cing himself by my chair, the tears
running down his cheek.

"'Dar, marsa,' says I, 'don't ye see? Look at dat ole gray goose! Dat's
de berry match ob de one we had to-day.'

"Den de ladies all hollered, an' de gemmen laughed so loud dey yerd 'em
at de big house.

"'Stop, you black scoun'rel!' Marsa John says, his face gittin' white
an' he a-jerkin' his handkerchief from his pocket. 'Shoo!'

"Major, I hope to have my brains kicked out by a lame grasshopper if
ebery one ob dem gooses didn't put down de udder leg!

"'Now, you lyin' nigger,' he says, raisin' his cane ober my head, 'I'll
show you'--

"'Stop, Marsa John!' I hollered; ''t ain't fair, 't ain't fair.'

"'Why ain't it fair?' says he.

"''Cause,' says I, 'you didn't say "Shoo!" to de goose what was on de
table'."

Chad laughed until he choked.

"And did he thrash you?"

"Marsa John? No, sah. He laughed loud as anybody; an' den dat night he
says to me as I was puttin' some wood on de fire:

"'Chad, where did dat leg go?' An' so I ups an' tells him all about
Henny, an' how I was lyin' 'case I was 'feared de gal would git hurt,
an' how she was on'y a-foolin', thinkin' it was my goose; an' den de ole
marsa look in de fire for a long time, an' den he says:

"'Dat's Colonel Barbour's Henny, ain't it, Chad?'

"'Yes, marsa,' says I.

"Well, de next mawnin' he had his black horse saddled, an' I held the
stirrup for him to git on, an' he rode ober to de Barbour plantation,
an' didn't come back till plumb black night. When he come up I held de
lantern so I could see his face, for I wa'n't easy in my mine all day.
But it was all bright an' shinin' same as a' angel's.

"'Chad,' he says, handin' me de reins, 'I bought yo' Henny dis arternoon
from Colonel Barbour, an' she's comin' ober to-morrow, an' you can bofe
git married next Sunday.'"

UNCONSCIOUS HUMOR

BY J.K. WETHERILL

Perhaps unconscious humor does not appeal to the more amiable side of
our sense of mirth, for it excites in us a conceited feeling of
superiority over those who are making us laugh,--but its unexpectedness
and infinite variety render it irresistible to a certain class of minds.
The duly labeled "joke" follows a certain law and rule; whereas no
jester could invent the _grotesqueries_ of the unconscious humorist.

As a humble gleaner after the editorial scythe,--or, to be truly modern,
I should say mowing-machine,--I have gathered some strange sheaves of
this sort of humo