"Did you feel scared, Uncle Dan'l?"

"No sah! When a man is 'gaged in prah, he aint 'fraid o' nuffin-day can't nuffin tetch him.' "Well what did you run for?"

"Well I—I— Mars Clay, when a man is under de influence ob de sperit, he do-no what he's 'bout. You mout take an' tah de head off'n dat man an' he would'nt scarcely fine it out. Dah's de Hebrew chil'en dat went frough de fiah; dey was burnt considable-ob coase dey was; but day didn't know nuffin 'bout it-heal right up again; if dey'd been gals dey'd missed dey long haah, maybe, but day wouldn't felt de burn."

"I don't know but what they were girls. I think they were."

Now, Mars Clay, you knows better'n dat. Sometimes a body can't tell whedder you's a sayin' what you means or whedder you's a sayin' what you don't mean, 'case you says 'em bofe de same way."

"But how should I know whether they were boys or girls?"

"Goodness sakes, Mars Clay, don't de good book say? 'Sides, don't it call 'em He-brew chil'en? If dey was gals wouldn't dey be de she-brew chil'en? Some people dat kin read don't 'pear to take notice when dey do read."

"Well, Uncle Dan'l, I think that-My! here comes another one up the river! There can't be two!"

Good

"We gone dis time-we done gone dis time sho'! Dey aint two, Mars Clay-dats de same one. ness, how de fire and smoke do belch up! Dat mean business, honey. He comin' now like fo'got sumfin. Come 'long, chil'en, time you's gwin to roos'. Go 'long wid you-ole Uncle Dan'l gwine out in de woods to rastle in prah-de ole niggah gwine to do what he kin to sabe you again."

He did go to the wood and pray, but he went so far that he doubted, himself, if the Lord heard him when he went by. -Clemens and Warner.

A RAINY DAY.

The day is cold, and dark, and dreary;
It rains, and the wind is never weary;
The vine still clings to the moldering wall,
But at every gust the dead leaves fall,

And the days are dark and dreary.

My life is cold, and dark, and dreary;
It rains, and the wind is never weary;

My thoughts still cling to the mouldering past,
But the hopes of youth fall thick in the blast,
And the days are dark and dreary.

Be still, sad heart, and cease repining;
Behind the cloud is the sun still shining;
Thy fate is the common fate of all,
Into each life, some rain must fall,

Some days must be dark and dreary.

-Longfellow.

CURING A COLD.

The first time that I began to sneeze, a friend told me to go and bathe my feet in hot water, and go to bed. I did so. Shortly after, a friend told me to get up and take a cold shower-bath. I did that also. Within the hour another friend told me it was policy to feed a cold and starve a fever. I had both; so I thought it best to fill up for the cold, and let the fever starve awhile. In a case of this kind I seldom do things by halves; I ate pretty heartily. I conferred my custom upon a stranger who had just opened a restaurant on Cortland street, near the hotel, that morning, paying him so much for a full meal. He waited near me in respectful silence until I had finished feeding my cold, when he inquired whether people about New York were much afflicted with colds. I told him I thought they were. He then went out and took in his sign. I started up toward the office, and on the walk encountered another bosom friend, who told me that a quart of warm salt-water would come as near curing

a cold as anything in the world. I hardly thought 1 had room for it, but I tried it anyhow. The result was surprising. I believe I threw up my immortal soul. Now, as I give my experience only for the benefit of those of my friends who are troubled with this distemper, I feel that they will see the propriety of my cautioning them against following such portions of it as proved inefficient with me; and acting upon this conviction, I warn them against warm salt-water. It may be a good enough remedy, but I think it is rather too severe. If I had another cold in the head, and there was no course left me-to take either an earthquake or a quart of warm salt-water, I would take my chances on the earthquake. After this, everybody in the hotel became interested; and I took all sorts of remedies-hot lemonade, cold lemonade, pepper tea, boneset, stewed Quaker, hoarhound syrup, onions and loaf-sugar, lemons and brown sugar, vinegar and laudanum, five bottles fir balsam, eight bottles cherry pectoral, and ten bottles of Uncle Sam's remedy; but all without effect. One of the prescriptions given by an old lady was—well, it was dreadful. She mixed a decoction composed of molasses, catnip, peppermint, aquafortis, turpentine, kerosene, and various other drugs, and instructed me to take a wineglassful of it every fifteen minutes. I never took but one dose; that was enough. I had to take to my bed, and remain there for two entire days. When I felt a little better, more things were recommended. I was desperate, and willing to take anything. Plain gin was recommended, and then gin and molasses, then gin and onions. Í took all three. I detected no particular result, however, except that I had acquired a breath like a turkeybuzzard, and had to change my boarding place. I had never refused a remedy yet, and it seemed poor policy to commence then; therefore I determined to take a sheet-bath, though I had no idea what sort of an arrangement it was. It was administered at midnight,

and the weather was frosty. My back and breast were stripped; and a sheet (there appeared to be a thousand yards of it), soaked in ice-water was wound around me until I resembled a swab for a columbiad. It is a cruel expedient. When the chilly rag touches one's warm flesh, it makes him start with a sudden violence, and gasp for breath, just as men do in the death-agony. It froze the marrow in my bones, and stopped the beating of my heart. I thought my time had come. When I recovered from this, a friend ordered the application of a mustard-plaster to my breast. I believe that would have cured me effectually, if it had not been for young Clemens. When I went to bed, I put the mustard-plaster where I could reach it when I should be ready for it. But young Clemens got hungry in the night, and ate it up. I never saw any child have such an appetite. I am confident that he would have eaten me if I had been healthy.

-Mark Twain.

THE RIDE OF JENNIE MCNEAL

Paul Revere was a rider bold-
Well has his valorous deed been told;
Sheridan's ride was a glorious one-
Often it has been dwelt upon.
But why should men do all the deeds
On which the love of a patriot feeds?
Harken to me, while I reveal
The dashing ride of Jennie McNeal.

On a spot as pretty as might be found

In the dangerous length of the Neutral Ground,
In a cottage cozy, and all their own,

She and her mother lived alone.

Safe were the two, with their frugal store,
From all of the many who passed their door;
For Jennie's mother was strange to fears,
And Jennie was large for fifteen years;
With fun her eyes were glistening,
Her hair was the hue of a blackbird's wing.
And while the friends who knew her well
The sweetness of her heart could tell;

A gun that hung on the kitchen wall,
Looked solemnly quick to heed her call;
And they who were evil-minded knew
Her nerve was strong and her aim was true,
So all kind words and acts did deal
To generous, black-eyed Jennie McNeal.

One night, when the sun had crept to bed,
And rain clouds lingered overhead,
And sent their pearly drops for proof
To drum a tune on the cottage roof,
Close after a knock at the outer door,
There entered a dozen dragoons or more.
Their red coats, stained by the muddy road,
That they were British soldiers showed;
The captain his hostess bent to greet,
Saying: "Madam, please give us a bit to eat;
We will pay you well, and it may be,
This bright-eyed girl for pouring our tea;
Then we must dash ten miles ahead,
To catch a rebel colonel abed.

He is visiting home, as doth appear;
We will make his pleasure cost him dear."
And they fell on the hasty supper with zeal,
Close watched the while by Jennie McNeal.
For the gray-haired colonel they hovered near,
Had been her true friend-kind and dear;
And oft, in her younger days, had he
Right proudly perched her upon his knee,
And told her stories, many a one
Concerning the French war lately done.
And oft together the two friends were,
And many the arts he taught to her;
She had hunted by his fatherly side,
He had shown her how to fence and ride;
And once had said, "The time may be
Your skill and courage may stand by me."
So sorrow for him she could but feel,
Brave, grateful-hearted Jennie McNeal.

With never a thought or a moment more,
Bareheaded she slipped from the cottage door.
Ran out where the horses were left to feed,
Unhitched and mounted the captain's steed,
And down the hilly and rock-strewn way
She urged the fiery horse of gray.
Around her slender and cloakless form
Pattered and moaned the ceaseless storm;

Secure and tight, a gloveless hand

Grasped the reins with stern command;