ave a theory that laughter is the chief earnest of immortality.

"To _dry_ land I have said. _Mon Dieu!_ the torrent was no wetter. It
rains in the Chamounix valley. We looked to see whence we had fallen, and
not even the _Chapeau_ was visible through the mist.

"But, as I turned, Fidele uttered a little cry.

"'The flask, and the sandwich-box, and your poor coat!'

"'_Comment?_' I said; and in a moment was in my shirt-sleeves.

"I stared, and I wondered, and I clucked in my throat.

"Holy saints! I was adorned with a breastplate on my back. The friction
of descent, first welding together these, the good ministers to our
appetite, had worn the metal down in the end to a mere skin or badge, the
heat generated from which had scorched and frizzled the cloth beneath it.

"I needed not to seek further explanation of the pain I had suffered--was
suffering then, indeed, as I had reason to know when ecstasy permitted a
return of sensation. My back bears the scars at this moment.

"'It shall remain there for ever!' I cried, 'like the badge of a _cocher
de fiacre_, who has made the fastest journey on record. 'Coachman! from
the glacier to the valley.' '_Mais oui, monsieur_. Down this crevasse, if
you please.'

"And that is the history of our adventure.

"Why we were not dashed to pieces? But that, as I accept it, is easy of
elucidation. Imagine a vast crescent moon, with a downward nick from the
end of the tail. This form the fissure took, in one enormous sweep and
drop towards the mouth of the valley. Now, as we rushed headlong, the
gentle curve received us from space to substance quite gradually, until
we were whirring forward wholly on the latter, my luggage suffering the
brunt of the friction. The upward sweep of the crescent diminished our
progress--more and yet more--until we switched over the lower point and
shot quietly down the incline beyond. And all this in ample room, and
without meeting with a single unfriendly obstacle.

"'_Voila, mes chers amis, ce qui me met en peine_.'

"Fidele laughs, the rogue!

"'Ta, ta, ta!' she says. 'But they will not believe a word of it all.'"

THE VANISHING HOUSE

"My grandfather," said the banjo, "drank 'dog's-nose,' my father drank
'dog's-nose,' and I drink 'dog's-nose.' If that ain't heredity, there's
no virtue in the board schools."

"Ah!" said the piccolo, "you're always a-boasting of your science. And
so, I suppose, your son'll drink 'dog's-nose,' too?"