after a drink, the boy would suddenly seize the cup he had just set down and refill it, and drink as though he had wrapped his stomach in the Desert of Sahara, glaring suspiciously over the top of the cup at the waiting passenger as he drank. When he was in his seat he watched the aisle narrowly, and if he saw any passenger get up and move toward the water. cooler, he would jump up and race for it. If ne got there first, he would drink and snore over the cup until the thirsty traveller forgot what he went down there after. People began to wonder how much the boy was gauged for, and if he wasn't rather straining his capacity. The remotest hint or suggestion was enough to send him back to the cooler. When the train ran over a creek, the water made him think of his thirst. When it rattled over a long stretch of dry prairie, the absence of water drove him mad. I was afraid the supply of water would give out before the boy was filled up, and he was rather a small boy too. His interior circumference, I think, must have inclosed an area double in extent to that inclosed by the exterior belt. Near Waseca we ran nearly a mile without the boy making a stop at the tank. I grew very nervous now, for I was fearful that during such an unheard-of abstinence from water his pumps would run dry, rust out, and he might blow up. So I leaned over the edge of the seat and said, carelessly:

"By George! but I am thirsty. I wonder if there is any water in this car?"

You want to understand me now as recording very plainly, and without any mental reservation, the fact that the boy's mother, sitting beside him, was no fool. Her eyes snapped when she heard my careless and innocent remark; she took in every syllable of it, and she turned on me in a flash, with, “I wish you would mind your own business, and leave my boy alone!"

A low, mocking murmur of applause went through the car— a little of it for the indignant mother, some of it for the charity boy, but most of it for me. She suppressed "yours, truly" very successfully, but it was too late. Long before she had finished that brief sentence her boy was down at the water-cooler, holding his eyes tight shut to keep the water from running out of them, while he flooded his system as though he had taken a contract to keep up a perennial freshet inside of himself. BURLINGTON HAWKEYE.

MASKED BATTERIES.

IF you'll keep it secret honor bright—
I'll tell you a little story, Joe;
Something that happened to me last night,
Here at the masquerade ball, you know.

T

You may have noticed I've spooned of late
On Laura Clyde-nothing else to do —
She's rather pretty, at any rate,

Fond of flirting, and I am too.

Laura's a friend of my sister Fan;'

Her room joins mine, and the walls are thin;
So I, by accident, heard them plan
Their dresses for masquerading in.

The ball was lovely, the costumes fine,
And either dancing or iced champagne
Can't say which, but expect the wine
Just a little confused my brain.

So meeting Laura

a gypsy maid.

Knew her at once by her dress, you see, I took her out for a promenade

On the piazza all alone with me.

"Flirted ?" Said I was deep in love, Madly worshipped the ground she trod, Vowed it by all below, above.

Did she return it ?

—a word, a nod?

The fair head dropped in assent; and I
Snatched off the mask-with rapture kissed her

A peal of laughter was my reply,

By Jove! old boy, it was my sister!

Laugh at me, Joe; don't spare my pride,
Nor mind my feelings-I feel so glad

It was my sister, not Laura Clyde ;
Heavens! What an escape I had!

"VANITY VERSES."

THE STORY OF THE TILES.

BEFORE a quaint old fireplace,
Full fifty years ago,

Dear grandma and I, a child,
With locks of gold and snow,
Looked, our two heads together,
She sitting in her chair,

And I erect beside her,
A comfortable pair;

For while within the firelight our eyes were lit with smiles,
She told her little grandson the story of the tiles.

Here was a knight in armor,
A brave old lord was he!
He won full toilsome battles
In many a far countree;
And here, his lute with ribbons
Trimmed bravely, fond and true,
Beneath his lady's casement,

Sang a troubadour in blue.

Now with pure fact or fancy dear grandma time beguiles,
Now fairy lore she weaveth in her story of the tiles.

The stork with leg uplifted;
The windmill on the plain;
The sun with rays of azure;
The sheaf of ripened grain,

Were each a theme for story,
For song or comic verse,
And merrily and often

Did grandma these rehearse.

For quips and quirks were grandma's, and cranks, and wantor

wiles,

When once she got a-telling her stories of the tiles.

The fireplace stands unshaken;
The milkmaid trips so gay

To meet the fat old beadle,

Who always looks her way;

The frog who went a-wooing
Still peeps out at the crane,
But grandma with her stories
Will never come again.

From that old English fireplace I've wandered many miles,
But still my heart remembers the stories of the tiles.

Like that old knight in armor
Brave must I be, she said,
And courteous as the singer
To every wife and maid;
Industrious and cheerful

As the milkmaid on the lea,
And prayerful and religious

As the beadle ought to be.

Alas! such spotless record how many a fault defiles !
I've proved a sorry hero for her stories of the tiles.

But still when night is falling,
And children's voices call
Across the pleasant play-room,
And down the echoing hall,
I find myself, while waiting
To catch them in my arms,
Thinking the stories over

With all their varied charms;

And then, when grouped around me, their lips are wreathed

with smiles,

I tell their great-grandmother's sweet stories of the tiles.

GOLDEN AGE.

THE CITY MAN AND SETTING HEN.

A CITY man was asked by the lady of the house if he would take a hen off the nest, as it wanted to set, and she didn't want it to.

66

Certainly," said he; and he immediately started out to the Larn, where the hens are kept, to crush out the maternal prospects of this particular one.

He went straight for the nest to lift her off, and reached out

his hand for that purpose, but immediately drew it back again and tucked it up under one arm, and squeezed it a little, while he drew up his lips as if to whistle something. Then he stood there and stared at the hen, and she lifted up her head and stared back at him, winking her eyes with singular vehemence. "Get off, won't you?" said he, after a pause.

She made no response. He drew out his hand and looked at a red spot on one of his knuckles, and then put the knuckle in his mouth to cool it, looking all the while at the hen, and wondering how on earth she moved so quickly. The longer he eyed her, the less he felt inclined to touch her, and finally he climbed up a post to a beam which ran over the nest, and worked his way on till he got just above the hen, took off his hat and shook it at her, and advised her to "get." But she only looked at him one eye at a time, and clucked ominously. He told her if she did not leave, he'd come down there and kick her through the barn, but immediately gave up the bloodthirsty design when he reflected that it was a dumb animal and couldn't reason with a human being.

Then he happened to think of his pants, which were white linen, and rubbed his fingers on the beam to find them full of black dust, which led him to work his body around to look at his pants, and, while making this natural move, he suddenly slipped, made a plunge to renew his hold, slipped again, shrieked for help, and then came down on top of the hen and the nest, smashing them both to the floor, upsetting a barrel, and filling the air with dust, feathers, hen-noises, and shrieks.

When the family reached the barn, the unfortunate man, Looking like a circus poster on legs, had got on his feet, and was turning round and rubbing his head in an abstracted manner, and every time he turned, an omelet on a white linen base came to view, while the hen stood up in the farthest corner of the barn, on one leg, with a look of reproach mingled with astonishment on her countenance.