ask you certain questions calculated to bring out the salient points of your public and private history?"

"Oh, with pleasure,-with pleasure. I have a very bad memory; but I hope you will not mind that. That is to say, it is an irregular memory, singularly irregular. Sometimes it goes in a gallop, and then again it will be as much as a fortnight passing a given point. This is a great grief to me."

"Oh! it is no matter, so you will try to do the best you can." "I will. I will put my whole mind on it."

"Thanks! Are you ready to begin?"

"Ready."

Question. How old are you?

Answer. Nineteen in June.

Q. Indeed! I would have taken you to be thirty-five or six. Where were you born?

4. In Missouri.

Q. When did you begin to write?

A. In 1836.

Q. Why, how could that be, if you are only nineteen now? A. I don't know. It does seem curious, somehow.

Q. It does indeed. Whom do you consider the most remarkable man you ever met?

A. Aaron Burr.

Q. But you never could have met Aaron Burr, if you are only nineteen years

A. Now, if you know more about me than I do, what do you ask me for?

Q. Well, it was only a suggestion; nothing more. How did you happen to meet Burr?

A. Well, I happened to be at his funeral one day; and he asked me to make less noise, and

Q. But, good heavens! If you were at his funeral, he must have been dead; and, if he was dead, how could he care whether you made a noise or not?

4. I don't know. He was always a particular kind of a man that way.

Q. Still, I don't understand it at all. You say he spoke to you, and that he was dead?

A. I didn't say he was dead.
Q. But wasn't he dead?

A.

Well, some said he was, some said he wasn't. ૨. What do you think?

A. Oh, it was none of my business! It wasn't any of my funeral.

Q. Did you However, we can never get this matter straight. Let me ask about something else. What was the date of your birth?

A. Monday, Oct. 31, 1693. Q. What! Impossible! dred and eighty years old.

That would make you a hun-
How do you account for that?

A. I don't account for it at all.

Q. But you said at first you were only nineteen, and now you make yourself out to be one hundred and eighty. It is an awful discrepancy.

A. Why, have you noticed that? (Shaking hands.) Many a time it has seemed to me like a discrepancy; but somehow I couldn't make up my mind. How quick you notice a thing!

Q. Thank you for the compliment, as far as it goes. Had you, or have you, any brothers or sisters?

A. Eh! I-I-I think so,-yes-but I don't remember. Q. Well, that is the most extraordinary statement I ever heard.

A. Why, what makes you think that?

Q. How could I think otherwise? Why, look here! Who is this a picture of on the wall? Isn't that a brother of yours?

A. Oh, yes, yes, yes! Now you remind me of it, that was a brother of mine. That's William, Bill we called him. Poor old Bill!

Q. Why, is he dead, then?

A. Ah, well, I suppose so. We never could tell. There was a great mystery about it.

Q. That is sad, very sad. He disappeared, then?

A. Well, yes, in a sort of general way. We buried him. Buried him! Buried him without knowing whether he was dead or not?

Q.

A.

Oh, no! Not that. He was dead enough.

Q. Well, I confess that I can't understand this. If you buried him, and you knew he was dead

A. No, no! We only thought he was.

Q. Oh, I see! He came to life again?
A. I bet he didn't!

Q. Well, I never heard any thing like this. Somebody was dead. Somebody was buried. Now, where was the mystery?

A. Ah, that's just it! That's it exactly! You see we were twins,-defunct and I; and we got mixed in the bathtub when we were only two weeks old, and one of us was drowned. But we didn't know which. Some think it was Bill; some think it was me.

Q. Well, that is remarkable. What do you think?

A. Goodness knows! I would give whole worlds to know. This solemn, this awful mystery has cast a gloom over my whole life. But I will tell you a secret now, which I never have revealed to any creature before. One of us had a peculiar mark, a large mole on the back of his left hand; that was me. That child was the one that was drowned.

Q. Very well, then, I don't see that there is any mystery about it, after all.

A. You don't; Well, I do. Anyway, I don't see how they could ever have been such a blundering lot as to go and bury the wrong child. But, 'sh! don't mention it where the family can hear of it. Heaven knows they have heartbreaking troubles enough without adding this.

Q. Well, I believe I have got material enough for the present; and I am very much obliged to you for the pains you have taken. But I was a good deal interested in that account of Aaron Burr's funeral. Would you mind telling me what particular circumstance it was that made you think Burr was such a remarkable man?

A. Oh, it was a mere trifle! Not one man in fifty would have noticed it at all. When the sermon was over, and the procession all ready to start for the cemetery, and the body all arranged nice in the hearse, he said he wanted to take a last look at the scenery; and so he got up, and rode with the driver.

Then the young man reverently withdrew. He was very pleasant company; and I was sorry to see him go.

POOR LITTLE JOE.-PELEG ARKWRIGHT.

Prop yer eyes wide open Joey,

Fur I've brought you sumpin' great. Apples? No, a heap sight better!

Don't you take no int'rest? Wait! Flowers, Joe-I know'd you'd like 'emAin't them scrumptious? Ain't them high? Tears, my boy? Wot's them fur, Joey? There-poor little Joe!-don't cry!

I was skippin' past a winder,
Where a bang-up lady sot,
All amongst a lot of bushes-
Each one climbin' from a pot;
Every bush had flowers on it-
Pretty? Mebbe not! Oh, no!
Wish you could a seen 'em growin',
It was sich a stunnin' show.

Well, I thought of you, poor feller,
Lyin' here so sick and weak,

Never knowin' any comfort,

And I puts on lots o' cheek.
"Missus," says I, "If you please, mum,
Could I ax you for a rose?
For my little brother, missus—
Never seed one, I suppose."

Then I told her all about you

How I bringed you up-poor Joe! (Lackin' women folks to do it.) Sich a' imp you was, you knowTill yer got that awful tumble, Jist as I had broke yer in (Hard work, too,) to earn yer livin' Blackin' boots for honest tin.

How that tumble crippled of you,
So's you couldn't hyper much--
Joe, it hurted when I seen you
Fur the first time with yer crutch.

"But," I says, "he's laid up now, mum,
'Pears to weaken every day;"

Joe, she up and went to cuttin'-
That's the how of this bokay.

Say! It seems to me, ole feller,

You is quite yerself to-night;

Kind o' chirk-it's been a fortnit

Sence yer eyes has been so bright.
Better? Well, I'm glad to hear it!
Yes, they're mighty pretty, Joe.
Smellin' of 'em's made you happy?
Well, I thought it would, you know!

Never see the country, did you?
Flowers growin' everywhere!
Some time when you're better, Joey,
Mebbe I kin take you there.
Flowers in heaven? 'M-I s'pose so;
Dunno much about it, though;
Ain't as fly as wot I might be
On them topics, little Joe.

But I've heard it hinted somewheres
That in heaven's golden gates
Things is everlastin' cheerful-

B'lieve that's wot the Bible states.
Likewise, there folks don't git hungry;
So good people, when they dies,
Finds themselves well fixed forever-
Joe, my boy, wot ails yer eyes?

Thought they looked a little singler.
Oh, no! Don't you have no fear;
Heaven was made fur such as you is-
Joe, wot makes you look so queer?
Here-wake up! Oh, don't look that way!
Joe! My boy! Hold up yer head!
Here's yer flowers--you dropped 'em Joey!
Oh, my God, can Joe be dead?

THE SISTER OF CHARITY.-GERALD GRIFFIN.

She once was a lady of honor and wealth,
Bright glowed on her features the roses of health;
Her vesture was blended of silk and of gold,
And her motion shook perfume from every fold:
Joy reveled around her-love shone at her side,
And gay was her smile as the glance of a bride;
And light was her step in the mirth-sounding hall,
When she heard of the daughters of Vincent de Paul.