the Dells of Wisconsin one day last week.
It was composed of ladies and gentlemen of both political parties,
and it was hoped that nothing would occur to mar the pleasure of the
excursion.

When the party visited the Dells, Mr. Chapin, a lawyer of Democratic
proclivities, went out upon a rock overhanging a precipice, or words to
that effect, and he became so absorbed in the beauty of the scene that
he did not notice a Republican lady who left the throng and waltzed
softly up behind him. She had blood in her eye and gum in her mouth, and
she grasped the lawyer, who is a weak man, by the arms, and hissed in
his ear:

"Hurrah for Garfield, or I will plunge you headlong into the yawning
gulf below!"

It was a trying moment. Chapin rather enjoyed being held by a woman,
but not in such a position that, if she let go her hold to spit on
her hands, he would go a hundred feet down, and become as flat as the
Greenback party, and have to be carried home in a basket.

In a second he thought over all the sins of his past life, which was
pretty quick work, as anybody will admit who knows the man. He thought
of how he would be looked down upon by Gabe Bouck, and all the fellows,
if it once got out that he had been frightened into going back on his
party.

He made up his mind that he would die before he would hurrah for
Garfield, but when the merciless woman pushed him towards the edge of
the rock, and said, "Last call! Yell, or down you go!" he opened his
mouth and yelled so they heard it in Kilbourn City:

"Hurrah for Garfield! Now lemme go!"

Though endowed with more than ordinary eloquence, no remarks that he had
ever made before brought the applause that this did. Everybody yelled,
and the woman smiled as pleasantly as though she had not crushed the
young life out of her victim, and left him a bleeding sacrifice on the
altar of his country, but when she had realized what she had done her
heart smote her, and she felt bad.

Chapin will never be himself again. From that moment his proud spirit
was broken, and all during the picnic he seemed to have lost his cud. He
leaned listlessly against a tree, pale as death, and fanned himself
with a skimmer. When the party had spread the lunch on the ground
and gathered around, sitting on the ant-hills, he sat down with them
mechanically, but his appetite was gone, and when that is gone there is
not enough of him left for a quorum.

Friends rallied around him, passed the pickles, a