About this time I amused myself trying to guess where he would be most likely to cut me this shave; but he got ahead of me, and sliced me on the end of the chin before I had got my mind made up. He immediately sharpened his razor. I tried to get him to put it up, dreading that he would make for the side of my chin, my pet tender spot, but he said he only wanted to just smooth off one little roughness and slipped his razor along the forbidden ground, and the dreaded signs of a close shave rose up smarting.

Now he soaked his towel in bay rum, and slapped it all over my face. Then he dried it by slapping with the dry part of the towel. Next he poked bay rum into the cut place, then choked the wound with powdered starch, then soaked it with bay rum again, and would have gone on soaking and powdering it forevermore, no doubt, if I had not rebelled. He powdered my whole face now, straightened me up, and began to plough my hair thoughtfully. He suggested a shampoo, and said my hair needed it very badly. I observed that I shampooed it myself very thoroughly yesterday. He next recommended some of "Smith's Hair Glorifier," and offered to sell me a bottle. I declined. He praised the new perfume, "Jones's Delight of the Toilet," and proposed to sell me some of that. I declined again. He tendered me a tooth-wash of his own invention, and when I declined, offered to trade knives with me.

He turned to business after the miscarriage of this last enterprise, sprinkled me all over, legs and all, greased my hair in defiance of my protests, rubbed and scrubbed and combed and brushed it, parting it behind and plastering the eternal inverted arch of hair down on my forehead; and then, while combing my scant eyebrows and defiling them with pomade, strung out an account of the achievements of a six-ounce black-and-tan terrier of his, till I heard the whistles blow for noon, and knew I was five minutes too late for the train. Then he snatched away the towel, brushed it lightly about my face, passed his comb through my eyebrows once more, and gaily sung out, "Next!"

This barber died of apoplexy two hours later. I am going to attend his funeral.

THE PICKANINNY.

THE pickaninny was alone in bed. The bed was a “shuck" mattress on the floor, and the covering a meal-sack; but that was all that the pickaninny needed-the night was hot. Outside in the marsh the frogs kept calling,

"Little nig! little nig! little nig!"

This made the pickaninny mad. He would stone those frogs to-morrow. It had grown quite dark, and the pickaninny was restless. He didn't want to go to sleep; he wanted to run out and roll in the cool grass. His leg itched and he scratched it. Then his kinky hair caught in the coarse canvas. It was too bad! Those frogs were making fun of him with their

"Little nig! little nig!"

Finally, one old fellow came out exultingly with

"Little nig! little nig! little nig-ig-igger!"

That was too much! He scrambled to his feet and pattered to the window. Clambering up on the sill, he sat with his little bare black legs hanging out and kicking the wall.

"Wisht I wuz a frog," he sighed, disconsolately. "Dey ain't gotter go ter bed 'fore de sun done set. Ain't gotter git licked wen dey upsets the soap kittle, nudder. Only pap say dey hatter be tadpoles 'fore dey's frogs.

"Yer shet yo' mouf down dere, er I'll come an' bus' de lot er yer," he called, as the frog chorus swelled up again.

Just then the moon peeped over the tops of the pines. "Hey dere, Mr. Moon! Lordy! ain't he big! He mus' lib on odder folks' roosters. Mammy say dat what make Brer Thomson so slick. Wisht I wuz in de moon! Den I cud see-cud see 's far as de kingdum come. Hey! What's dat ?" he exclaimed, catching sight of the reflection in the "rain-bar'l." "Nudder moon! Mammy! Mammy! Two moons!"

But the pickaninny leaned just a little too far out. A squeal -a splash, and when mammy reached the door, he was wildly squirming and spluttering in the barrel.

"Well, I wuz a frog, an' I wuz in de moon, anyhow," said the pickaninny when he was back in bed again. Then he fell asleep. And the frogs kept on calling "Little nig! little nig!" and the moon grinned more than ever.

THE CONDUCTOR'S STORY.

WHE

MAURICE E. M'LOUGHLIN.

HEN a man has been railroadin' twenty long years,
He gits kinder hardened an' rough,

An' scenes of affliction don't trouble him much,

'Cause his natur' is coarse-like an' tough.

But a scene that took place on my train one cold night
Would a' melted the heart of a stone,

An' among the adventures which I have been through,
That night jist stands out all alone.

'Twas a bitter cold night, an' the train was jam full,
Every berth in the sleeper was taken;

The people had jist turned in for the night,

An' the train for New York was a-makin',
When, jist as the people to snore had begun,
An' I with a satisfied sigh

Had sat down in a chair for a short rest, I heard
The sound of a young baby's cry.

It was one o' those loud, aggravatin'-like yells,
O' the pattern that makes you jist itch
For a gun or an axe, an' excites up your mind
With wild thoughts o' murder an' sich.
It went through that car, an' I needn't remark
That the snorin' stopped right there an' then,
An' that sleeper was filled with a bilin' hot crowd
O' mad women an' wild, swearin' men.

The curtains jist then that concealed Berth 16
Were opened, an' out come a man—
As fine a young feller as ever I seen,

But his face was all white-like an' wan.
He carried the kid that was raisin' the row,
An' commenced walkin' down through the aisle,
A-tryin' to stop its loud screechin'-but, pshaw!
It seemed to get wuss every mile.

An idea seemed to strike one old feller jist then,
An' he said to the pale-faced young man,

"It seems to me, stranger, that kid could be stilled By a simple an' feasible plan;

The noise that it's makin' betrays what it needsThe child wants its mother, that's plain;

An' why don't you call her? Ten chances to one,
She's sleepin' somewhere on the train."

A look then came over that young father's face,
A look full of anguish an' pain:

A look that will haunt me as long as I live,

As long as I work on a train ;

An' he answered that man, in a hoarse, stifled voice, That sounded as though from afar :

"Her mother is sleepin' on board of this train

In a box in the baggage car."

WHY THEY DIDN'T BOW.

WE passed upon the oaken stair,
With never a bow or smile;

And I coolly gazed in her eyes so rare,
Though my heart beat fast the while.
Ah! why was it thus that she walked away,
Why did I my feelings smother?

You see, there was nothing that I could say—
For we didn't know each other!

THE JASMINE FLOWER.

MONOLOGUE, FOR A MAN.

SAINT-JUIRS.

Translated by Isabel Smithson.

Scene: An elegantly furnished bedroom.

[Mr. S. enters, and, after putting a spray of jasmine on the mantel, takes up some matches and tries to strike one.]

First Match [breaking].—Crack !

Second Match [breaking].—Crick!

Third Match [breaking].-Cra-ack!

Mr. S.-Confound them!

Fourth Match [burning].—P-fizz! Pfizz!
Chandelier.-At last!

Clock.-Ding, ding, ding, ding, ding, ding, ding, ding, ding.
Mr. S.-Nine o'clock already. The dickens!

Jasmine Flower.-Hurry, hurry; you have hardly time to dress for the opera.

Mr. S.-All I care for is the ballet.

Jasmine. And the third dancer on the right.

Mr. S.-Yes, the third on the right.

[He begins to dress hur

riedly, throwing his clothes on the floor.]

Carpet. What is the matter with him this evening?

Mr. S.-It was a good idea of mine to say I had important business to settle, and to send my wife alone with the baby to her mother at Dijon.

Jasmine. It was worthy of a genius.

Mr. S.-And now I have given the servants a holiday. I am free, absolutely free.