"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 put 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 afeerd 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.

666

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 raythur a sudden pull-up, ain't it, Sammy?" inquired Mr. Weller.

"Not a bit on it," said Sam: "she'll vish there wos more, and that's the great art o' letterwritin'.'

"Well," said Mr. Weller, "there's somethin' in that; and I wish your mother-in-law 'ud 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 'Pickvick,' then," said Mr. Weller: "it's a wery good name, and an 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 wos hung for a highway robbery; and he wos only a Cambervell man, so even that's no rule."

But Sam was not to be dissuaded from the poetical idea that had occurred to him, so he signed the letter

"Your love-sick

Pickwick."

Dickens.

THE INDIANS AND THE MUSTARD.

A PARTY of Indians were being fêted on the occasion of their first introduction to the manners and customs of the "pale-faces." The stoicism of the red man is a well-known trait. From childhood these children of the forest are schooled to endure pain without wincing or crying, and to be equally undemonstrative in their emotions of joy. Any departure from this standard of manliness they regard as a contemptible weakness. The Indians of our story were true "braves," whom

no new experience, either of pleasure or displeasure, could startle into any sign more expressive than a grunt, their countenances being uniformly grave and impassive. Behold them at the festal board. Everything is novel and strange, yet they give no token of surprise, and scorn to betray their sense of awkwardness even by so much as asking questions. They take what is offered them and gulp it down with stern and desperate gravity. To one of them a pot of mustard is handed. He helps himself liberally to the mildlooking mixture, and swallows a good spoonful of it. Spirit of the tornado! Fiend of the burning prairie! What is this molten fire, compared to which the "fire-water" of the trader is as bland as milk? The unhappy warrior struggled to conceal his agony; but, though he succeeded in avoiding any contortion of the features, the tears, to his unspeakable disgust, chased themselves in a stream down his dusky cheeks. What would he not have given for an opportunity of scalping the innocent occasion of his trouble!

Meanwhile, his discomfort had not escaped the keen eyes of an Indian who sat beside him. Nudging his tearful comrade, the latter inquired, in low, guttural accents, the cause of his emotion. Suppressing his rage, the other mildly answered that he was thinking of his honored father who had lately gone to the happy hunting-grounds. Whether this explanation was regarded by the questioner as perfectly satisfactory we have no means of knowing; he did not, however, press

Ah !!

his inquiries any further, nor does he appear to have suspected that the contents of the little jar had had anything in particular to do with the doleful memories of his friend. Presently the mustard came to him. It was a compound all untried; but the warrior was a stranger to fear. He took the condiment without hesitation, and he swallowed it freely-just once. Death and torments! Is he on fire? Will he die? He is not quite sure; but it requires all his strength to keep quiet. The blood mounts to his head, and the tears-ugh! that he should thus play the squaw before all the company !-rush from his bulging eyes. Indian No. 1 is an interested observer of this little incident. His eyes had been upon the mustard-pot, and he had quietly awaited developments. His turn had now come; his revenge was at hand. Nudging his inwardly-writhing neighbor, he asked, in mildest gutturals, "My brother, why do you weep ?" To which the furious sufferer gently replied, "I was weeping to think that when your precious father went to the happy hunting-grounds what a pity it was he did not take you with him."

CAUDLE'S WEDDING-DAY.

CAUDLE, love, do you know what next Sunday is? No? You don't! Well, was there ever such a strange man! Can't you guess, darling? Next Sunday, dear? Think, love, a minute,-just think. What! and you don't know now? Ha!

If I hadn't a better memory than you I don't know how we should ever get on. Well, then, pet, shall I tell you, dear, what next Sunday is? Why, then, it's our wedding-day. What are you groaning at, Mr. Caudle? I don't see anything to groan at. If anybody should groan, I'm sure it isn't you. No: I rather think it's I who ought to groan!

Oh, dear! That's fourteen years ago. You were a very different man then, Mr. Caudle. What do you say? And I was a very different woman? Not at all; just the same. Oh, you needn't roll your head about on the pillow in that way I say, just the same. Well, then, if I'm altered, whose fault is it? Not mine, I'm sure, -certainly not. Don't tell me that I couldn't talk at all then: I could talk just as well then as I can now; only then I hadn't the same cause. It's you have made me talk. say? You're very sorry for it? nothing but insult me.

What do you Caudle, you do

Ha! You were a good-tempered, nice creature fourteen years ago, and would have done anything for me. Yes, yes, if a woman would be always cared for she should never marry. There's quite an end of the charm when she goes to church! We're all angels while you're courting us; but once married, how soon you pull our wings off! No, Mr. Caudle, I'm not talking nonsense; but the truth is, you like to hear nobody talk but yourself. Nobody ever tells me that I talk nonsense but you. Now, it's no use your