xhausted and squeezed the last note oat, and the
audience saw that he was in a profuse perspiration, they let him go and
did not call him back. If he had come out and sat on the back of a chair
and sawed off "The Devil's Dream," or "The Arkansaw Traveler," that
crowd would have cheered him till he thought he was a bigger man than
Grant.

But he didn't have any sense. If some one will send a marked copy of
this paper to some of these colored concert troupes, and they will take
the hint, and sing nigger songs, they will make a heap of money, where
now they have to live on a free lunch route.

COULDN'T GET AWAY FROM HIM.

A good many may have wondered why we so suddenly quit speeding our horse
on the avenue. For two or three days we couldn't go down the avenue
enough, and there is no person but will admit that our old pile driver
trotted real spry. We did not get the idea that he was the fastest
horse that ever was, but he seemed real soon. It takes a good deal of
executive ability for a man who has a third-class horse to keep from
going down the road with horses that are too fast. One must be a good
judge, and when he finds a horse that he can beat, stick to him.

We got the thing down pretty fine, but one day a man drove along beside
us, going up, who seemed bound to get into conversation. He was a
red-faced man, with these side-bar whiskers, evidently a German. He was
driving a sorrel horse to a long sled, with a box on behind the seat,
a sort of delivery sleigh. He had a barrel in the sleigh, filled with
intestines from a slaughter house, two baskets full of the same freight,
a cow's head, and two sheep heads. He was evidently owner of a sausage
factory somewhere, and as he kept along beside us his company was
somewhat annoying. Not that we were proud, but we feared the people on
the avenue would think we were a silent partner in a sausage factory,
and that we were talking business.

The man was real entertaining in his conversation, but the load he
had was not congenial, and we were glad when the foot of the hill was
reached, so we could turn around and go down, and get away from him. We
turned and spit on our hands, and begun to pull up on the old horse,
and he began to get his legs untangled and to go. We forgot about the
sausage butcher, as we went down, the fresh air making every nerve get
up and git.

Suddenly the nose of a sorrel horse began to work up by where we sat,
and we looked around, and may