craw 'twas as coomed whoam to her. “Who in the 'ouruld be you?" zays Molly.

Why, I'll be whipped if 't aint our Jack!" and awoy a hobbled up street to vetch Measter Smith, the cow-doctor. 'Twas a lang time avoor a looked like hizzelf agen.

S. A pretty episode in the life of an angler, and worthy to be recorded with the story I told you yesterday. Now then, Julian, pitch your minnow into that eddy, and if you should peradventure hook a fish, be warned by the fate of Jack Ockle, and don't run down a bee-hive in your ecstasy. You have him! steady!—he's a fine fellow, and will fight for it; keep him clear of that post, that's well-wind up. No! another plunge, and another! don't pull him against the stream, or he's lost. Get below, and gently tow him down towards that slope. Give me the landing-net. There he is a fine fish indeed; a good

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