ll do is to say something to myself, and your
mule won't budge when you say 'gee,' but simply wag his tail."

"It's done, Massa Harry. I'se'll take dat wager, but de melon has to be
de largest you can git."

"All right," I said. And as it had stopped raining, Goliath proceeded to
his wagon, and, climbing up on the seat, picked up the ropes he called
reins and shouted, "Gee up dere, Scratch." But, as I predicted, Scratch
never moved a leg, but only switched his tail.

"Gee up dere; what's de mattah wif youse?" But not a move did that mule
make. We stood in the doorway laughing so heartily that Goliath grew
suspicious, and climbing down, walked slowly around the mule and wagon,
doubtless to discover if we had played him a trick.

Everything appeared all right, and getting on the wagon, he tried it
again. "Get along dere, Scratch, you long-eared bone-yard. Gee up!"

It was useless; Scratch wouldn't move, and Goliath, with a woe-begone,
puzzled expression on his face, clambered down and surveyed old
Scratchbones. His eyes wandered along every stitch of the harness, and
finally down to Scratch's feet. A very curious look covered his face,
and stooping, he discovered the reason why Scratch wouldn't gee.

Scratchbones and the wagon had stood so long on that new asphalt, and
unfortunately in a place made softer than the rest by the sun, that he
actually had sunk _into_ it, and the tarry stuff had gathered around his
hoofs. The rainfall cooled it off, hardening it, and consequently both
mule and wagon were locked to the street.

Goliath was mad, and claimed we had put up the joke on him. However, he
lost the melon, and as it took an hour or so to dig Scratch out, we made
him get it, and finally got him into good humor, but told him never to
boast of his wonderful mule.

"I's done boastin' of dat mule. Neber no more, massas, dat mule done
need no one to boast of 'im. He done show how proud he am when he can't
stan' in de street widout gettin' stuck on 'imself."

HUBERT EARL.

A MEAN MAN.

A French paper tells of a man who ought to be set down as the meanest
man of his time. His name is Rapineau, and he is the happy father of
three children. His chief claim to meanness lies in the fact that he has
lately discovered a plan to reduce his weekly expenditure. Every
morning, when sitting down at table, he makes the following proposal:
"Those who will go without breakfast shall have twopence." "Me--me!"
exclaim th