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THE DARKEST HOUR.
BY SARAH J. WADUAMS.
'Tis dark and dreary waiting
For the night to pass away,
ut they tell me it is ever
Darkest just atdawn ofday.
But the cross it seems so heavy,
And God's ways so dark to me.
That I've grown weary waiting
The dawning bright to see.
Oh. must it grow much darker
lire the coming of the light
Will the bright, bright star ot morning
Ever show its promised light
Some stars the dareness showed us,
But their light soon passed away,
And the darkness groweth deeper,—
Surely it must soon be day.
A quiet stealeth o'er me,
For I feel that morn is nigh
Though all earth's paxhs are dreary,
There is light for us on high.
For bright God's radiant sunshins
To mourning hearts is given
And we shall know no sorrow,
For there's no night in heaven.
TWOSflOBS TB1ES IT ON.
Very ingenious had been the method
by which 39,999, Thomas Twoshoes,
had escaped from the convict prison
atTalkham. It was while he was at
work with a gang of four-and-twenty
others wheeling bricks from the kiln
to a far-off stack—a long procession,
barrow following barrow, and one end
of the line of men almost beyond the
vision of the warder at the other.
Twoshoes' notion was that he himself
should be built into the stack. Thus
temporarily entombed he might elude
the searches till night came and
brought with it a quiet chance of
Pluck and inventive genius are es
teemed even by convicts, and his com
panions readily promised him their
help. Seizing a favorable opportunity
Twoshoes left his barrow and bestowed
himself full length on top of the stack:
a friend placed two planks over him
to save him from being crushed by the
weight of the bricks which nimble fin
gers quickly built above him. More
and yet more the barrows came and
went, and the bricks flowed in a
stream that seemed perennial. Long
before he was missed, Twoshoes was
effectually concealed from sight.
But now Mr. Tightlock realizes the
terrible truth. He is "a man short."
"Twenty-three, twenty-four, twenty
No, not twenty-five, my friend.
Count them as often as you please,you
cannot make the number up. The
twenty-fifth is Thomas Twoshoes, and
he has undoubtedly disappeared.
Then followed shrill whistles of
alarm, shot aft^r shot, the clanging of
a distant bell, hurrying footsteps rac
ing to and fro, anxious voices, as the
pursuers in hot search draw every
covert for the missing man. All about
the brickfield they range in among
the brick "hacks," through the long
rank grass that grows up the clay
heaps in dry holes and pits knee
deep with stageant mud roundabout
the very brickstack itself wherein
their quarry lay hid. They are like
hounds at fault, these pursuers cast
ing here and there, hunting high and
low and yet unable to come upon the
scent, althongh, in truth, it was under
their noses, close at hand.
Meanwhile, Twoshoes, lay close, and
in spite of his constrained position—
he might have been a big brick him
self, as still and motionless as his mil
lions of neighbors—chuckled at the
trick he had played his keepers. He
was uncomfortable, of course but he
had only to bide his time. Patiently
he waited through the long hours—
waited and listened to the prison-bell
which tolled the passing hours it
rang out the ''recall from labor," the
time for the evening meal, the time
for taking down the hammocks and set
ting the night guard.
This was his time it had come
with the last bell. Everything was
snug here and quiet for the night.
Now with infinite caution he prepared
to set himself free. No easy task. At
first he could not move, not a finger
he had been too securely hidden the
superincumbent weight of brick re
fused to st»r. Was he doomed, then,
to suffocation within a living grave
just when escape seemed near at hand?
With one supreme effort he succeeded
in loosening the plank above the
bricks rattled" down noisily, and
he was free. Free, but afraid to
emerge as yet. The stack might be
watched the noise would betray him.
No. The coast was clear, he was stiff
in every limb, torn and bleeding but
he ran swiftly, in spite of fatigue, to
a spot where, weeks before, he had
hidden a ragged pair of blanket trous
ers,made on purpose for such a chance
as this. Then in all haste to the river's
edge he swam across divested him
self of his convict clothes, and made
his way fast as his failing strength
would suffer him down to the sea
coast, whence he embarked and land
ed at Fort Needham. as Prince Bolti
And now he was once more in du
rance. The chances all against him,
too, his character known as a success
ful prison breaker, and he himself
subject to peculiar disabilities as the
penalty of his recent evasion. It was
not only that they shut him up for
days in a semi-dark cell, with bre^d
only to eat and water for his drink
but when this was over, and he re
joined his comrades on the works,
every one was warned to watch him:
and, to make the process easier, he
was clothed in a bright yellow suit—
the peculiar brand of his recent of
fense worse still, they loaded him
with chains, handicapping him, so to
speak, with extra weight for the race
he seemed ready to run.
These chains, how irksome they
were! Basils were riveted on to his
ankles and between them hung.a cum
brous load of rattling Jinks,from' which
night or day, sleeping or waking, it
was doomed that he should never b*
He was a cunning old convict was
Mr. Thomas Twoshoes. having bad
much experience in many prisons an I
in many lands. This present punish
ment was not to be endured for long,
not if he eould possibly help it. But
how to rid himself of this intolerable
incubus of iron? Escape by actual flight
was now out of the question they
would not give him another chaace.
But could he not compass his release
from fetters, if not from the prison?
He was up to every move one or an
other might benefit him.
Why not "try it on?"
Next morning, when standing on
parade preparatory to marching out to
work, Twoshoes dropped suddenly as
if he had been shot. A few. short,
convulsive kicks, and then he lay, to
all appearance, lifeless and stone cold.
They lifted him up carefully, and car
ried him to the hospital. The "young"
doetor, the assistant, came post-haste.
Twoshoes was stripped, his irons re
moved he was laid in a warm bed, re
storatives were applied, but all to no
purpose. Rigid in every limb, ghastly
white, it seemed as if life was indeed
extinct. And yet his heart beat, the
temperature of his body was normal,
his tongue was clean.
The "young doctor was fairly puz
zled. Next appeared the senior sur
geon, a hard-hearted old gentleman,
not easily imposed upon.
"A fit, eh Bring some hot water
—scalding hot—from the boiler sharp's
the word it's the only chance."' He
spoke in loud, peremptory tones.
"Stay I'll go with you and present
ly he returned, followed by a nurse
carrying a huge can and a sponge.
"Try it with the thermometer what
does it register—on hundred and nine
ty-two degrees That will do. Now
Hoskins, mind your fingers throw it
over him. There
Splash went the contents of the can
ovei the prosti *te Twobhoes. The el
feet was instantaneous.
He jumped from the bed, yelling,
screaming, swearing, threatening, al!
in a breath. He was burnt, scalded to
death, the skin was peeling from his
body he could not live in such tor
"Cold water Ice he cried with
"You've had it." said the doctor,
coolly. "That water wasn't hot. It
came straight rem the pump and
you're a humbug, Twoshoes you're
only 'trying it on.'
He had been trying to "best the
croaker," but the "croaker,"' as the
doctor is styled, had got the "best" so
far. Twoshoes suffered a long deten
tion on short allowance for this unsuc
cessful trick, and then they put him
on his chains again and sent him back
to his work.
Two days later they found him hang
ing by, the neck in his cell. He was
cut down promptly. Life was n,ot yet
extinct. A few simple remedies re
stored consciousness, and, after he
had been left for an hour to reflect
calmly upon the crime he had nearly
committed, the Chaplain came to com
Twoshoes was penitent. He saw
his ermor, he said. It was remorse,
bitter remorse, for a past sin. The
memory of a great crime—an undis
covered crime, which he had -jom
mitted a few years before—pressed
down on him, with a weight so awful
that he could no longer endure to live
His life was a burden to him, so sorely
did his conscience smite him. When
he lay alone in his narrow cell in the
silent night watches, the terrible rec
ollection of the deed he had done
goaded him nearly to madness.
"Last night's torture was the keen
est, sir, of all I ever endured. My de
spondency and self-reproach rose to
such an agonizing height that I de
termined to make away with myself.
You know the rest. But it is better
so it is better that I should live till I
meet the extreme penalty of the law,
which is no more than I deserve for
Then he proceeded with tears of
contrition, to confess it all.
That Tooley-street murder—did his
reverence remember it The hideous
details, the mutilation, the absence of
motive, and the terrible mystery
which hangs over it, baffling every ef
fort of the police even to this very
"It was my act sir," went on Two
shoes, burying his face in his hands.
"I murdered her in cold blood the
brand of Cain is upon me I can never
have a moment's peace again, never
again, never, not on this side of the
The good man, true to his sacred cal
ling, poured in consolation, and tried
his best to soothe the anguish of this
erring but repentant soul. Then, when
Twoshoes was somewhat calmer, the
Chaplain left him and went to make
his report to the Governor of the pris
"I don't believe a word of it," said
the Governor, shortly.
"But the story is so circumstantial,
all the details are so complete. The
man himself is so evidently under the
influence of a strong feeling—" The
Chaplain pleaded hard.
"lt'a an old game.my dear Mr. Bish
op, old as the hills. I have had dozen*
of such cases before me and they are
all alike—mere shams."
"But what object could the man
have in assuming guilt that is not
'•Object? To avoid work to get
moved to a county prison to be tried
over again—to escape the cross-irons
he is just now wearing on his legs—
What is it, Mr, Bayliss?", This to a
warden who came to the door.
"The noose, sir that which yon
Twoshoes wanted to hang himself
"What of it?"
"D'ye see this knot, sir? The rogue
never meant the noose to run tight."
"He never meant to hang himself?"
inquired the Chaplain, eagerly, but his
"No, sir he was only'trying it on.'"
Once more Twoshoes had missed his
mark, although the Chaplain was not
satisfied about the Tooley-street crime.
At his persistent representation, a
full statement of, the coufession was
forwarded to the Home Office. Mean
while, Twoshoes returned to his work
A week or two later, the warden,
who'had special charge of him spoke
"I don't know what to make of
that Twoshoes gets talking to him
self all day, and, when I check him,
he looks that wicked I hardly durst
trust him to handle a pick or shovel."
The man's conduct was certainly
strange—sometimes moody and silent,
at others perpetually jabbering to him
self generally his head downcast and
eyes on the ground, except when, now
and again, he upturned a white gleam
ing eyeball, with a wicked side-long
glance. Once or twice he yelled with
derisive laughter, then stood on his
head, so that his leg chains hung like
a necklace round his neck anon he
took to devouring clay last of all he
came to Mr. Tightlock, and said he
wanted to go home.
"I live over yonder," he pointed to
distant village, with a spire and
churchyard visible. "I want to go
After this he was sent into the hos
pital to be watched. He was doubtless
"doing the barney," pretending to be
mad, but of this only the doctor could
give positive preof. The Chaplain re
turned with renewed vigor to the cry
of remorse. It was the memory of the
murder which had driven Twoshoes
out of his mind.
Shrewd old Dr. McManus was not
so ready to admit the madness. To
feign insanity is a common practice
with convicts: they do it with more
or less ingenuity, and with more or
less persistence, according to their
knowledge and force of character, and
if Twoshoes was "doing the barney,"
he did it extremely well. The doctor
might have his suspicions, but they
were not very readily confirmed—the
imitation was so good—the part so
At one time Twoshoes took up a
parrot-like cry, which he repeated in
an unvarying, lachrymose sing-song,
rising now to a full diapason of sound,
then sinking into a low howl, like that
of a woe-begone cur baying at the
"Twoshoes! Twoshoes oh poor
Tommy Twoshoes!" This was the
burden of his refrain—cefttinned day
and night—till he drove the other pa
tients in the hospital nearly distract
ed and it was necessary to remove
him to the "dumb cell,"'a place con
structed especially, a cell within a
cell—the space between rammed with
sand, so that not a whisper from with
in could reach the outer air.
Twoshoes might be mad, but he was
wise enough to know that shouting
would not avail him in the "dumb
cell." His next act was to refuse all
food. Every scrap they brought him
he rejected at first the tegular diet
then, in order to test him, the doctor
sent up savory stews and toothsome
sweets. Twoshoes was not to-be caught
in a trap. Fven a glass of champagne
he indignantly knocked out of the
But he could not be suffered to
starve himself to death. After five
days they fed him with a stomach
pump, although he resisted violently.
Again he showed wisdom, and relin
quished an attempt which he found to
be futile. He went to the other ex
treme and devoured all on which he
could lay hands,including his blankets,
stones in the exercising-yard, and part
of the soles of his shoes. This diet
before long made him excessively ill.
and he suffered such torments from
indigestion that he returned gladly to
more wholesome food. Now he had
excesses of violent rage he threatened
every soul that approached him, he
would kill the doctor as he had already
murdered that woman.
"There," said the Chaplain, who
was told of this speech, "I felt I could
not be mistaken."
But he was for just about this time
a reply was received from the Home
Office, satisfactorily showing that
Twoshoes was safe in another prison,
at the very time he pretended he had
committed the crime in Tooley street.
This fresh proof of the convict's in
corrigible duplicity aroused the
doctor to further efforts. It became
almost a point of professional eti
quette with him to find Twoshoes out.
Yet was he barred day after day, at
every turn. As a last resource, he de
termined to try galvanism. The bat
tery was prepared Twoshoes was led
forth grinning. To the officials he
made a low bow, and expressed his
thanks courteously in a few words of
choice French. He was grateful for
their hospitality,but would not intrude
"I shall go home," said he airily but
just then came the first shock from the
"Wha what's this mean?" he
spluttered out. "What 'yer doing to
Tommy Twosh poor Tommy
Now he was qtiivering and fairly
dancing as the currents acted on him
with increasing force.
"Well?" said the doctor, when the
first dose was over.
"I want to go home," replied Two
"I think you must wait for a second
application of this once is never quite
"No, no, no!" cried Twoshoes.
"I chuck up the sponge. You've
bested me: I'm done with trying it
There was no more exemplary con
vict in custody than 39,999 Thomas
Twoshoes from thenceforth until he
had "put in all his time."
A Hope-Dancer's Story.
I have yellow hair and gray eyes
and a compexion that looks best in
browns' and drabs, and I am a rone
dancer. Some girls learn dressmak
ing, some to fashion lovely hats and
bonnets, others book-keeping. Well,
I learned rope-dancing. Ma said she
was able to take care of me, and any
one knowing her would have said so
too. At first my pay was small, as in
all my contracts I had to include all
expenses for ma. But we were always
able to save something toward the
home we intended to buy after awhile,
and this was something to hope for. It
was to be a cottage in some quiet vil
lage, with three or four acres attach
ed, and a lawn with a pea-cock. Hum
ble enough, you will say, but we could
hope for this we knew, and took com
fort in saving for and talking and
planning about it whenever we were
I improved rapidly in my profession,
and my second season out I obtained a
splendid engagement with a first-class
circus that was to travel by boat and
have things very comfortable and I
knew, if nothing happened, the cot
tage, the lawn, and the peacock were
waiting for us at the end of the sea
The first night I performed I was
looking my very best, in soft gray tar
latan, with flame-colored ribbon, and
a great yellow rose on my bosom, and
dancing and balancing like a fairy.
When through my act and once more
dressed and wrapped in shawls and
veils, as ma and I came out of the can
vass dressing-room, the ticket agent
(the person I owed my engagement to)
came up and said "Rhoda, I haven't
got time to take you down to the boat
to-night, and as none of the other la
dies are going yet, Jeff Gerand will
take you and your mother down all
right." "Maybe he will and maybe
he won't," says ma, "who's Jeff Ger
and?" "He's 'Miranda,' the bare
back rider," says George, "and a bet
ter fellow never lived. Here, Jeff, if
you're ready, don't keep the ladies all
night." I had seen Miranda, early in
the evening, do a wonderful two-horse
act, and had admired the graceful dis
play of horsemanship but as he came
up now in plain dark clothes and shook
hands with us in his gentle way, I
thought—but never mind. He was
not handsome, his face could hardly
be called good looking, but he was the
kind of a looking man little girls
would like to have for a big brother.
The next day ma says "Rhoda, I be
lieve if you were to fall in love with
Mr. Jeff, and Mr. Jeff was to fall in
love with you, I'd be tempted to let
you get married, though 1 always did
say you should never marry one of the
profession." "Why, he's not good
looking, ma," says I. "Good looking
bays ma. "Well, Miss Rhodie Cutler
(professionally known as Senora Rodie
Culetti), if it is good looks you're af
ter, I hope you'll find "em, but in my
very humble opinion" (which is not
ma's, nor never was) "there is better
things in the world than good looks,as
After that ma and Jeff were always
great friends, and thus three months
passed away, bringing us nearer to the
cottage, to the lawn and the peacock
when one night there was a terrible
storm, the tent was blown down, near
ly everything ruined, and Jeff had
both of his legs broken above the
knees. They brought him to the boat
moaning with agony, and asked for
ma. It was ma who quieted and sooth
ed him as if he was her very own it
was ma who tenderly bound the brok
en limbs it was ma who did it all,
though there were willing hands
enough, God knows. That night my
eyes were opened, and for the first
time I knew I loved Jeff Gerand. He
recovered rapidly, poor fellow, and we
kept him on the boat till the end of the
season, petting and nursing him like a
child and each vieing with each other
as only the profession (God bless *em)
can,to make him comfortable and happy
till one dreamy day in Indian Summer,
he told me he was going to leave us
he was whittling a little stick, I re
member, and I thought how beautiful
ly he cut and veined the leaf he was
making. It was a knack he had and
you rarely saw him since the accident
without a knife and a piece of soft
"I can't live off you folks forever,
Rhoda," he says, "and though I
haven't got a relative in the world, I
think I can find some friends in New
York to help me and find me some
thing to do. I once thought maybe
things would be different, Khoda, but
since the smash-up'—his voice broke
down, but he dashed away the tears
and went on—"1 wouldn't ask my
girl to lie herself to a poor crip"—I
have a very bad temper, ma says, and
it showed itself right here. I wasn't
going to have any one I loved call
themselves a poor cripple, and I told
Jeff Gerand so, too, and a great deal I
more, and when ma found us I had my
head on Jeff's shoulder in a way to
make the blood boil, she said.
Well, I married Jeff in spite of him
self, and before Christmas we were in
the cottage with the lawn and the pea
cock, too and Christmas Eve, as we
sat by the fire and ma bustled in and
out getting tea, as the chimes of dis
tant bells came softly over the hills
telling of happy little ones and loaded
Christmas trees, I clasped Jeff's hand
close in mine and was very, very hap
py. After paying for our little home
we still had a small fund left, but I in
tended to follow my vocation of rope
dancing and do what many a better
woman had done before—support the
man I loved.
We had been married some months
when Jeff began to write to the city,
and receive in return small packages
these he did not show to any one, and
one day, when he asked me to fit up a
small room up-stairs for his own use,
and then shut himself in day after
day with the door locked, I think I
had cause to be curious and even ma
began to hint things. I saw nothing
wrong I never for a moment sup
posed Jeff, my poor darling, doing
wrong. Ah! God forbid! But he
should have told me, I thought, for
who loved or trusted him more than
his wife, Rhoda?
So things went on for three long
weeks, ma hunting some one—for
shame! you'll say—sulking, and Jeff
hiding something from us all when,
one morning, as I was passing the
door, not accidentally, I confess, Jeff
looked out, and, in his gentle way,
said: "Rhoda, little woman, you may
come in now if you wish." Never
will I forget the room, with its soft
gray draping relieved with scarlet fac
ing, the two windows filled with flow,
ers, the lovely winter sun bathing all
while a golden canary whistled softly
to his mate, and on a table a set of the
most exquisite chessmen mortal eyes
ever beheld kings and queens, bish
ops and pawns, all carved from creamy
ivory and rosy coral, and looking like
the work of some fairy sculptor. And
when my darling told me they were
all his work, sold for &300, and more
orders than he could fill in a year, and
that there was to be no more rope
dancing thought of, could I help tak
ing him in my arms and crying over
him like a child, while ma said, in her
humble opinion, Jeff was a hero. And
he was a hero in my eyes and heart, a
brave, noble hero, who has found his
life work in producing wonderful,
fairy-like creations from creamy ivory
and rose-tinted coral.
The Fiend Twin's Diary.
January.—Am born. Didn't want to
be. Object immediately as loud as I
can. Younger brother born seven min
utes later. Looks like a fool, but may
improve as he mellows with age.
February.—Catch a cold. Give it to
younger brother. He's sicklier than I
Very nearly settles him.
March.—Catch a nice rash. Pass it
on to the other cove. Pretty well
winds up his clock.
April.—They've christened ns. I'm
Augustus, and he's Alexander. Don't
he look a ass of a Alexander. I'll kick
him when he sleeps.
May.—Got the nettle-rash. Hqpray!
So's he!—only worse.
June.—They don't think that
they'll be able to rear him. He's to
have Cod Liver Oil. Can't help laugh
July.—He's been squalling awful.
Nurse says it's his nasty temper.
I know It's a pin but I'm not going to
August.— We've got a new nurse,
who talks to a tall soldier, and leaves
perambulator basking in the sun. Al
exander's got a blister on his nese.
They don't know what it is, and are
going to give him a powder.
September.—I've given him the
scarlatina. He seems resigned. I've
nailed his feeding-bottle.
October.—I've got a new game how
—poking Noah's wife into his ear when
nurse ain't looking.
November.—We're beginning to
walk. He's weaker on his pins than
I am, so I can shove him over easy.
December.—I'm beginning to cut
my first tooth. As soon as it's through
I've made up my mind to bite Alexan
Looking Beyond This Life.
Jersey City Sunday Pre6s.
Mr. Michael Carrigan, the bar-ten
der, called on a prominent undertaker
last week and inquired the price of
burial caskets. "Is it for your wife,
Mr. Carrigan?" solemnly and sympa
thetically inquired the undertaker.
"No, sir it is for me," answered the
young man. While resting in my bed
this morning I got to thinking, s'pos
ing I'd die,what would become of me?
Would my friends send me off in a pine
box in front of two coaches, or would
they give me a funeral of some degree
of respectability. I thought this mat
ter all over and came to the conclu
sion that my chances for anything like
a fashionable funeral in these times
were slim so I came round to select a
nice coffin, which I want to pay for in
$5 installments. If I live long enough
to get it paid for I shall be thus far
prepared for death."
A bad, bad boy, out on South Hill,
was picked up by his ma the other
night for some misdeed, and fanned
with her slipper until he thought he
was standing right in the way of a
shoemaker's s.iop caught in a cyclone.
When he got away at last he was told
to sit down and learn a verse in his
Bible before he could have a bite of
supper. And when he was called up
to recite, he said, "The |wicked's
tanned in slippery places."
Over the boughs of the cypress,
Over the tops of the pine,
Touching the sward beneath them
With a radiance divine
Over the limbs of the swamp-oak,
And on to the ground below
Through the dark, dim aisles of the forest,
It shines with a wondrous glow.
It shines on creek and streamlet,
It shines on swamp and bay,
And covers the faults that the sun doth show
With alight that is fairer than day.
The pine is rongh and ragged.
Bui the moonlight tones it down
The cypress is sad and mournful,
Butit haloes it with a crown.
Come again, beautiful moonlight!
Comeevery night, to prove
A Heavenly Father's message,—
The embodiment ofLove!
—LAWTBT, Florida, Jan. 1,1877. Wax B.
Naming the Twins.
Max Adc'cr In New York Weekly.
A friend of Butteiwick's who staid
at his house a short time after the
twins were born, overheard the fol
lowing conversation betwen the fond
parents one night after all hands had
retired. He was in the adjoining room.
Mrs. B.—What shall we call the
twins, Henry, dear?
B.—Oh, I duuno. Almost any good
names. How would Moses and Aaron
do? or Cain and Abel?
Mrs. B.—You ought to be ashamed of
yourself to want to name one of your
own children after a murderer! You
might have hunted the whole Bible
through without finding anything
B.—0, well, call them Shadrach,
Meshach, and Abednego then.
Mr. B.—You know very well that
there are only two twins.and that they
can't have three names divided equally
between them. I hate Scripture names
any how. I want to call them after
some distinguished man,
B.—Well: name one of them Butler
and the other Schurz.
Mrs. B— I'd rather die OR the spot
then have a child of mine named after
B—How'll Bismarck and Gortscha
koff suit you?
Mrs. B.—Butterwick, you know I
can't abide those German names. You
would inflict a curse on your innocent
boy if you would send him through
the world with such a name as Bis
marck Butterwick. You know very
well you would. I prefer an American
name. One that belongs to this coun
B.—Very well, then,call one of them
.Spotted Tail and the other Hole-in-the
Day. Those are indigenous to this
Mrs. B.—Mr. Butterwick, if you are
going to turn the subject into ridicule,
I will get up and dress myself, and go
down-stairs. You shan't insult me to
my face, anyhow. You know well
enough that I meant some white Am
B.—How would Smith and Jones an
Mrs. B.—I'd rather bury both of
them in one grave. Why don't you
suggest some distinguished American
B.—0, all right there's Benedict
Arnold and Martin Van Buren.
Mrs. B.—They shall never have those
names with my consent.
B.—How about Adams
Mrs. B.—That's only one name and
there are two babies.
B.—Well, call one "A" and the
Mrs. B.—Mr. Butterwick. if you use
language like that again I'll go home
to mother's this very night.
B.—Well, then, if you must have
the name of celebrated Americans,call
one "Tilly Slowboy" and the other
Mrs. B.—Were they prominent men
I don't remember hearing about them
B.—Why, my dear, they both signed
the Declaration of Independence, and
Slowboy was Vice President under
Washington. If you want straight
out revolutionary patriots, those are
Mrs. B.—What did Mr. Toodles do
B.— Louisa, I am surprised at your
ignorance! Don't you know that he
commanded at Valley Forge
Mrs. B.—T don't think much of their
names, anyhow. Say over some others.
B.—Lemme see. Well now, there's
Mrs. B.—What did you say he did
B.—Did Why he commanded the
frigate Constitution in the war of 1812,
and he was killed while nailing the
American flag to the mast.
Mrs. B.—And you want to name one
of your children after him
B.—Certainly. Why not? Noble
old patriot! Did he not die in de
fense of Why, Louisa, what are
you going to do
Mrs. B.—Why, I'm going to quit
this house and take the twins with me,
and stay away forever. 1 know just
as well as you do that Mephistophlees
is another name for the devil. I've
seen him at the opera.• It is perfectly
infamous for you to suggest such a
name for your own flesh and blood. I
don't believe in your Slowboys or
Toodles either. I'm certain that you
have been telling scandalous stories,
and now I'm going to leave.
Then Butterwick was heard to use a
persuasive tone with Mrs. B., and
finally she made it up with him. The
twins were eventually baptised John
Adam and Eve, we suppose, were
the first to start "turning over new
leaves." They did it lo keep up with