 Section 16 of Life and Sayings of Mrs. Partington Diathetical Council You mustn't be too greedy, Isaac, said Mrs. Partington, as with an anxious expression she marked a strong effort that the young gentleman was making to achieve the last quarter of a mince pie. You shouldn't be so gluttonous, dear. You must be careful, or you will get something in your elementary canal or sarcophagus one of these days that will kill you, Isaac. She had been to hear a course of physiological lectures, and then you will have to be buried in the cold ground, and nobody will never see you no more. And what will I do, Isaac, when you are cut down in your priming, like a lovely jelly-flower? Much affected by the picture her own prolific fancy had conjured up, she pensively sweetened her tea for the fourth time, and looked earnestly upon Isaac, who, unheeding all she was saying, sat gazing at the street door, revolving in his mind the practicability of ringing the doorbell unperceived without going outside. Domestic peace can never be preserved in family jars. Mrs. P. confers with Paul. And do you believe in the spiritual knockings? asked Mrs. P. as she leaned forward over the table, and bent her eyes on a queer individual who had related some wonderful things he had seen. Oh, I would so like to have poor Paul come back. A gentle wrapping upon the old chest in the corner attracted their attention, and the whole of them immediately surrounded it. If it's Paul's apprehension, said Mrs. Partington, I know he'll answer me. Paul, is that you? Just like him, said she, smiling, when he was living he was almost tapping when he had anything in the house to tap. Didn't you, Paul? Can't you speak to me? Does that mean yes or no? What does it mean? Some of the parties suggested that the alphabet be called, which was done. Are you in want of anything? said she. What is it? And the anxious spectators through the medium of the alphabet spelled out S-I-D-U-R. It is Paul, cried the old lady delightedly. That's the way he always felt it. Do you want me to come to you, Paul? The answer came back. No, I'm in better company. The old lady turned away mournfully. There was sorrow in the wavy lock of gray that struggled beneath her cap border. There was a quaver of grief in the tone that inquired for the scissors. There was a misty vapor upon her specks, like the dew upon the leaves after a rain. The cap border, like a flag at half-mast, trailed in woe over the ruin of disappointed affection. At that instant the cover of the chest opened and the head of Ike, protruding, disclosed the secret of the knockings. Are you rogue? said she, a smile dispelling all evidence of disorder. Are you rogue? Was it you? You'll never be a good spirit as long as you live, I'm afraid, if you go on so. What a note it was in Paul. There was triumph in her tone, and it seemed as if a whole basket full of sunshine had been upset in that room. It was so pleasant, all the rest of the evening. Mrs. Partington at the play. The playhouse is the way to the pit, said Mrs. Partington solemnly, and pointing significantly downward. But remonstrated a friend who had asked her to visit the museum with him. There is no pit in this theatre, and the way to the pit is removed. She looked earnestly at him a moment, and then said she would go. The play was The Stranger, and she was much interested in it. Why don't he make it up with her? she inquired. What's the sense of being ugly when she's so contritious for what she had done? I should like to know. I think it shows a bad temper in him, and the dear children, too, coming in like little cherubs to make him forget all old troubles and follies. We hadn't ought to dwell so upon old grievousness, because we are all liable craters. How I do pity her! And the old lady wept copiously. She wouldn't leave the house till she ascertained from the policeman whether old Tobias got back his son that had listed. For he looked but feeble, she said, when he went away, and the great grief and the long pole the old gentleman carried for a cane must have broken him down. Breaches of Faith! Breaches of Faith! screamed Mrs. Partington as she heard that term applied to Mexican violations of an armistice. Well, I wonder what they will have next. I have herntel of cloaks of hypocrisy and robes of purity, but I never heard of breaches of Faith before. I hope they're made of something that won't change and wear out, as old Deacon Gudgeon's Faith did. For his was always changing. He went from believing that nobody would be saved to believing that all would be, and at last turned out a phrenology, and didn't believe in nothing. I wonder if it's as strong as Casimir, and she bit off her thread and prepared a new needle-fold. A queer conceit. Why don't they make these tragedies turn out different? said Mrs. Partington after seeing Virginia's performed. I think they might end them with a dance, and all that are killed should take part in it, just to show folks that they're alive. This now was too savage. And when Mr. Virginia's got the other gentleman by the throat, I looked round for the police to see if he would part them, and there he was, enjoying it as well as the rest of them. I should like to know what he is there for, if it ain't to keep the peace. And the old lady was tucked up for the night. Mrs. Partington on cold porters. So they've took our minister, and made a cold porter of him, said Mrs. Partington to her neighbor, Mrs. Sled. I suppose they're going to set him to carrying all the coal in the parish, and so take the bread out of the pockets of the foreigners and Irishmen, poor craters, that do it now. He preached last Sunday on mortifying the flesh, but when he gets to carrying the baskets, I think he will look like one mortified all over. She smiled at the conceit, and then turned to see what David said on the subject, and what analogy there was between hewing of wood and drawing of water, and cold portering, but dropped the search on his summons to tea. No matter, said she, it won't hurt him any, and my dear Paul used to say that everything honest was honorable, and that black coat of hison won't show the coal dust at all. Fourth of July. Isaac, said Mrs. Partington wrapping on the window, as she saw the boy in the act of putting half a bunch of crackers into the pocket of a countryman who stood viewing the procession. The caution came too late and the individual was astonished. Isaac had stepped inside the door to await the explosion, and the old lady met him in the entry. O you spirit of mischief, cried she. What will become of you if you go on in this way? Is this all your IDs of liberty and regeneration that you must fill that poor man's pockets with your crackers? Do you suppose this was all that the days of Seven by Six was made for? I should think you would be ashamed to look upon your Uncle Paul's picture there, and hide your face in conclusion, after behaving so. Ah, she amused. How different boys are now from what they used to be. So wild, so rake-less, and tricky, crack. What's that? I should like to know who fired that. It was a great piece of impudence, crack. Goodness gracious! Somebody must be throwing them into the windows. She ran to look out, not a soul was near that could have done it. Crack! Another explosion at her feet, and she looked round. Isaac sat demurely, eating some gingerbread by the table, but said nothing. There was an expression about his mouth, which looked torpedo-ish, and for a moment she mistrusted him. But he couldn't have done it. He was so quiet, and she shot the window that opened upon the street to prevent their throwing in any more. Seeing the fireworks. Oh dear! said Mrs. Partington, stretching herself on her toes to get a better look at the fireworks. I always wish I was seven foot tall at times like this. And I wish I was nine foot, said the little woman before her, smitefully. How I hate to see people so selfish, don't you, Mrs. Brown? whispered Mrs. Partington to her neighbor. There, there, they are touching off the volcano I vow, said Mrs. P. Now, look and see if the burning lather runs down the hill this way. And the old lady looked anxiously toward the park. The telegraph. Mrs. Partington is much prejudiced against the magnetic telegraph, and takes an entirely new ground in her opposition to it. You may send your letters on it, said she to the philosopher, if you're a mind too, but I shan't trust one of mine on it while people can cut it off before it gets there, and let the whole world into family secrets, and how presumptuous it is too, for men to draw heaven's blessed lightning down and set it a dancing on a tight wire, like a very circuit rider. It's absolute blasphemy, and outrage on the highway, and again all nater and scriptor. And she turned to the books to find an appropriate text, to change the subject, by commencing a discussion with her niece on the relative merits of ball yarn and skein, and taking her sides she went on like a jolly old wheelbarrow. Let none be vain of imagined superiority over their brother men, for whatever advantage may be fancied in one respect, in another there may be a deficiency. The man who has law and divinity at his fingers ends, in the lure of horse flesh, may be instructed by his stable boy, and she, who speaks Italian and embroiderers, can perhaps take lessons in yarn stockings from Mrs. Partington, Franklin who could draw the lightning from heaven, made a poor hand attending a baby. A Story for Christmas It was with a clouded brow, and an angry eye, that young Frank Harlow stood looking upon his father's face, and hearkening to his words as he violently rebuked him. The flush upon the old man's cheek betoken the tempest that raged within his breast, and his raised and clenched fist descended in fearful emphasis as he uttered the words, Obey me, or by heaven, you leave my house for ever. Mr. Harlow, the father of Frank, was one of those unfortunate men whose impulses are stronger than their powers of resistance. His passion once aroused reason, affection, common kindness, were forgotten in the storm that held him in mastery. The hasty and severe word that conveys such bitterness in its utterance, in his moods of temper was always ready, and the hasty blow fell upon his children with cruel violence, at the least provocation. Correction they never received. It was the vindictive visitation of an Avenger of wrong rather than the chastisement of a parent. At heart Mr. Harlow was a kind man, and often times, and bitterly, when the storm had blown by and his mind was calm again, did he repent with the sincere repentance of evil he had done, of which he was fully sensible. Benevolent, intelligent, noble-spirited, self-sacrificing, as occasion called for action, he had won himself a name for probity and usefulness that was enviable, and but for the turbulence of temper above described few finer men could be found. This weakness was his besetting sin, his temptation, and his will was insufficient to resist it. Frank Harlow, his youngest son and favorite, was his counterpart in body and mind, handsome, intelligent, and witty. At seventeen he was the favorite of all in the village in which he lived. His generosity was unbounded, and the tendrils of his youthful nature shot forth and strengthened them the fertile soil of congeniality. At social gatherings he was the crowning spirit. His voice rang merriest at the harvest home. His story elicited the warmest plaudits at the husking frolic, and in the old woods his song echoed through its somber arches with the joyousness of unrestricted freedom. No jealous rivalry stood in the way of his supremacy. Young and old admitted his claim to the distinction, and the smile of beauty and the rustic rows of rural artlessness beamed for him with constant and kindly glow. Such was Frank Harlow in his social intercourse, petted and happy in the genial flow of his unembittered enjoyment. But at home he was a different being. The contrast between the sphere of home and that of neighborhood was too marked. The reverence due parental authority was too little excited by parental love. Disobedience to imperious command was followed by violence of invective or blows, and his high spirit revolted at the irksomeness of domestic oppression. His two elder brothers had no sympathy with him. They were plotting in matter of fact men, taking from their mother a more passive and quiescent nature than his own. They grabbed along the way of life like the oxen they drove. They knew no joy beyond the herbage they cropped, having no aspiration beyond the bound of their enclosure. Content with old routines, no new hope intruded upon their ruminations, they frowned upon the bold boy, whose spirit and brilliancy cast a reproach upon their lethargy. And they rejoiced when the reproof came to curb his ambition. Home was no longer home to him. The ties of consanguinity were to him iron bonds, from whose release he would pray to be freed. His mother's love alone sanctified the existence he led. It was the one solitary star in his night of domestic gloom. His affections thus turned from the home circle had concentrated upon one, the fairest of the village, but whose co-caddish pre-delictions had rendered her obnoxious to censure. And her fame having reached his father, the knowledge of Frank's attachment for her, had provoked a discussion, the result of which was the imperative command with which my story commences, a command that he must renounce her forever. The boy stood gazing upon his father with a flashing eye and a swelling breast as he spoke. Feelings too powerful for utterance were depicted in the look he gave, and he left the room with an expression of bitter rage. The next morning there was confusion in Mr. Harlow's house. Frank had fled. No one knew wither. And the circle, whose union was so illy cemented, was broken. A letter in the village post office explained the reason. It read as follows. Dear mother, it grieves me to bid you farewell. But longer sufferance from father's tyrannical usage is impossible. I go to seek my fortune, and when we meet again, may it be when he and I shall have learned a lesson from our separation, and the alienation of father and child may be forgotten in the renewed intercourse of man and man. Farewell, mother, and may you be more happy that I should have been able to make you had I lived with you a thousand years. Farewell, remember sometimes your poor boy, Frank. The letter fell like a thunderbolt upon that household, so unprepared for such an event, and deep contrition rung the airing father's heart, who saw too late the evil he had wrought. The spirited boy had been his favorite. So like him was he in form and mind. He remembered that no words spoken to him in kindness had been unheeded. He heard his praise in every mouth, admitted the justness of the mead that was awarded him, and every word and every thought was a dagger to his soul in view of the ruin he had caused. Then for the first time he felt the weight of the responsibility that was rested upon him as a parent, and trembled as he reflected how far he might be instrumental in his son's eternal doom. Too late came penitence for the past, but he vowed reform for the future and prayed for strength to fulfill his vow. A change came over the man and his home. The mold of years and care mingled with the raven hues of youth. For years had passed, and no line of remembrance had come from the absent boy. The brothers had married and had children, and the old homestead was glad with the music of childish laughter, and a sad happiness smiled upon the lives of Mr. and Mrs. Harlow. The mother had mourned for her child, and his remembrance often came to her in the voices of her grandchildren, and in the sweet reminiscences which solitude brought. The hope of seeing him had long died out in her breast, for twelve weary years had elapsed since he went away. The village had changed. The young and joyous companions of Frank had turned into grave family men, or had moved to strange cities and become the devotees of the money-god, or worshipped fame in high places. The maids with whom he had sported had lost their smiles in the matronly cares of life, or had transferred them to their children upon whom they bloomed again. The co-cat of Frank's idolatry had years before given place to younger rivals, and mourned her faded charms in singleness of state. The village had become populous, and new steeples gleamed above the trees in the sunlight, and new streets and houses marked the steps of progress. A railroad whistle greeted the morning sun instead of the song of birds as of old, and the quiet of village life had been usurped by the confusion of city habits. Frank was forgotten in the march of present excitement, or only remembered as a pleasant dream. It was Christmas night in the year of Grace 50, and a pleasant party had met in the house of Mr. Harlow to celebrate the birthday anniversary of his eldest grandson. The wind howled around the old mansion house, and growled down the spacious chimney, as if threatening the elements of geniality that reigned below. With a submerging visit, the snow rattled against the windows red with indoor light, and piled itself in little heaps upon the sills. But all was unhated by the party within, and the wind and snow were unheard amid the music of mirth. The song was trilled from pretty lips, and manly voices joined in a chorus of praise to the festive season, when a loud knock of the ancient brazen lion upon the door arrested every attention. The sound reverberated, along the old entry, and up the broad stairway, and through the large and airy rooms with remarkable freedom for such an intruder at such a time. The timid shrunk at the sound, as from a boating of evil and anxiety marked every face. The door was opened, and a female form was ushered in. In whose scant and ragged habillaments poverty was but too plainly red, and in the bronze and wrinkled face revealed by the removal of a red hood were seen the traces of want and exposure. Her keen black eye, as she entered, surveyed the scene, and her bronzed complexion glowed rudely in the firelight. Good people, she said, in a crackin' tuneless voice, that made the flesh of her hearers creep at its sound. I am weary and hungry. Give me of your bounty in the name of him who upon this day took upon himself the condition of man. I am weary. I am hungry. An appeal thus made could not be resisted in the best the house afforded was provided for the poor stranger. The veracity with which she ate attracted the attention of the circle, fully attesting her famished condition, and a glance at her apparel confirmed the impression of want and distress, and mercy conquered the disgust which her presence had at first occasioned. Her feet protruded through her travel-worn shoes, and the snow melted from their soles and ran down upon the sanded floor. As soon as her hunger was appeased, she turned to depart, but the voice of Mr. Harlow asked her to remain, and in sympathetic tones reminded her of the inclemency of the night. The woman expressed her thanks gracefully, and seated herself by the fireside. The sport went on, noisily and happily, when it became whispered that the old dame was one of those weird people who tell fortunes by the stars, or more ignoble means, and open to view the destinies of men that lay concealed in the future. Can you tell fortunes, good woman? asked one of the youngest and boldest. I have traveled far, replied the bell dam, and I have learned strange things in my wanderings. The heavens are open to my gaze, and the stars, where the mysteries of fate are hid, are as the printed page. The Healman palm is to me a key to character. Who will test my power? One by one did the company pass before her, and the prescience she displayed was most marvelous. The lines of the hand seemed pregnant with meaning, and the past life of each individual was read with an accuracy that gave importance to her predictions for the future. Scenes were recalled to many that had long been forgotten. Loves that had been disappointed, hopes that had been destroyed, prospects that had been blasted, and many a tear was shed at the recollection of some old grief revealed by the power of that singular woman. At length, Mr. Harlow presented his hand for examination, gazing upon it a moment intently, with a voice choked by emotion, she said, Here is violence and strife. The line of life is crossed by threads of bitterness and woe, and the whole of its deep course is marked by traces of grief. Tears. Tears are here, and the lines of penitence and anguish of soul are strangely interwoven with the strong lines of resolution. I see that a deep sorrow is yours, the result of fierce passion, repented of and subdued. Is it not so? She fixed her eyes suddenly upon Mr. Harlow's face. It was pallid as death, and the tears stood in his eye. Yes, answered he and trembled as he spoke. God knows my sin, and God knows my repentance. Secret tears have been my portion for years, and oh, what would I not give if the memory of my wrong might be wiped away? He bowed his head upon his hands and sobbed in the anguish of his spirit, and Mrs. Harlow wept in sympathy with her husband, whose deep grief she had thus discovered, which had long been concealed beneath the comic exterior of philosophical resignation. Woman, he cried at last. What is the future of this picture? Is there no bomb in store for my wounded spirit? He grasped her hand forcibly, as if he would have rung from it an answer to his question. Yes, said she, with deep emotion, there is a future of peace and happiness in store for you, and the son of your declining years shall be radiant with supreme splendor. And thank God, who has given me power to verify my prophecy. Father, mother, behold your son! He threw off his ragged habiliments as he spoke, removed the gray and matted hair from his brow and the patches from his cheeks, and stood before the company in the noble form matured in manly strength and beauty of Frank Harlow. There was a new joy in the house that night at the wanderer's return, and tears and smiles mingled at the recital of his story. The wide world he had traveled, and he had learned and profited by the lessons it had taught him. He had returned home rich in gold, but he was richer in the spirit he had gained. It had become softened by the trials it had suffered, until it had brought him back to his father's house and to his mother's feet. His letter's home had failed to reach their destination, and, deeming himself an outcast, he had at length refused to write it all. He had married a lady of wealth and had become a denizen of a far away city, but the thoughts of home pressed upon him, and the smile of his mother haunted his sleep with fond persistence, and he longed to see once more the old familiar faces that were his companions in childhood. He had thus come back to revisit the home of his early life. Stopping at the hotel, he had made such inquiries concerning his old friends as led him into the secret of their past lives, then assuming his disguise he went to his father's house in the manner above stated. The secret of his soothsaying ability was thus revealed. The whole of Christmas night was occupied with the story of Frank's adventures and in thanksgivings for the reunion. The next summer a splendid mansion graced the hill opposite the old homestead, which soon became and is now the residence of Frank Harlow Esquire, who retired from business, as he settled down to enjoy himself amid the never-forgotten scenes of his boyhood and to endeavor to make up by attention to his parents for the long years he had failed in his duty to them. Mr. Harlow is a happy old man and instills it as a sacred lesson into the minds of his grandchildren to beware of cultivating a hasty temper, which had been so full of misery to himself. Mrs. P. Among the Animals You call this a carry van, don't you? said Mrs. Partington at the Menagerie. Maybe it is, but I should like to know where the silks and other costive things are that we read of, which the carry vans carry over the deserts of Sarah in the eastern country. The elephant has them in his trunk, Marm, replied the keeper. Then that is the reason, I suppose, why he always carries it before him, so he can have an eye on it. But what is this animal with a large wart on his nose? That is a new, Marm. Mercy on me, exclaimed Mrs. P. This must be one of them foreign news that the steamer brings over, they feed him, I dare say, on potatoes and vegetables, and that is why breadstuffs and flour are so awful dear most always after they arrive. And the old lady left soon after, full of new light and admiration for the monkeys. End of Section 16 Recording by John Brandon Section 17 of Life and Sings of Mrs. Partington This is a LibriVox Recording. All LibriVox Recordings are in the public domain. For more information or to volunteer, please visit LibriVox.org. Recording by John Brandon Life and Sings of Mrs. Partington and Others of the Family by B. P. Shilliber. Section 17 Peaceful Cogitations When will distention and strife cease among our foreign relations? said Mrs. Partington with a sigh, as she looked abstractly at the black profile on the wall. As if she thought it could answer the question. When will distention cease? The Peace Congress didn't do no good, I see, for the Russians and ostriches are a carrying on just as bad as ever they did, committing all sorts of outrages and wrongs on the hungry. Heaven never smiles on them that distresses the poor. We ought to hold the rushers and all that belongs to them in excrescence. I don't know about Hayden the Rushy's salve, though, because they hate on us no harm, and the ostriches, too, that lives on nails and gimblets, that the wild beast man told us about. The unnatural heathen. Then the Frenchmen are all in a commotion, and I should think they would be eaten frogs and sitch things, and the English ministers a quarrel like dogs delight, where it will end I can't see. She laid down the times as she said I can't see, and Ike, who had been burning off the outside pages of Levitz Almanac, while she was speaking, here poked the light out, leaving the room and the subject equally in the dark. Home Missions So Mrs. Brattle has become a member of the Home Missions, said Mrs. Partingson. Well, I am rejoiced to hear it, for her poor husband's sake. For though I think it is a husband's duty to help about the house some, he shouldn't be left to wash and cook for himself and children and mend his own clothes, as poor Brattle has had to while she was running around. I hope the Home Missions will keep her at home now. And the old lady stirred Husshu Shang with animation, and she made the comment and didn't see that Ike was making tremendous havoc with the pound cake. It is astonishing what opposite effects will be produced by the same cause. As for instance, suppose a Blacking, whose principal component is alcohol, its effect when applied to boots is apparent in the cracking of the leather and in the opening of fissures admitting the free passage of water. When applied to man in quantity, the same fluid has the effect of making him tight. Old Roger and the Borders Old Roger attempted the following upon the Borders one morning. They were all sitting quietly at breakfast, when with a most provoking smile around the corners of his mouth, as if he himself fully appreciated what he was going to say, he asked if any of them could tell him why a man deeply impressed with reverence was like a very hungry one. The idea of hunger associated with the bountiful board, at which they were seated, caused the blood to rush through every vein of the landlady's body to her face, for she felt hurt. The Borders all said they didn't know. They couldn't see the least resemblance. Why, said he, chuckling, it is because he inwardly feels a gnaw. They couldn't understand what he meant, an awe, and he said it was no use talking to men whose stomachs were full of the bounties of life. This he said to propitiate the landlady, who was all smiles again, as bright and sparkling as the coffee in his cup, which catching the rays of the sun danced and shimmered on the wall overhead. BAD TEMPORS How these shopkeepers will fib it, said Mrs. Partington, with an expression of pain on her venerable features. That young man I bought these needles of said they were good tempered, only see how spitefully this one has macerated my finger. She held up the wounded member, a small red spot denoting the injury. The sewing circle sympathized with her. It will feel better, I dare say, after it has done aching. Continued she, as she took the last stitch in the thick little boy's jacket, and rolled up her work for the day. Many a pair of razored trousers has the world seen added to its wealth, and the world never knew where they came from, perhaps didn't care. GIVING THANKS May the Lord make us thankful for the critter comforts spread out before us, said Deacon Hayes, over the hard-boiled beef on the table. Well perhaps he will, says Mrs. Partington to herself, but it seems to me it would be easier to be thankful if the meat was tenderer, and then like a barefooted boy, she went cautiously among the muscles. A GOOD DEAL OF TRUTH Poor girl's fair, said Mrs. Partington, as she spelled out the inscription upon a flag that swung across Washington Street. Her eyes dimming with the vapors that arose from her warm heart. Poor girl's fair. Indeed they do, and fair hard do. God help them, many of them. Fair hard with them, that should treat them better. Trying to rise, till all their risable powers is gone. And they are ship-racked, and cast away, and driv to making trousers, and shirts for a living, and die on it. I do pity them. A melancholy tone pervaded her speech and thoughts the rest of the day. Her snuff, the choicest macaboy, bore a taint of wormwood and rou. Her tea was salt, as if tears were an ingredient in its composition. Respects revealed red eyes in every visitor, and the faces of the poor girls looked out at her from the teapot and the sugar bowl, the lamp, and the little scrapbox on the work table. Bless her kind heart. There is a wide difference between the throes of an expiring titan, and the throes of a straggling titan. Political extravagance rebuked I don't blame people for complaining about the extravagance and costiveness of governments at Mrs. Partington, as she was reading an ardent appeal to the people in a political newspaper. She always took an interest in politics after Paul was defeated one year as a candidate for inspector. I don't blame them a mite. Here they are now, going to canvassing the state, as if the earth wasn't good enough for them to walk on. I wonder why they don't get aisle-cloth or kid-minister and done with it. And I heard yesterday, said Ike, putting his small oar in, that some of them was going to scour the country to get voters. Well, continued she, that would be better than throwing dust in the people's eyes, as they say some of them do, canvassing the state indeed. She fell into an abstraction on the schemes of politicians, and took seven pinches of snuff and rapid succession to aid her deliberations. Slay Writing As the last paving stone hides itself beneath the descending snow, the jingle of the bells informs us that slayings come, and from that minute writing on runners becomes a mania. Every young head and some pretty old heads are full of expedience for fun. Boys hunt up their sleds and dash out of doors to the terror of nervous mamas, who prophesy disaster dire for their progeny. The old slays and new slays, the big slays and little slays, are put in requisition, and the streets are full of the music of the bells, bells, bells. All the day long their silvery notes are sounding in our ears, and later nights state citizens who are staying at home are disturbed by the frantic yells of returning slay parties, mingling with the noise of bells, making the hour hideous, or the sound of voices in cheerful song making melody with the tintonabulous accompaniment. We like to hear this last. We gladly listen to its approach, as we snuggle beneath the blankets in the watches of the night, and distinguish the cord of male and female voices in some familiar strain, and are almost sorry to hear it melt away upon the midnight air in distance like voices heard in dreams. There used to be great sport to us in slaying, though we were never sanguinary, but time has tampered us by matters of graver import. We can indulge now in little beside our daily omnibus rides, and can hardly realize in these the buoyancy of old enthusiasm. We watch for the appearance of our domicile, coming to meet us, and pull the check-string at our door careful not to go a step beyond. So little do we feel now about riding. But in the old time, gee who, how our heart leaped to the music of the bells, how quickly our pulse throbbed to the maddening impulse of the moment, as we, quiet and sedate, though we now are, flew over the slippery road. Haya! Haya! Haya! How we dashed on our course, leaving house and tree and millstone behind us! We knew no greater speed than this, for it was anti-railroad time. And the iron horse, we think someone has given it this name before, had not then annihilated space, as we believe somebody has said. We love to feel the cool air revel upon our cheek, and whistle among our hair. And, as it came up from over the smoothly frozen ponds, with stinging force, we laughed at its violence in the glow of excitement. The whorefrost gleamed upon hair and eyelash and fur collar, and our breath streamed away behind us on the cold air like steam. Haya! Haya! Haya! We cried. The old pine woods echoed the eldritch scream. And people in distant cottages caught the sound and listened to the unusual strain. And the woodchoppers ceased from their labours to catch a glimpse of the fleeting fiends that awaken such strange echoes. Then a stop at mine in, and the old-fashioned southern hot. We took a mulled cider, of course, made all right for the return, and a ride by starlight closed the day's joy. It was joy then. It was long before we knew Mrs. Partington and Ike and the perplexity of types. Ghosts of big slays came up before us, were in full of happy people nestled beneath the buffaloes, and hats and hoods occupy alternate positions throughout the party. Pleasant voices come back to us, and the old familiar faces renew themselves to us. Delightful. But as memory recalls the happy scene, the thought of a fair form and face, the brightest of the group flits like a spirit across our mind, leaving behind a shadow of sorrow and gloom. Ah, Maria! The sweet eye and voice that animated and blessed us are now blessing other spheres. The music of that glad tongue is now attuned to the music of celestial harmonies. There is no memory of joy that we may recall, however bright, but has some wool connected intimately with it, and twin smiles and tears make up the sum of the past. Haya! Haya! Haya! comes to our domicile and startles us, as we write, and dashing along the nearly deserted street alarming ponderous watchman on their walk, a sleigh comes furiously by, and another, and another, and the music of the bells chimes gratefully upon our ear. Here is a sleigh-right song that may do to sing some time if any one can find a tune to fit it. Over the snow, over the snow, away we go, away we go, the earth gleams white beneath the stars tonight, and all is bright above and below. Old care goodbye, old care goodbye, from you we fly, from you we fly, as if on wings our fleet steed springs, and the welkin rings with our joyous cry. Gay mirth is here, gay mirth is here, our hearts to cheer, our hearts to cheer, while on we glide there's one by our side, to cheer or to chide, who is always dear. Over the snow, over the snow, away we go, away we go, there's freedom rare, abroad in the air, everywhere above and below. Hunk for the Union The Union dissolved, said Mrs. Partington, with her specs upon her forehead, and her finger raised as if admonishing the universe. Dissolve the Union, and who would dare assassinate such a thing as that, such an outrage on the body's politics? I thought it would come to this, and if they dissolve the Union, which on them will have the children? Or will they let them grow up without nobody to look ardor their moral training, or things? Never think of dissolving it nor breaking it, what God has joined together, let not man put us under, and that's gospel truth, and they can't do it if we stick by each other. With what an emphatic, italic jerk the snuff box came out, as she concluded speaking. The remembrance of her felicitous Union with Paul crossed her mind, and the remembered pain of its dissolution mingled with her patriotic emotion, and she dropped a tear as she uttered, What would our foreign relations think of it? The Union was safe from that day, henceforth and forever. Mrs. Partington says it seems to her a queer provision of nature that eggs should be scarce when they are so dear. Leaf from Philanthropos Journal Monday morning, 7 a.m., summoned to the door when shaving, a boy after cold vitals. Sorry, we had none. Ours were all hot. These evils come not as single spies, but in battalions, seven beggar boys in succession for cold vitals. Strange that they should be so anxious to have it cold. It shows a corrupt taste, probably the vitiating effect of poverty. 8 a.m., woman and child asking alms. Heart bled for them. Strong smell of gin. Persuaded that it was a gentle, soporific for child, nothing more. Subject to colic. Husband in California, been there three years. Seven children dependent on her exertions. Didn't seem to exert herself much. Promised to call and see her. 9 a.m., foreigner with a certificate. Find looking man. Certificate reads right. Signed John Smith. Honest sounding name. Think I've heard it before. Horrible volcano in Italy swallowed up his vineyard, and threw him and a large family upon the world. Heaven help him. Can't speak a word of English, told me so himself. Fell strongly inclined to aid him. Will hand his name to the wandering Samaritan society. 10 a.m., dressed to go out. Gentleman, a stranger, asked me if I had a nine-pence in my pocket, and if I would loan it to him to procure a letter from the post office. Sorry, I hadn't the precise amount, but gave him a dime. Was surprised to see him go into a drinking-house. Suppose it must be one of the new sub-officers. 11 a.m., asked by a little barefoot boy for a scent, implored me for his mother's sake to give him one. Knew the deceptions of this kind of beggars, and refused. The urchin called me a most scandalous name and followed behind me repeating it, though several of my friends were in hearing. Gave him a quarter to get rid of him. Shall never forget the horrid leer he gave me. Great depravity. Training days. I don't object to training days altogether, said Mrs. Partington to the major, as the ancient and honourables passed her door. The dress looks well, and the children likes the music. And I know this is moral training because the governor is there and his suet with his chateau on his head and his sword by his side. How finely he does look, so bold and portable, I declare. He looks too good to be a malicious officer. She here leaned out of the door to catch a last view of the corpse as it turned a near corner, and a portly-looking gentleman under a cocked hat waved his hand to her as the pageant swept from her view. Mrs. Partington resumed her knitting that had been disturbed by the music. Life, life, how curious it is. Curious is the word. We wouldn't have any other, for it expresses the very thing. How curious it is from the cradle to the grave. The hopes of the young are curious, reaching forward into the future, and building castles in perspective for the possessors that will crumble before them ere they arrive at that spot in time where their fabrics are located. How curious it is, the first dawning of love, where the young heart surrenders itself to its dreams of bliss, illumined with stars and garnished with moonshine. How curious it is when matrimony crowns the wishes and cares, fancied to be surmounted by ardent hearts, are found to be but just commenced. How curious it is, says the young mother, as she spreads upon hers the tiny hand of her babe, and endeavors to read in its dim lines the fortunes of her child. Curious indeed would such revealing be could she there read them. How curious it is, the greed for gain, that marks and marrs the life of man, leading him away after strange gods, forgetting all the object and good of life in a heartless chase for a phantom light that leaves him at last in three-fold Egyptian darkness. How curious it is, the love of life that clings to the old, and draws them back imploringly to the scenes of earth, begging for a longer look at time and its frivolities, with eternity and its joys within their reach. How curious it is when at last the great end draws nigh the glazing eye, the struggle, the groan, proclaiming dissolution, and the still clay that denotes the extinguishment of the spark known as life. How curious it is that the realities of the immortal world should be based upon the crumbling ashes of this, and that the path to infinite light should lie through the dark shadow of the grave. How curious it is, in its business and pleasures, its joys and sorrows, its hopes and fears, its temptations and triumphs. And as we contemplate life in all its phases, we must exclaim, how curious it is. An interesting fact. Dr. Digg and old Roger were conversing upon wonders in nature, and the doctor had given a long account of discoveries he had made during his travels in the east of intelligence in different kinds of animals. The elephant, the ichnumen, and Oxford County bear being particularly mentioned for their sagacity. With regard to the last name description of animals, he relied principally upon the testimony of his friend Fitz Whistler, who had given him some wonderful particulars concerning their habits. Mr. F. had stated to him during a conversation that the Oxford County bear had been known to be at times devotedly attached to New England rum, and to make no great scruples about using, now and then, tobacco in its various forms, which he considered a degree of intelligence very nearly approximating to the refinement of human civilization and surpassing that of all other animals. Roger admitted the truth in the main of what the doctor submitted, but said that however much he was disposed to yield to Fitz Whistler and the doctor in most matters, in this one particular of superiority he must differ from them. For there were animals in his own state, New Hampshire, that excelled them all. The doctor had not claimed for either class he had named any knowledge in mathematics, but from a long residence in the Granite State, the doctor, with that greatness of mine so characteristic of the individual, immediately tendered his hat to Roger, who magnanimously placed it again upon the pundits head. New Patents We often read, in patent office reports, of patents being granted for improvement in governors. We don't care how much governors are improved, and all efforts in this direction will receive the full consent of the governed. We have seen, too, not long since, that a patent has been given for an improvement in railing. This invention must be a vast utility in quarrelsome neighborhoods, where the quality of the railing has long needed improvement. Reef Answers It is a terrible affliction to fall into the hands of one who either cannot or will not answer a question directly. Who will either evade a direct answer or buy an everlasting prolixity in replying render his information useless? The question you ask, like the eye of the ancient mariner, holds you fast, and you cannot escape until, as the reviewers say, you arrive at the end of the volume. For instance, Mr. Walker is out in the country and going towards a certain place. He is in doubt about what direction he shall take, and asks a man whom he meets the way to blank. Why, the man replies, after hesitating for five minutes, if you should go back a quarter of a mile, you could take the road that leads round by the old mill, but that'd be a little further, or you can take the road straight ahead and get over the wall and cut across, only there's a swamp in the way, which would bring you about half a mile out of the way. Or you may go through Deacon Willey's pasture, you can see his barn from here, and when you come to the barn, take the path that leads through the woods. This is the farthest way, but the gals allers go through this way when they go home with their sweethearts. Or you can go up the road to the left, and when you come to the crossroads, turn to the right, or the shortest way is for you to go right ahead, and you'll get there in a half an hour. Organs A quiet tone is observable in the Russian organs, said Mrs. Partington, as the line in the telegraph news arrested her eye. She mused upon at a moment. Church organs, I dare say, and we heard the other day that the emptier of Russia, dear pious man, was organizing his soldiers to go and give the gospel to the Turks at the point of the bayonet. Quick-toned organs Well I wonder if they won't get one for our church, that'll play nothing but serious tunes. For the one we've got'll play Yankee Doodle just as well as Old Hundred, and for my part I don't put no faith into it. She looked at the vein, on top of the distant spire, that turned in the wind and mixed with variableness with church organs that played many tunes, and men of the church as variable as the organs, while Ike was teasing the kitten with a brand new cap border that the old lady was just doing up. End of Section 17, Recording by John Brandon End of Life and Sayings of Mrs. Partington and Other Members of the Family by B.P. Shilliberer