"Your child! Are you married?"

"I have been married thirteen years."

"Christened, you mean?

"No, married. The youth by your side is my son."

"It seems incredible ·

even impossible. I do not mean any harm by it, but would you mind telling me if you are any over eighteen? that is to say, will you tell me how old you are?'

"I was just nineteen the day of the storm we were talking about. That was my birthday."

That did not help matters much, as I did not know the date of the storm. I tried to think of some non-committal thing to say, to keep up my end of the talk and render my poverty in the matter of reminiscences as little noticeable as possible, but I seemed to be about out of non-committal things. I was about to say, "You have n't changed a bit since then "--but that was risky. I thought of saying, “You have improved ever so much since then "- but that would not answer, of course. I was about to try a shy at the weather, for a saving change, when the girl slipped in ahead of me and said:

"How I have enjoyed this talk over those happy old times have n't you?"

"I never have spent such a half hour in all my life before!" said I, with emotion; and I could have added, with a near approach to truth, "and I would rather be scalped than spend another one like it." I was grateful to be through with the ordeal, and was about to make my good-byes and get out, when the girl said: "But there is one thing that is ever so puzzling to me." "Why, what is that?"

"That dead child's name. What did you say it was?"

Here was another balmy place to be in; I had forgotten the child's name; I had n't imagined it would be needed again. However, I had to pretend to know, anyway, so I said:

"Joseph William."

The youth at my side corrected me and said:

"No-Thomas Henry."

I thanked him in words and said, with trepidation: "Oh! yes I was thinking of another child that I named I have named a great many, and I got them confused.

this one

out:

I thanked him again—strictly in words and stammered

name.

Thomas Henry-yes, Thomas Henry was the poor child's I named him for Thomas-er-Thomas Carlyle, the great author, you know- and Henry-er-er-Henry the Eighth. The parents were very grateful to have a child named Thomas Henry." That makes it more singular than ever," murmured my beautiful friend.

"Does it? Why?"

"Because when the parents speak of that child now, they always call it Susan Amelia."

That spiked my gun. I could not say anything. I was entirely out of verbal obliquities; to go further would be to lie, and that I would not do; so I simply sat still and suffered sat mutely and resignedly there, and sizzled for I was being slowly fried to death in my own blushes. Presently the enemy laughed a happy laugh and said:

"I have enjoyed this talk over old times, but you have not. I saw very soon that you were only pretending to know me, and so as I had wasted a compliment on you in the beginning, I made up my mind to punish you. And I have succeeded pretty well. I was glad to see that you knew George and Tom and Darley, for I had never heard of them before, and therefore could not be sure that you had; and I was glad to learn the names of those imaginary children, too. One can get quite a fund of information out of you if one goes at it cleverly. Mary and the storm, and the sweeping away of the forward boats, were facts all the rest was fiction. Mary was my sister; her full name was Mary

Now do you remember me?"

"Yes," I said, "I do remember you now; and you are as hard-hearted as you were thirteen years ago in that ship, else you would n't have punished me so. You have n't changed your nature nor your person, in any way at all; you look just as young as you did then, you are just as beautiful as you were then, and you have transmitted a deal of your comeliness to this fine boy. There if that speech moves you any, let 's fly the flag of truce, with the understanding that I am conquered and confess it."

All of which was agreed to and accomplished on the spot.
-Samuel L. Clemens.

"IMPH-M"

When I was a laddie lang syne at the schule,
The maister aye ca'd me a dunce an' a fule;
For somehoo his words I could ne'er un'erstan',
Unless when he bawled, "Jamie, haud oot yer han'!"
Then I gloom'd, and said, "Imph-m,"

I glunch'd, and said, " Imph-m "

I wasna owre proud, but owre dour to say — A-y-e!

Ae day a queer word, as lang-nebbits' himsel',
He vow'd he would thrash me if I wadna spell,
Quo I," Maister Quill," wi' a kin' o' swither,
"I'll spell ye the word if ye 'll spell me anither:
Let's hear ye spell 'Imph-m,'

That common word 'Imph-m,'

That auld Scotch word Imph-m,' ye ken it means A-y-e!"

Had ye seen hoo he glour'd, hoo he scratched his big pate,
An' shouted, "Ye villain, get oot o' my gate!

Get aff to your seat! yer the plague o' the schule!
The de'il o' me kens if yer maist rogue or fule!"
But I only said, "Imph-m,"

That pawkie word, "Imph-m,"

He couldna spell "Imph-m," that stands for an A-y-e!

An' when a brisk wooer, I courted my Jean-
O'Avon's braw lasses the pride an' the queen
When neath my gray plaidie, wi' heart beatin' fain,
I speired in a whisper if she'd be my ain,

She blushed, an' said, "Imph-m,"
That charming word "Imph-m,"

A thousan' times better an' sweeter than A-y-e!

Just ae thing I wanted my bliss to complete
Ae kiss frae her rosy mou', couthie an' sweet ·
But a shake o' her head was her only reply -
Of course, that said No, but I kent she meant A-y-e,
For her twa een said "Imph-m,”

Her red lips said, "Imph-m,"

Her hale face said "Imph-m," an "Imph-m

means A-y-e! Anonymous.

THE ONE-HOSS SHAY; OR, THE DEACON'S MASTERPIECE

A LOGICAL STORY

Have you heard of the wonderful one-hoss shay, That was built in such a logical way,

It ran a hundred years to a day,

And then of a sudden, it—ah, but stay,

I'll tell you what happened without delay,

Scaring the parson into fits,

Frightening people out of their wits,

Have you ever heard of that I say?

Seventeen hundred and fifty-five,
Georgius Secundus was then alive,—
Snuffy old drone from the German hive.
That was the year when Lisbon-town
Saw the earth open and gulp her down,
And Braddock's army was done so brown,
Left without a scalp to its crown.

It was on the terrible earthquake day
That the Deacon finished the one-hoss shay.

Now, in building of chaises, I tell you what,
There is always somewhere a weakest spot,—
In hub, tire, felloe, in spring or thill,
In panel, or crossbar, or floor, or sill,
In screw, bolt, thorough-brace,- lurking still,
Find it somewhere you must and will,—
Above or below, or within or without,-
And that's the reason, beyond a doubt,

A chaise breaks down but does n't wear out.

But the Deacon swore (as Deacons do,
With an "I dew vum," or an "I tell yeou,")
He would build one shay to beat the taown
'N' the keounty 'n' all the kentry raoun';

It should be so built that it could n't break daown;

"Fur," said the Deacon, "It's mighty plain That the weakes' place mus' stan' the strain; 'N' the way t' fix it, uz I maintain, Is only jest

T' make that place uz strong uz the rest."

So the Deacon inquired of the village folk
Where he could find the strongest oak,
That could n't be split nor bent nor broke,-
That was for spokes and floor and sills;

He sent for lancewood to make the thills;

The crossbars were ash from the straightest trees;
The panels of whitewood, that cuts like cheese,
But lasts like iron for things like these;

The hubs of logs from the "Settler's ellum,"-
Last of its timber, they could n't sell 'em,

Never an axe had seen their chips,

And the wedges flew from between their lips,
Their blunt ends frizzled like celery-tips;

Step and prop-iron, bolt and screw,

Spring, tire, axle, and linchpin, too,

Steel of the finest, bright and blue;

Thorough-brace bison-skin, thick and wide;
Boot, top, dasher, from tough old hide

Found in the pit when the tanner died.

That was the way he "put her through."— "There!" said the Deacon, "naow she'll dew!"

Do! I tell you, I rather guess

She was a wonder, and nothing less!
Colts grew horses, beards turned gray,
Deacon and deaconess dropped away,

Children and grandchildren,-where were they?
But there stood the stout old one-hoss shay
As fresh as on Lisbon-earthquake day!

Eighteen HUNDRED;

it came and found

The Deacon's masterpiece strong and sound.
Eighteen hundred increased by ten;-
"Hahnsum kerridge" they called it then.