eyes as nearly as possible on a level with the paper, and while glancing sideways at the letters he is constructing, to form with his tongue imaginary characters to correspond. These motions, although unquestionably of the greatest assistance to original composition, retard in some degree the progress of the writer, and Sam had unconsciously been a full hour and a half writing words in small text, smearing out wrong letters with his little finger, and putting in new ones which required going over very often to render them visible through the old blots when he was roused by the opening of the door and the entrance of his parent.

"Vell, Sammy," said the father.

"Vell, my Prooshan Blue," responded the son, laying down his pen. "What's the last bulletin about mother-in-law?"

"Mrs. Weller passed a wery good night, but is uncommon perwerse, and unpleasant this mornin'-signed upon oath-Tony Veller, Esquire. That's the last vun as was issued, Sammy," replied Mr. Weller, untying his shawl.

"No better yet?" inquired Sam.

"All the symptoms aggerawated," replied Mr. Weller, shaking his head. "But wot's that, you're doin' of pursuit of knowledge under difficulties-eh, Sammy?"

"I've done now," said Sam, with slight embarrassment; "I've been a writin'.”

"So I see," replied Mr. Weller. "Not to any young 'ooman, I hope, Sammy."

"Why, it's no use a sayin' it ain't," replied Sam. "It's a walentine."

"A what!" exclaimed Mr. Weller, apparently horror stricken by the word.

"A walentine," replied Sam.

"Samivel, Samivel," said Mr. Weller, in reproachful accents, "I didn't think you'd ha' done it. Arter the warnin' you've had o' your father's wicious propensities; arter all I've said to you upon this here wery subject; arter actiwally seein' and bein' in the company o' your own mother-in-law, vich I should ha'

thought was a moral lesson as no man could ever ha' forgottin to his dyin' day! I didn't think you'd ha' done it, Sammy, I didn't think you'd ha' done it." These reflections were too much for the good old man. He raised Sam's tumbler to his lips and drank off its con

tents.

"Wot's the matter now?" said Sam.

“Nev'r mind, Sammy," replied Mr. Weller, "it'll be a wery agonizin' trial to me at my time of life, but I'm pretty tough, that's vun consolation, as the wery old turkey remarked when the farmer said he was afeerd he should be obliged to kill him for the London market."

"Wot'll be a trial?" inquired Sam.

"To see you married, Sammy-to see you a diluded wictim, and thinkin' in your innocence that it's all wery capital," replied Mr. Weller. "It's a dreadful trial to a father's feelin's, that 'ere, Sammy.'

"Nonsense," said Sam. "I ain't a goin' to get married, don't you fret yourself about that; I know you're a judge of these things. Order in your pipe, and I'll read you the letter-there."

Sam dipped his pen into the ink to be ready for any corrections, and began with a very theatrical air— 'Lovely—'

66

"Stop," said Mr. Weller, ringing the bell. "A double glass o' the invariable, my dear."

"Very well, sir," replied the girl; who with great quickness appeared, vanished, returned, and disappeared.

"They seem to know your ways here," observed Sam. "Yes," replied his father, "I've been here before, in my time. Go on, Sammy."

"Lovely creetur', repeated Sam.

"Tain't in poetry, is it?" interposed the father.
"No, no," replied Sam.

"Wery glad to hear it," said Mr. Weller. "Poetry's unnat'ral; no man ever talked in poetry 'cept a beadle on boxin' day, or Warren's blackin', or Rowland's oil, or some o' them low fellows; never let yourself down to talk poetry, my boy. Begin again, Sammy."

Mr. Weller resumed his pipe with critical solemnity, and Sam once more commenced, and read as follows: "Lovely creetur', I feel myself a charmed-"

"That ain't proper," said Mr. Weller, taking his pipe from his mouth.

"No; it ain't charmed," observed Sam, holding the letter up to the light, "it's 'shamed, there's a blot there -'I feel myself ashamed.'"

"Wery good," said Mr. Weller. "Go on."

"Feel myself ashamed, and completely cir-' I forget wot this here word is," said Sam, scratching his head with the pen, in vain attempts to remember.

"Why don't you look at it, then?" inquired Mr. Weller.

"So I am a lookin' at it," replied Sam, "but there's another blot; here's a 'c,' and a 'i' and a 'd'."

"Circumwented, p'r'aps," suggested Mr. Weller. "No, it ain't that," said Sam, "circumscribed, that's it."

"That ain't as good a word as circumwented, Sammy," said Mr. Weller, gravely.

"Think not?" said Sam.

"Nothin' like it," replied his father.

"But don't you think it means more?" inquired Sam.

"Vell, p'r'aps it is a more tenderer word," said Mr. Weller, after a few moments' reflection. "Go on, Sammy."

"Feel myself ashamed and completely circumscribed in addressing of you, for you are a nice gal and nothin' but it.'

"That's a werry pretty sentiment," said the elder Mr. Weller, removing his pipe to make way for the remark.

"Yes, I think it is rayther good," observed Sam, highly flattered.

"Wot I like in that 'ere style of writin'," said the elder Mr. Weller, "is, that there ain't no callin' names in it, -no Wenuses, nor nothin' o' that kind: wot's the good o' callin' a young 'ooman a Wenus or an angel, Sammy?"

"Ah! what, indeed?" replied Sam.

"You might just as vell call her a griffin, or a unicorn, or a king's arms at once, which is wery vell known to be a collection o' fabulous animals," added Mr. Weller. "Just as well," replied Sam.

"Drive on, Sammy," said Mr. Weller.

Sam complied with the request, and proceeded as follows: his father continuing to smoke, with a mixed expression of wisdom and complacency, which was particularly edifying.

"Afore I see you I thought all women was alike.' "So they are," observed the elder Mr. Weller, parenthetically.

"But now,' continued Sam, "now I find what a reg'lar soft-headed, ink-red'lous turnip I must ha' been for there ain't nobody like you though I like you better than nothin' at all.' I thought it best to make that rayther strong," said Sam, looking up.

Mr. Weller nodded approvingly, and Sam resumed: ""So I take the privilidge of the day, Mary, my dear-as the gen'lem'n in difficulties did, ven he valked out of a Sunday, to tell you that the first and only time I see you, your likeness was took on my heart in much quicker time and brighter colors than ever a likeness was took by the profeel macheen (which, p'r'aps, you may have heerd on, Mary my dear), altho' it does finish a portrait and puts the frame and glass on complete, with a hook at the end to hang it up by and all in two minutes and a quarter.'

"I am afeered that werges on the poetical, Sammy," said Mr. Weller, dubiously.

"No, it don't,” replied Sam, reading on very quickly, to avoid contesting the point.

"Except of me, Mary, my dear, as your walentine, and think over what I've said. My dear Mary, I will now conclude.' That's all," said Sam.

"That's rayther a sudden pull up, ain't it, Sammy?” inquired Mr. Weller.

"Not a bit on it," said Sam, "she'll vish there vos more, and that's the great art o' letter writin'."

"Well," said Mr. Weller, "there's somethin' in that;

and I wish your mother-in-law'd only conduct her conwersation on the same gen-teel principle. Ain't you a goin' to sign it?"

"That's the difficulty." said Sam. "I don't know what to sign it."

"Sign it-Veller," said the oldest surviving proprietor of that name.

"Won't do," said Sam. "Never sign a walentine with your own name."

"Sign it-Pickwick, then," said Mr. Weller;" "it's a wery good name, and a easy one to spell."

"The wery thing," said Sam. "I could end with a werse; what do you think?"

"I don't like it, Sam," rejoined Mr. Weller. "I never know'd a respectable coachman as wrote poetry, 'cept one, as made an affectin' copy o' werses the night afore he was hung for a highway robbery, and he was only a Cambervell man, so even that's no rule."

But Sam was not to be dissuaded from the poetical idea that had oecurred to him, so he signed the letter -"Your love-sick Pickwick."

CALLING A BOY IN THE MORNING.

The Connecticut editor who wrote the following, evidently knew what he was talking about:

Calling a boy up in the morning can hardly be classed under the head of "pastimes," especially if the boy is fond of exercise the day before. And it is a little singular that the next hardest thing to getting a boy out of bed is getting him into it. There is rarely a mother who is a success at rousing a boy. All mothers know this; so do their boys. And yet the mother seems to go at it in the right way. She opens the stairdoor and insinuatingly observes, "Johnny." There is no response. "Johnny." Still no response. Then there is a short, sharp, "John," followed a moment later by a loud and emphatic "John Henry." A grunt