no,'" said "she that was " Persis Tame, afterward.

"So I haa to marry with him, as you might say. But I've never seen cause to regret it. I've got a first-rate of a hum, and Captain Ben makes a first-rate of a husband. And no hain't he, I hope, found cause to regret it," she added, with a touch of wifely pride; "though I do expect he might have had his pick among all the single women at the Point; but out of them all he chose me,”

THE MACKREL.

BY JOSH BILLINGS.

THE mackrel iz a game fish. They ought tewly well eduka ted, for they are always in schools.

They are very eazy to bite, and are caught with a piece ov old red flannel pettycoat tied onto a hook.

They ain't the only kind ov fish that are caught by the same kind ov bait.

Mackrel inhabit the sea, but those which inhabit the grocerys alwus taste to me az tho they had been born and fatted on salt. They want a good deal ov freshning before they are eaten, and want a good deal ov freshning afterward.

If I can hav plenty ov mackrel for brekfasst i can generally make the other two meals out ov cold water.

Mackrel are considered by menny folks the best fish that swims, and are called "the salt of the earth."

A QUICK EYE FOR BUSINESS.

As one of the most prominent young burglars of San Francisco was walking out of court the other day, just after having secured an acquittal regarding his latest job by a prompt and businesslike "divvy" with the powers that be, at the usual rates, a wellto do but anxious-looking stranger touched his arm and beckoned him into a doorway.

"You are Teddy, the Ferret,' aren't you," asked the gentleman; "the man who was tried to-day for safe-cracking?"

"Well, wot of it?" replied the housebreaker.

"Why, just this-you'll excuse my speaking so low-but the fact is, I've come all the way from the San Joaquin to look up a party in your line of business." "Have, eh!"

"Yes-I-well, I've a little proposition to make to you."

"Exactly," said the Ferret calmly; "you're a bank cashier down in the foot-hills."

"How did you know that?" stammered the gentleman, much amazed.

TEDDY THE FERRET.

"And your cash and accounts are to be gone over by the directors on the first, and as you can't realize on your stocks, you want me to gag you some time next week, shoot your hat full of holes, find the combination in your breast pocket, and go through the safe in the regular way."

"Great heavens, man! how did you find all that out?"

"Why, I guessed it. It's the regular thing, you know. Got three orders to attend to ahead of yours now. Lemme see! Can't do anything for you next week, but might give you Wednesday and Thursday of the week after. How'll that suit you?"

The cashier said he thought he could make that do, and in less than five minutes they had struck a bargain and arranged the whole affair.

Even New York isn't much ahead of San Francisco in regard to modern conveniences.-N. Y. World.

THE OWL-CRITIC.

A LESSON TO FAULT-FINDERS.

BY JAS. T. FIELDS.

JAS. T. FIELDS, the well-known publisher, of the house of Ticknor & Fields, was born at Portsmouth, N. H., in 1817. He went to Boston while still a boy, and was, almost to the day of his death, 1881, identified with its literary history. He was the author of several volumes of verse and prose, and the editor of various posthumous collections-conspicuously those of De Quincey. From 1861 to 1872 he was the editor of The Atlantic Monthly.

"WHO stuffed that white owl?" No one spoke in the shop:
The barber was busy, and he couldn't stop;

The customers, waiting their turns, were all reading
The Daily, the Herald, the Post, little heeding

The young man who blurted out such a blunt question;
Not one raised a head, or even made a suggestion;

"Don't you see, Mister Brown,"
Cried the youth, with a frown,
"How wrong the whole thing is,

How preposterous each wing is,

And the barber kept on shaving.

How flattened the head is, how jammed down the neck is

In short, the whole owl, what an ignorant wreck 't is!

I make no apology;

I've learned owl-eology.

I've passed days and nights in a hundred collections,

And cannot be blinded to any deflections

Arising from unskillful fingers that fail

To stuff a bird right, from his beak to his tail.
Mister Brown! Mister Brown!

Do take that bird down,

Or you'll soon be the laughing-stock all over town!"

"I've studied owls,

And other night fowls,
And I tell you

And the barber kept on shaving.

What I know to be true:

An owl cannot roost

With his limbs so unloosed;
No owl in this world

Ever had his claws curled,
Ever had his legs slanted,
Ever had his bill canted,
Ever had his neck screwed
Into that attitude.

A CRITIC.

He can't do it, because

'T is against all bird-laws.

Anatomy teaches,

Ornithology preaches

An owl has a toe

That can't turn out so!

I've made the white owl my study for years,

And to see such a job almost moves me to tears!

Mister Brown, I'm amazed

You should be so gone crazed

As to put up a bird

In that posture absurd!

To look at that owl really brings on a dizziness;

The man who stuffed him don't half know his business!"

"Examine those eyes.

I'm filled with surprise
Taxidermists should pass
Off on you such poor glass;
So unnatural they seem
They'd make Audubon scream,
And John Burroughs laugh
To encounter such chaff.

And the barber kept on shaving.

Stuck up there so stiff like a side of coarse leather.
In fact, about him there's not one natural feather."

Just then, with a wink and a sly normal lurch,
The owl, very gravely, got down from his perch,
Walked round, and regarded his fault-finding critic
(Who thought he was stuffed) with a glance analytic,
And then fairly hooted, as if he should say:
"Your learning's at fault this time, any way;
Don't waste it again on a live bird, I pray.

I'm an owl; you're another. Sir Critic, good-day!''

And the barber kept on shaving.