"Not an uncommon thing upon ice, sir," replied Mr. Weller. "Hold up, sir."

This last observation of Mr. Weller's bore reference to a demonstration Mr. Winkle made, at the instant, of a frantic desire to throw his feet in the air, and dash the back of his head on the ice.

"Now, Winkle," cried Mr. Pickwick, quite unconscious that there was anything the matter, << come! the ladies are all anxiety."

"Yes," replied Mr. Winkle with a ghastly smile, "I'm coming."

"Just going to begin," said Sam, endeavoring to disengage himself. "Now, sir, start off."

"Stop an instant, Sam," gasped Mr. Winkle, clinging most affectionately to Mr. Weller. "I find I've got a couple of coats at home that I don't want, Sam. You may have them, Sam." 'Thank 'e, sir," said Mr. Weller.

"Never mind touching your hat, Sam," said Mr. Winkle hastily. "You need n't take your hand away to do that. I meant to have given you five shillings this morning for a Christmas-box, Sam. I'll give it you this afternoon, Sam."

"You're very good, sir," replied Mr. Weller. "Just hold me at first, Sam: will you?" said Mr. Winkle. There, that's right. I shall soon get in the way of it, Sam; not too fast!"

Mr. Winkle, stooping forward, with his body half doubled up, was being assisted over the ice by Mr. Weller, in a very singular and un-swanlike manner, when Mr. Pickwick most innocently shouted from the opposite bank,

"Sam!"

"Sir?" said Mr. Weller. "Here! I want you."

"Let go, sir," said Sam: "don't you hear the governor calling? Let go, sir."

With a violent effort, Mr. Weller disengaged himself from the grasp of the agonized Winkle, and, in so doing, administered a considerable impetus to him. With an accuracy which no degree of dexterity or practise could have insured, that unfortunate gentleman bore swiftly down into the center of the skaters, at the very moment when Mr. Bob Sawyer was performing a flourish of unparalleled beauty.

Mr. Winkle struck wildly against him, and with a loud crash they fell heavily down. Mr. Pickwick ran to the spot. Bob Sawyer had risen to his feet, but Mr. Winkle was far too wise to do anything of the kind in skates. He was seated on the ice, making spasmodic efforts to smile; but anguish was depicted on every lineament of his countenance.

"Are you hurt?" inquired Mr. Benjamin Allen, with great anxiety.

"Not much," said Mr. Winkle, rubbing his back very hard.

"I wish you'd let me bleed you," said Mr. Benjamin, with great eagerness.

"No, thank you," said Mr. Winkle, hurriedly. "What do you think, Mr. Pickwick?" inquired Bob Sawyer.

Mr. Pickwick was excited and indignant. He beckoned to Mr. Weller, and said in a stern voice, "Take his skates off."

"No; but really I had scarcely begun," remonstrated Mr. Winkle.

"Take his skates off," repeated Mr. Pickwick firmly.

The command was not to be resisted. Mr. Winkle allowed Sam to obey in silence.

"Let him up," said Mr. Pickwick. Sam assisted him to rise.

Mr. Pickwick retired a few paces apart from the by-standers; and, beckoning Winkle to approach, fixed a searching look upon him, and uttered, in a low but distinct and emphatic tone, these remarkable words:

"You're a humbug, sir."

A what?" said Mr. Winkle, starting.

"A humbug, sir. I will speak plainer if you wish it an impostor, sir."

With these words Mr. Pickwick turned slowly on his heels, and rejoined his friends.

THE BOYS.

Has there any old fellow got mixed with the boys?

If there has, take him out without making a

noise.

Hang the almanac's cheat and the catalogue's spite !

Old Time is a liar; we're twenty to-night.

We're twenty! We're twenty! Who says we are more?

He's tipsy, young jackanapes!-show him the door!

"Gray temples at twenty?"-Yes! white, if we please;

Where the snowflakes fall thickest there's nothing can freeze !

Was it snowing I spoke of? Excuse the mistake!

Look close, you will not see a sign of a flake! We want some new garlands for those we have

shed,

And these are white roses in place of the red.

We've a trick, we young fellows, you may have been told,

Of talking (in public) as if we were old;

That boy we call "Doctor," and this we call "Judge "!

It's a neat little fiction,- of course it's all fudge.

That fellow's the "Speaker," the one on the right;

"Mr. Mayor," my young one, how are you tonight?

That's our "Member of Congress," we say when we chaff;

There's the "Reverend"-what's his name?don't make me laugh.

That boy with the grave mathematical look
Made believe he had written a wonderful book,
And the Royal Society thought it was true!
So they chose him right in,-a good joke it
was, too.

There's a boy, we pretend, with a three-decker brain,

That could harness a team with a logical chain, When he spoke for our manhood in syllabled

fire;

We call him "The Justice," but now he's the "Squire."