ratzza shirt-buttons behind-cut to shape of body-small sleeves-article I can recommend."

The countryman gave a loud guffaw, but it sounded most ominously; he evidently did not know whether to laugh or swear. He didn't want, he said, such "vancy dthengs," but “zummut as ould stand harvest work, and not strike in cold wi' the zweet," so he was duly served with long-cloth.

"Is there anything else to-day?" said the shopman.

"Well, let's ha' a look at a hat, a cheap un and a good un, mind."

“Let me recommend you one of the Hydrotobolics.”

"What de zay now?" said the farmer, half savagely growling out of the midst of the new purchase, the cuffs of which he was adjusting over his great beefy hands.

"An hydrotobolic," returned the salesman; "you will find it a great improvement on the old system."

"I want a hat, and none of your bolics," said the customer, with a suspicious look, as though he suspected the man was making fun of him.

A hat was now handed down, and the assistant took off the silver paper with a whirl. "This," said he, " is the patent ventilator."

"Thur, tak'n I wunt ha' none o' your tak'n away, away; new-vangled dthengs. Let's look at an old-vashioned beaver as ull look well when the wind ruffs'n up a bit.”

At last he got a broad brim to his fancy, and as he surveyed himself in his new hat and coat in the cheval glass, he exclaimed

"I be darn'd if my old missus ool know I in dthick new rig." "You don't want anything in the boot line?" adroitly put in the shopman, glancing at the feet of his customer, which looked more like battered flat irons than anything else.

“ Well, they be main shabby," said the farmer, glancing at his well-worn tops; "let's look at some new uns. We wunt spile the zship for a ha'p'orth o' tar."

"Let me call your attention to a new article just out," said the shopman-" Gutta percha soles."

"Darn thee now, hear to un!" said the now thoroughly irritated clod, turning to me again. "He do dthink I a soft un; but I'm blow'd if I stand his chaffing any longer!"

A tremendous whack of the crooked ash stick upon the counter made the announcement more emphatic. The shopman gave a start, and dropped the pairs of gutta-percha soled boots he was holding out to his customer. "Gutta percha-" he

stammered.

"Don't guttle perch me any more, I zay. Make out thee bill, and let's ha' done we'e!" roared the farmer.

While the salesman was making out the bill, I amused myself with giving the old farmer a sketch of the quality of the gutta percha soles, telling him how they got as hard as iron in cold weather, and the propensity they had to melt off your feet when innocently warming your toes at the fire.

"New vangled dthengs, be brengen this country to ruination," he muttered in reply. At last he paid his bill and was about to trudge, when his tormentor, as though he could not help it, as a parting speech, called his attention to a pair of

calcarapedes," or self-adjusting goloshes. The countryman turned upon his heel, and as he banged his stick upon the floor, said, "I tell thee what, my lad, if I had thee 'down along' for a few minutes, I'd beat some king's English out o' thee;" and, clutching his bundle, departed. His dog Snap, noting the anger of his master, thought he also must make a telling exit, so, rushing up to a wooden dummy, representing a little boy in a sky-blue tunic, he made a grab at one of his legs; finding, however, that his teeth met something harder than flesh, he worried it savagely for a moment, and then bolted with a piece of blue pantaloons in his mouth, waving like a flag.

119

LIFE AFTER DEATH.

WITH dancing plumes they brought me up here dead: Dead, and to lie until the end of time.

They cursed me ere the priest had shut his book,

And cast a stone down for the clod of earth;

And here they left me on this hill-side bleak,
Face unto face with my offended God.

Day after day until the end of time,
Here must I lie within my narrow bed,
And ever gazing upwards must I read

The sneering lies they've graven on my tomb,
Touching the merits of the rich deceased;

Whilst texts of Scripture, circled round with clouds,
And gilded angels at the corners set,

Mask with a smile my dark and utter woe.

Welcome to me each little sound that breaks

The hideous vigil that I'm forced to keep—
The sheep's short bite upon a neighbouring grave-
The stranger's tread in summer evenings calm,
Wandering from stone to stone with pace subdued,
Of epitaphs and ancient dates in search-
And, more than all, the Sabbath's simple bell,
My only measure for the passing time.
Quickly my darkened ear doth catch each sound,
The old rope fraying 'gainst the belfry beam;
The pathway swarming with quick children's feet,
As files along the punctual village school;
From every side, the people as they pour,
Some from across the scented fields of bean,

Some through the breast-deep, poppied, waving corn.
The village spire a central point to all.

A hundred knees soon meekly bend them down,