misther Dunder, taxes vhas a leedle higher dis year, but as you vhas a good | feller we make der assessment der same | as last year, Keep a leetle shtill about him, you know.’ “Vhell, dot vhas a great favor to me, und I sets oop der beer und cigars,™ “Dot same eafning (ree more men vhalks in und shmelis around und asks | about my shtock on handi, und one of | ‘em whispers to me: “Misther Dunder, taxes vhas agher | dis year, but we haf some feelings for poor folks. We cut your assessments down. but you keep a leadie quiet, you know.’ “Vhell, dot means more beer und cigars, und I peliel more ash fifty men | come into my place und tell me dot came thing. My oldt vhomans says I vhas shwindled again, und my poy { Shake says I petier go to some grazy | asylum. Now, Captain, vhas 1 shwind- led?” “You were, beat game.” | “And won't my taxes be any lower?’ “Not a cent?” “Und der oldt vhomanus und Shake | vhas nght?” “Undoubtedly.” “Vhell, Captain, you hear mel I | shall go home. It won’ be two hours | before Some IMOre Assessors cone in, | Shust as soon ash deos men pegin to {look on my pool tabies und schmell aroundt some circus peging mil a great | contortion act! If somepody telephones you: ‘Hello! Captain! Tree assessors | vhas mashed all to pulp in Carl Dun- | der’s saloon—