when I want repose. PHOEBE, DIANA, LUNA, call thee by whatever naine, let not thy pale smile be cast upon my eyes! If so, sweet sleep is gone, and pleasant dreams. Out, out, OUT with thy skeleton face, O volcanic, brassy Moon!

When the morrow came, I went into my friend's chamber, and, as if he had been a king or a prince, asked him how he had rested during the night, and if the coverlets had kept him warm. He was compelled to say, as he was a man of strict veracity, that he had been a little cold. The undiscriminating varlet! I had given him all the blankets in the house.

It was Sunday morning. A Sunday in the country is a theme on which my invalid friend, who is an author, had expatiated with wonderful effect in one of his books. When he came downstairs, as the shavings were not yet lighted, I took him by the arm and proposed a walk on the grass. But the grass was wettened by copious dews. He returned chilled, and hovered over the cold stove. It was nearly time for breakfast, but I had not given him a word of encouragement on that point. Breakfast was a puzzler. All of a sudden, striking my hand on my forehead, as if in the elicitment of a bright idea, I rushed out of the kitchen, crossed the little garden, and knocked at the door of the old farm-house.

"Mad

The face of the good landlady was forthwith visible. ame," I said, "I am in a little quandary. I have a friend with me; besides ourselves, there is nobody and nothing in the house. Will you have the kindness to provide us breakfast, dinner and tea to-day?"

She most obligingly consented. In half an hour I conducted the author triumphantly to the old mansion. The clean white table-cloth was spread; the room was "as warm as toast," and my friend's spirits revived. We went to church. His responses were heart-felt and audible. On returning, the walk made his blood circulate a little, and as he sat in the rocking-chair in the old farm-house waiting for the broiled chicken and looking up at the white-washed beams, he was the picture of contentment. I was almost provoked with myself for getting him into such a comfortable fix.

THE DONATION PARTY.

BY R. J. BURDETTE.

THERE WAS a sound of revelry by night.

The flickering rays of the street lamps fell upon the joyful ones as they gathered themselves unto the feast, for lo, they reasoned one with another, Hath not the preacher said, "There is nothing better for a man than that he should eat and drink, and that he should make his soul enjoy good in his labor." So they got themselves up unto the house of feasting and bore their countenances merrily. And it

was so that the Painted Pine Pail called aloud unto the Cheap Hearth Broom and said:

"Lo, here, thou fair one with the broom-corn

bang, whither

goest thou?"

And the Cheap

Hearth Broom

And then came unto them the Tin Dipper and the Jar of the Tomato Preserves and the Peck of Beans. And they cried unto them, saying:

"Tarry a little, for we also journey your way."

And they greatly were rejoiced and went their way, and they sang and lifted up the voice and shouted with an exceeding great shout, for their hearts were light as a pay-roll.

And there met them in the way the Hideous Dressing Gown, and the dozen Tin Spoons, and the Odd Slippers, and the square of Oil Cloth, and the Three Old Books, and the Kitchen Chair,

and the Yard of Flannel, and the Cotton Tidy, and the Bag of Crackers, and the Awful Pen Wiper, and the Button Hook, and the Bar of Soap, and all the Things. And when they saw them they raised a mighty shout, insomuch that the watchmen of the city were awaked, and one said to another:

"Lo! a noise; let us hasten away, lest we be called in."

For the watchmen of the city wist not what the racket was, and they were afraid, which of a verity was their normal condition.

And the Painted Pine Pail called unto the others and said: "Journey with our band, for we also go upon thine errand. Moreover, we likewise are going to the donation party.”

And they joined the band.

And the Kitchen Chair said: "Of a surety there will be much good-cheer, for the matter is not a surprise, but the birds of the air carried the matter to the parsonage, and the parson's wife hath boiled and baked and brewed all day, that there might be an abundance of provisions and cakes of fine meal and of barley, and oil and wine, and ice cream and grapes, and White Mountain cake and Lady Jane Washington pie, and all that is good and expensive, for after this manner doth always the parson's wife do when she heareth of a donation party."

"It will be the swell feed of all swell feeds," said the Odd Slipper. And he was right.

"It will be the boss lay-out," said also the other Odd Slipper. And he likewise was right. They were both rights.

And they began to make merry.

And when they were come into the parsonage, they made as though they would enter in at the gates, but the gates were locked, as with a skein of telegraph wire. Now the same was barbed.

And there came to the doors of the parsonage an holely Old Rag Carpet, and he rolled himself up and leaned against the door jamb. Now he was old and stricken in years. Often had he been beaten with rods, forty stripes plus a thousand and ten, and many times had he been put down, but as oft he got up and dusted the next spring. Neither was his natural force abated. Moreover, he carried a stair-rod in his hand, and spoke as one who meant business. And he said:

"Slide! Stay not upon the order of your going, but scatter.

Vamoose! Climb out of this. Verily, I was beaten but one day ago, and I am to be pasted down to-night, if peradventure I may hold on to the boards until next spring. It's bad enough that a salary of $500 a year compels me to be tacked down with mucilage; may the beasts of the field rant over me if I lie down to have this howling mob shuffle around on me and grind cake and bread crumbs into my long suffering pores. Stampede, or, by the doom of Jericho, I'll pass around the hat!"

And presently they began to fade down the dusky highway. And the Things sat down by the roadside and cast dust upon their heads. And the Odd Slipper said:

"It seems that we are left."

And he was right.

"I should say left.

And the other Odd Slipper said:

Verily, we are distanced."

And he also was right.

They were all left.

THE fust thing a man duz in the morning, iz to feel for hiz pocket-book, and the fust thing a woman duz, iz to see if the locking-glass iz all right.

JOSH BILLINGS.

THE ALLIGATOR.

BY JOSH BILLINGS.

THE alligator iz an original kritter, a chip of the old block, and az ugly to kontemplate az a congo darkey. They are residents ov Florida, and gro 12 feet and nine inches, and then halt. Their teeth are all tushes, and their mouth iz az full ov them az a buzz saw iz. Their eys are sot up and down in their hed like a chinamans, and they hav an appetight equal to 18 distrikt skool. masters. They are the krokerdiles ov Amerika, and lay eggs az

eazy az a hen duz, but don't kackle when they cum oph from the nest. They are grate cowards, but ain't afrade ov yung pork, or little darkeys, and kan eat all the time, or- go without eating. az long az a gold fish kan. The alligator waz made for sum usefull purpose, but like the muskeeter, the bedbugg and the kokzoach, their usefullness haz been karephully hid from us. Yu kan shoot a hundred alligators a day on the St. Johns river, but you kant bag one, and thare aint enny more game in them than thare iz in a rotten log. They are long lived, and liv, if mi memory serves me right, 4 thousand years, and their grate strength lays in their tails. They hiss, when they are angry, like a tea kittle, and want az much room to turn round in az a fore and aft skooner.