He ketched one to-day. We'll git the thing right over, like pullin' a tooth. Git out, Tobe!"

Tobe left and I went in. I had a notion to put a ball in the dog first, though. Mag's mother was peeling 'taters in a tin basin. Mag had been washing, and her blue hickory dress was as wet as a dish rag. Her sleeves were rolled up to her shoulders, and her hair was sticking over her head in all directions.

"Mam," she said, "h'yer's the 'squire. I'll call Jerry out'n the barn-yard, an' we'll fix Tobe in his 'tater patch as solid as a pine knot, in less'n two minits! Dad ain't here, but odd's the difference."

"Hold on a jiffy," said the woman. "I wanter settle suthin fust. Ye know, 'squire, Jerry's got consider❜ble property."

"Has he?" said I. "I didn't know it."

"La, bless you! yes; hoop-pole up 'long the creek, an' half a cord o' bark in the woods. Then he's got two bushels o' turnips comin' from old Grindy, an' a share in that coon him an' another feller ketched last Sunday. Besides, he's got a new pair o' fourteen-shillin' cowskin boots, and a pair o' patent Kentucky jean overhauls. Ye see, 'squire, Jerry's well fixed, an' what I want to know is this: Jerry ain't very wholesome. I think he's got indigestion of the lungs. Anyway, in case he should drop off suddint without a will, I want to know kin his brother Lije claim them boots an' overhauls, or will they go with the rest o' the things to his sorrowin' widder?”

I set the old lady's fears at rest. The widow would fall heir to the boots and overalls.

"Then call in Jerry," she said, "an' we'll hustle this thing through with bells on."

Mag went to the door.

"Jere-r-e-e! You Jerry!" she called at the top of her voice.

What-a yer want?" came back from the barn-yard. "Yer allus a yellin' arter sumthin'."

"The 'squire's come, you big lummix. Come in an' git hitched!"

Jerry came into the house grumbling, and as cross as a bear.

"Might let a feller git his barn cleaned out first," he grunted.

He had on a hickory shirt, and a pair of overalls. The latter were rolled up nearly to his knees, and his feet were bare.

"Wall, I guess yer barn'll keep till this h'yer's over," said the old woman.

The couple stood up and took hold of hands. I was just about to begin the ceremony, when the old woman threw both hands over her head and yelled:

"D'rat yer ugly picter, Jerry Elwine! Ef you ain't gone an' left the bars to that turnip patch down, an' there's that pesky yearlin' heifer a chawin' up half the winter's bilin'! Git out there an' turn her out, or I'll h'ist ye higher'n Gilroy's kite!"

Jerry dropped Mag's hand and ran out to attend to the heifer in the turnip patch. He came back puffing like a porpoise, and the ceremony was resumed and got through without further interruption.

"You sell Tobe, now," said Mag. "You dare to think o' sellin' Tobe now, Jerry, an' I'll make it warm around this plantation."

Jerry went out to the barn. Mag went back to her washing. I had no more business there, but I thought I'd hang around for my fee, which I imagined would be a tolerably good one. By and by the old man came home from the woods.

"Well, dad," said Mag, "the jig is up, and Tobe is one o' the family, sartin."

The old man called me out into the road.

"I understand," he said, "that yer 'lowed four shillin' by law for splicin' people. Now, 'squire, that hits me as being a l-c-e-tle steep. Ye know I voted fur you more'n

onct, an' I think you orter call this job thrce-an'-six. The recreation o' gittin' here an' back orter to be worth more'n the extra sixpence 'squire."

I was so mad that I could have crammed my hat down the old man's throat. But I said I'd take the three-andsix.

"Wall, 'squire," said the bark-pealer, "I ain't sold no hoop-poles yit this season, but I'll be down 'lection day or Thanksgiven, an' hand you them figgers. Or say, 'squire, if you kin use some groun'-hog—-”

That was about all I cared to hear just then. I rattled my buck-board away from there as fast as I could. I met Tobe about half a mile down the road, slouching along the edge of the woods. I heard afterward that they never saw him again, and that Mag charged Jerry with selling him on the sly, and went to Milford to see if that wasn't ground for a divorce. But they never charged me with shooting the dog and throwing it into the woods, as some folks have said they did.

THE OLD KNIGHT'S TREASURE.-HENRY MORFord.

Sir John was old, and grim, and gray;
The cares of sixty years he bore;
The charm of youth had withered away
From his iron features long before.

In his dull old house of blackened stone,
With servants quaint, and tried, and few,

For many a year he had lived alone,

As the harsh, and the cold, and the heartless do.
There was plate on his sideboard,-plate of price;
His pouch had ruddy gold at need;

And twenty men might well suffice

The lands he held by dower and deed.

He had lived, the world said, much too long;
He had sold his heart for wealth and power;
And tales, they thought, of by-gone wrong
Would be wailed, too late, at his dying hour.

Beside the bed of grim Sir John,

The quaint old faded bed of state,

Where, in the centuries dead and gone,

Had slept gray heads with a diadem's weight, Beside his bed and near at hand

To his easy-chair of oaken wood,
Fastened and strapped with bar and band,
A huge black casket ever stood.

No friend of his-they were far and few-
Had ever seen the open lid:

Not even his trusted servant knew

What thing of wealth the casket hid. 'Twas rumored that at dead of night,

When shut and barred were window and door, It opened to the old man's sight;

But that was rumor, nothing more.

Eyes glanced upon it, quick and keen,

And minds with doubt impatient swelled; What could these years of mystery mean?

What could be the wealth the casket held? 'Twas wonderful wealth,-so much knew all; For these bold words the covering crossed: "Remember, all, if harm befall,

Save this, whatever else is lost!"
Perhaps the red gold nestled there,
Loving and close as in the mine;
Or diamonds lit the sunless air,

Or rubies blushed like bridal wine.
Some giant gem, like that which bought
The half of a realm in Timour's day,
Might here, beyond temptation's thought,
Be hidden in safety; who could say?
Sir John was dead. The needy heirs
Followed close and thick behind his bier,
Blending disgust at the tedious prayers,
With a proper sob and a decorous tear.
And scarce the sound of feet had died,
Closing the vault for his mouldering rest,
When rung the chisel, opening wide

That strange old guarded treasure-chest.

What found they? Faces darkened and frowned,
And curses smothered under the breath

As the heavy lid was at last unbound,
And the heirs expectant looked beneath.

Not an acre, not a banquet more,

Would all the wealth of the casket buy!
No wonder their faces this anger wore,

That curled the lip and flashed the eye.

What found they? Top, and whip, and ball,
And knife, and cord,-each veriest toy
That makes, through years of childhood, all
The merrier life of the bright-eyed boy!
For thirty years that lonely man

Had held, oh, dearer than honors won,
Than the wealth that into his coffers ran,
The toys of his buried baby son!

O human love! O human grief!

Ye make your places wide and far!

Ye rustle in every withered leaf,

Ye are heard, perhaps, where the angels are!

In the coldest life may rise some wail

O'er broken hopes and memories fond:

God help us, when we set the pale

That leaves one human heart beyond.

FIRST REVOLUTION OF THE HEAVENS WITNESSED BY MAN.-O. M. MITCHEL.

Far away from the earth on which we dwell, in the blue ocean of space, thousands of bright orbs, in clusterings and configurations of exceeding beauty, invite the upward gaze of man, and tempt him to the examination of the wonderful sphere by which he is surrounded. The starry heavens do not display their glittering constellations in the glare of day, while the rush and turmoil of business incapacitate man for the enjoyment of their solemn grandeur. It is in the stillness of the midnight hour, when all nature is hushed in repose, when the hum of the world's on-going is no longer heard, that the planets roll and shine, and the bright stars, trooping through the deep heavens, speak to the willing spirit that would learn their mysterious being.

Often have I swept backward in imagination six thou