cheered. Rubin, he kinder bowed, like he wanted to say, 'Much obleeged, but I'd rather you would'nt interrupt me.'

"He stopped a minute or two to fetch breath. Then he got mad. He rushed his fingers through his hair, he shoved up his sleeves, he opened his coat-tails a leetle further, he drug up his stool, he leaned over, and, sir, he just went for that old pianner. He ran a quarter stretch down the low grounds of the bass, till he got clean into the bowels of the earth, and you heard thunder galloping after thunder, thro' the hollows and caves of perdition; and then he fox-chased his right hand with his left till he got away out of the treble into the clouds, where the notes was finer than the p'ints of cambric needles, and you couldn't hear nothin' but the shadders of 'em. And then he would'nt let the old pianner go. He fetcht up his right wing, he fetcht up his left wing, he fetcht up his centre, he fetched up his reserves. He fired by file, he fired by platoons, by company, by regiments, by brigades. He opened his cannon, siege guns down thar, Napoleon here, twelve pounders yonder, big guns, little guns, middle-size guns, every livin' battery and bomb a goin' at the same time. The house trembled, the lights danced, the walls shuk, the floor rocktheaven and earth, creation, Moses, glory, Hallelujah, roodleoodle-oodle-oodle-oodle-ruddle-uddle-uddle-uddle-raddle-addleaddle-addle-riddle-iddle-iddle-iddle-reetle-eetle-eetle-eetle-p-r-rr-r lang! per lang! per lang! p-r-r-r-r-r-lang! Bang!

"With that bang he lifted himself bodily into the air, and he come down with his knees, his ten fingers, his ten toes, his elbows, and his nose, striking every single solitary key on that pianner at the same time. The thing busted and went off into seventeen hundred and fifty-seven thousand five hundred and forty-two hemi-demi-semi-quavers, and I knowed no mo'.'

A Fishy Story.

(From "Three Men in a Boat." By kind permission of the Author Mr. Jerome K. Jerome).

If ever you have an evening to spare, up the river, I should advise you to drop into one of the little village inns, and take a seat in the tap room. You will be nearly sure to meet one or two old rod men, sipping their toddy there, and they will tell you enough fishy stories, in half an hour, to give you indigestion for a month.

George and I-I don't know what had become of Harris ; he had gone out and hal a shave, early in the afternoon, and had then come back and spent full forty minutes in pipeclaying his shoes; we had not seen him since-George and I, therefore, and the dog, left to ourselves, went for a walk to Wallingford on the second evening, and, coming home, we called in at a little river side inn, for a rest, and other things.

We went into the parlour and sat down. There was an old fellow there, smoking a long clay pipe, and we naturally began chatting.

He told us that it had been a fine day to-day, and we told him that it had been a fine day yesterday, and then we all told each other that we thought it would be a fine day to morrow ; and George said the crops seemed to be coming up nicely.

After that it came out, somehow or other, that we were strangers in the neighbourhood, and that we were going away the next morning.

Then a pause ensued in the conversation, during which our eyes wandered round the room. They finally rested upon a dusty old glass case, fixed very high up above the chimneypiece, and containing a trout. It rather fascinated me, that trout; it was such a monstrous fish, In fact, at first glance, I thought it was a cod.

"Ah!" said the old gentleman, following the direction of my gaze, "fine fellow that, ain't he?"

"Quite uncommon," I murmured; and George asked the old man how much he thought it weighed.

"Eighteen pounds, six ounces," said our friend, rising and taking down his coat. "Yes," he continued, "it wur sixteen

year ago, come the third o' next month, that I landed him. I caught him just below the bridge with a minnow. They told me he wur in the river, and I said I'd have him, and so I did. You don't see many fish that size about here now, I'm thinking. Good night, gentlemen, good-night."

And out he went, and left us alone.

It

We could not take our eyes off the fish after that. really was a remarkably fine fish. We were still looking at it, when the local carrier, who had just stopped at the inn, came to the door of the room with a pot of beer in his hand, and he also looked at the fish.

"Good-sized trout, that," said George, turning round to

him.

"Ah! you may well say that, sir," replied the man; and then, after a pull at his beer, he added, "Maybe you wasn't here, sir, when that fish was caught?"

No," we told him.

We were strangers in the neighbour

"Ah!" said the carrier, "then, of course, how should you? It was nearly five years ago that I caught that trout."

"Oh! was it you who caught it, then?" said I.

"Yes sir," replied the genial old fellow. "I caught him just below the lock-leastways, what was the lock then-one Friday afternoon; and the remarkable thing about it is that I caught him with a fly. I'd gone out pike fishing, bless you, never thinking of a trout, and when I saw that whopper on the end of my line, blest if it didn't quite take me aback, Well, you see, he weighed twenty-six pound. Good-night, gentlemen, good-night,"

Five minutes afterwards, a third man came in, and described how he had caught it early one morning, with bleak; and then he left, and a stolid, solemn looking, middle-aged individual came in, and sat down over by the window.

None of us spoke for a while; but, at length, George turned to the new comer and said :

"I beg your pardon, I hope you will forgive the liberty that we perfect strangers in the neighbourhood—are taking, but my friend here and myself would be so much obliged if you would tell us how you caught that trout up there,"

"Why, who told you I caught that trout?" was the surprised query.

We said that nobody had told us so, but somehow or other we felt instinctively that it was he who had done it.

"Well, it's a most remarkable thing-most remarkable," answered the stolid stranger, laughing; "because, as a matter of fact, you are quite right. I did catch it. But fancy you guessing it like that! Dear me, it's really a most remarkable thing."

And then he went on, and told us how it had taken him half an hour to land it, and how it had broken his rod. He said he had weighed it carefully when he reached home, and it had turned the scale at thirty-four pounds.

He went in his turn, and when he was gone the landlord came in to us. We told him the various histories we had heard about his trout, and he was immensely amused, and we all laughed very heartily.

"Fancy Jim Bates, and Joe Muggles, and Mr. Jones, and old Billy Maunders all telling you that they had caught it. Ha! ha! ha! Well, that is good," said the honest old fellow, laughing heartily. "Yes, they are the sort to give it me, to put up in my parlour, if they had caught it, they are! ha! ha!"

Ha!

And then he told us the real history of the fish. It seemed that he had caught it himself, years ago, when he was quite a lad; not by any art or skill, but by that unaccountable luck that appears to always wait upon a boy when he plays the wag from school, and goes out fishing on a sunny afternoon, with a bit of string tied on to the end of a tree,

He said that bringing home that trout had saved him from a whacking, and that even his schoolmaster had said it was worth the rule-of-three and practice put together.

He was called out of the room at this point, and George and I again turned our gaze upon the fish,

It really was a most astonishing trout. looked at it, the more we marvelled at it.

The more we

It excited George so much that he climbed up on the back of a chair to get a better view of it.

And then the chair slipped, and George clutched wildly at

the trout case to save himself, and down it came with a crash, George and the chair on top of it.

“You haven't injured the fish, have you?" I cried in alarm, rushing up.

"I hope not," said George, rising cautiously and looking · about,

But he had. That trout lay shattered into a thousand fragments.

That trout was Plaster-of-Paris

66

Mr. Barker's Picture.

"Your charge against Mr. Barker, the artist here," said the magistrate, "is assault and battery, I believe?" Yes, sir." And your name is—" "Potts ! I am art critic of the Weekly Spy." "State your case." 'I called at Mr. Barker's studio upon his invitation to see his great picture, just finished, of 'George Washington cutting down the cherry-tree with his hatchet.' Mr. Barker was expecting to sell it to Congress for fifty thousand dollars. He asked me what I thought of it, and after I had pointed out his mistake in making the handle of the hatchet twice as thick as the tree, and in turning the head of the hatchet around, so that George was cutting the tree down with the hammer end, I asked him why he foreshortened George's leg so as to make it look as if his left foot was upon the mountain on the other side of the river." "Did Mr. Barker take it kindly?" asked the justice. Well, he looked a little glum—that's all, And then, when I asked him why he put a guinea-pig up in the tree, and why he painted the guinea-pig with horns, he said that it was not a guineapig, but a cow; and that it was not in the tree. but in the background. Then I said that if I had been painting George Washington, I should not have given him the complexion of