he has something under him. Even a chip or a small stump would have felt comfortable. As I sat thinking how many uses a gridiron could be put to, and estimating where I should then have been if I hadn't got it under me, I heard John forcing his way with the boat on his back through the thick undergrowth.

"It won't do to let John see me in this position," I said; and so, with a mighty effort, I disengaged myself from the pack, flung off the blanket from around my neck, and seizing hold of a spruce limb, which I could fortunately reach, drew myself slowly up. I had just time to jerk the rifle out of the mud, and fish up about half of the trout, when John came struggling along.

"John," said I, leaning unconcernedly against a tree, as if nothing had happened,—" John, put down the boat; here's a splendid spot to rest."

"Well, Mr. Murray," queried John, as he emerged from under the boat, "how are you getting along?"

Capitally!" said I; "the carry is very level when you once get down to it. I felt a little out of breath, and thought I would wait for you a few moments."

"What's your boots doing up there in that tree?" exclaimed John, as he pointed up to where they hung dangling from the limb, about fifteen feet above our heads.

" Boots doing!" said I, "why, they're hanging there, don't you see? You didn't suppose I'd drop them into this mud, did you?"

"Why, no," replied John, " I don't suppose you would. But how about this?" continued he, as he stooped down and pulled a big trout, tail foremost, out of the soft muck; "how did that trout come there?"

"It must have got out of the pail somehow," I responded. "I thought I heard something drop just as I sat down."

"What on earth is that, out there?" exclaimed John, pointing to a piece of pork, one end of which was sticking about four inches out of the water; "is that pork?"

"Well, the fact is, John," returned I, speaking with the utmost gravity, and in a tone intended to suggest a mystery," the fact is, John, I don't quite understand it. This carry seems to be all covered over with pork. I wouldn't be surprised to find a piece anywhere. There is another junk, now," I exclaimed, as I plunged my moccasin into the mud and kicked a two-pound bit toward him; "it's lying all round here loose."

I thought John would split with laughter, but my time came, for as in one of his paroxysms he turned partly around, I saw that his back was covered with mud clear up to his hat.

"Do you always sit down on your coat, John," I inquired, "when you cross a carry like this?"

"Come, come," rejoined he, ceasing to laugh from very exhaustion, "take a knife or tin plate and scrape the muck from my back. I always tell my wife to make my clothes a ground color, but the color is laid on a little too thick this time, any way."

"John," said I, after having scraped him down, "take the paddle and spear my boots off from that limb up there, while I tread out this pork."

Weary and hot, we reached at length the margin of the swamp, and our feet stood once more upon solid ground.-W. H. H. MURRAY.

NATHAN'S CASE.

(As viewed by an unconverted boon companion.)

Ta' n't accordin' to natur' for folks to turn right askew, A droppin' out o' the old ways, an' droppin' into the

new,

An' what I hear 'em sayin' 'bout Nathan, and Nathan's

folks,

Is suthin' I hev ter laff at, as one o' the best o' jokes. I've summered an' wintered with Nathan, an' know the cut of his jib,

An' know the kind o' grain in his barn, the kind o' corn in his crib:

An' it a'n't any use o' tellin' me, or any one else who

knows,

[sows. That ever a man was born to reap a better thing than he Talks up in meetin', does he?-in words that are sweet to hear!

'Twas only a month or so ago he swore like a privateer! An' it a'n't accordin' to natur' that a tongue with an evil

twist

Should change its course, an' begin to grind at another kind o' grist.

Nigh on to death he's been, they say, with a cur'us sort o' complaint,

That threw the devil out of his bones an' made him a decent saint;

But ther' a'n't enough physic in any o' these 'ere parts, to my mind,

To make of old Nathan Turner one o' the orthodox kind. Given up drinkin' licker!-Taken the temp'rance pledge! Well, that 'ere's news, I tell ye now, that's settin' my teeth on edge! [knowFor it a'n't accordin' to natur'-I say it, who ought to An' Nathan Turner's never the man to yield an inch to a foe!

Well, I couldn't be much more took aback, had ye told me that that 'ere root

Would 'a' straightened out, an' begun to bear a likely kind o' fruit;

An' I'll hev to think the Lord hisself attended to Na

than's case,

For it a'n't accordin' to natur', I know, an' must be a work o' grace!-SUNDAY SCHOOL TIMES.

WHY HE WOULDN'T SELL THE FARM.

HER

ERE, John! you drive the cows up, while
brings out the pails;

yer mar

But don't ye let me ketch yer hangin' onter them cows'

tails,

An' chasin' them acrost that lot at sich a tarin' rate;
An', John, when you cum out, be sure and shet the pas-

tur' gate.

It's strange that boy will never larn to notice what I say; I'm 'fraid he'll git to rulin' me, if things goes on this

way;

But boys is boys, an' will be boys, till ther grown up to

men,

An' John's 'bout as good a lad as the average of 'em.

I'll tell ye, stranger, how it is; I feel a heap o' pride
In thet boy-he's our only one sence little Neddy died;
Don't mind me, sir, I'm growin' old, my eye-sight's
gittin' dim;

But 't seems sumhow a kind o' mist cums long o' thoughts of him.

Jes' set down on the door step, Squar, an' make yerself to hum;

While Johnny's bringin' up the cows, I'll tell ye how

it cum

Thet all our boys has left us, 'ceptin' Johnny there, And I reckon, stranger, countin' all, we've had about our share.

Thar was our first. boy, Benjamin, the oldest of them all, He was the smartest little chap, so chipper, pert, an' small,

He cum to us one sun-bright morn, as merry as a lark, It would ha' done your soul good, Squar, to seen the little spark.

An' thar was Tom, "a han'sum boy," his mother allus

said,

He took to books, and larned so spry, we put the sprig

ahead

His skoolin' cleaned the little pile we'd laid by in the

chest,

But I's bound to give the boy a chance to do his "level best."

Our third one's name was Samuel; he grow'd up here to

hum,

An' worked with me upon the farm till he was twenty

one;

Fur Benjamin had l'arned a trade he didn't take to

work;

Tom, mixin' up in politics, got 'lected County Clerk.

We ken all remember, stranger, the year of sixty-one, When the spark thet tetched the powder off in that Confed❜ret gun

Flashed like a streak o' lightnin' up acrost from East to West,

An' left a spot thet burned like fire in every patriot's

east.