ez-vous_ have de kindness to give me back de money vot I pay!"

"Certainly not."

"Den vill you be so good as to take de East River off de top of my
lot?"

"That's your business, sir, not mine."

"Den I make von _mauvaise affaire_--von gran mistake!"

"I hope not. I don't think you have thrown your money away in the
_land_."

"No, sare; but I tro it avay in de _vatare!_"

"That's not my fault."

"Yes, sare, but it is your fault. You're von ver gran rascal to
swindle me out of _de l'argent_."

"Hello, old Poopoo, you grow personal; and if you can't keep a civil
tongue in your head, you must go out of my counting-room."

"Vare shall I go to, eh?"

"To the devil, for aught I care, you foolish old Frenchman!" said the
auctioneer, waxing warm.

"But, sare, I vill not go to de devil to oblige you!" replied the
Frenchman, waxing warmer. "You sheat me out of all de dollar vot I
make in Shatham Street; but I vill not go to de devil for all dat. I
vish you may go to de devil yourself you dem yankee-doo-dell, and I
vill go and drown myself, _tout de suite_, right avay."

"You couldn't make a better use of your water privileges, old boy!"

"Ah, _misericorde!_ Ah, _mon dieu, je suis abime_. I am ruin! I am
done up! I am break all into ten sousan leetle pieces! I am von lame
duck, and I shall vaddle across de gran ocean for Paris, vish is de
only valuarble vatare privalege dat is left me _a present!_"

Poor Poopoo was as good as his word. He sailed in the next packet, and
arrived in Paris almost as penniless as the day he left it.

Should any one feel disposed to doubt the veritable circumstances here
recorded, let him cross the East River to the Wallabout, and farmer
J---- will _row him out_ to the very place where the poor Frenchman's
lots still remain _under water_.

THE ANGEL OF THE ODD

[From _The Columbian Magazine_, October, 1844.]

BY EDGAR ALLAN POE (1809-1849)

It was a chilly November afternoon. I had just consummated an
unusually hearty dinner, of which the dyspeptic _truffe_ formed not
the least important item, and was sitting alone in the dining-room
with my feet upon the fender and at my elbow a small table which I had
rolled up to the fire, and upon which were some apologies for dessert,
with some miscellaneous bottles of wine, spirit, and _liqueur_. In the
morning I had been reading Glover's _Leonidas_, Wilkie's _Epigoniad_,
Lamartine's _Pilgrimage_, Barlow's _Columbiad_, Tuckerman's _Si