ndly made them graminivorous. Suddenly Tony spake.

"Father," said he, looking straight across the top of the axe-handle
which he held between his knees as a mental stimulant, "father, I've
been thinking of something a good bit lately."

"Jest thirty-five years, Tony, come next Thanksgiving," replied the
old man, promptly, in a thin asthmatic falsetto. "I recollect your
mother used to say it dated from the time your Aunt Hannah was here
with the girls."

"Yes, father, I think it may be a matter of thirty-five years; though
it don't seem so long, does it? But I've been thinking harder for the
last week or two, and I'm going to speak out."

Unbounded amazement looked out at the old man's eyes; his tongue,
utterly unprepared for the unexpected contingency, refused its office;
a corncob imperfectly denuded dropped from his nerveless hand, and was
critically examined, in turn, by the gossamer dogs, hoping against
hope. A smoking brand in the fireplace fell suddenly upon a bed of hot
coals, where, lacking the fortitude of Guatimozin, it emitted a
sputtering protest, followed by a thin flame like a visible agony. In
the resulting light Tony's haggard face shone competitively with a
ruddy blush, which spread over his entire scalp, to the imminent
danger of firing his flaxen hair.

"Yes, father," he answered, making a desperate clutch at calmness, but
losing his grip, "I'm going to make a clean breast of it this time,
for sure! Then you can do what you like about it."

The paternal organ of speech found sufficient strength to grind out an
intimation that the paternal ear was open for business.

"I've studied it all over, father; I've looked at it from every side;
I've been through it with a lantern! And I've come to the conclusion
that, seeing as I'm the oldest, it's about time I was beginning to
think of getting married!"

* * * * *

NO CHARGE FOR ATTENDANCE.

Near the road leading from Deutscherkirche to Lagerhaus may be seen
the ruins of a little cottage. It never was a very pretentious pile,
but it has a history. About the middle of the last century it was
occupied by one Heinrich Schneider, who was a small farmer--so small a
farmer his clothes wouldn't fit him without a good deal of taking-in.
But Heinrich Schneider was young. He had a wife, however--most small
farmers have when young. They were rather poor: the farm was just
large enough to keep them comfortably hungry.