e, which was Matt. Larsen's hotel on the corner of Second and
King streets, and such a shinning of swallow-tailed coats up blue ladders
was never seen. The fellows that belonged in the house threw out bedsteads
and crockery on to stove-pipe hats, and emptied beds on to
broadcloth coats. The wedding party disappeared in the third story window
with the hose, in the smoke, and after half an hour's work they came out
looking as though they had been in the Ashtabula railroad accident. Young
Mr. Smith had a stream of dirty water sent up his trousers leg, which went
clear up to his collar, and wilted it beyond repair. Mr. Hatch entwined
his doeskin pants around the burnt ridge-pole of the roof, hung on to a
rafter with his teeth, and chopped shingles, and the pipemen kept him wet,
and he looked like a bundle of damp stuff in a paper mill. Mr. Spence was
on the top of the ladder, and Mr. Drummond was next below him. In falling,
Mr. D. caught hold of one tail of Mr. Spence's swallow hammer coat, and
stretched the tail about two feet longer than the other. Mr. Foote was as
dry as a bone, until the pipeman saw him, and they nailed him up against
the wall with a stream and Foote was damp as a wet nurse in a minute.

Young Mr. Osborne, confidential adviser of Hyde, Cargill & Co., got half
way up the ladder, and a leak in the hose struck him and froze him to the
ladder, and Mr. Watson had to strike a match and thaw him loose. He wet
his pants from Genesis to Revelations, and had to go calling with an
ulster overcoat on. The most of the young men, after returning from the
fire, stood by the stove and dried themselves, and went calling all the
same, but the girls said they smelt like burnt shingles. The boys were all
dry enough at the dance in the evening.

SOUTHERN "HONAW."

Bennett and May fought a duel in Maryland the other day, and as near as
the truth can be arrived at neither party received a scratch. But their
"honaw" was satisfied.

PECK'S BAD BOY AND HIS PA.

HIS PA KILLS HIM.

"For heaven's sake dry up that whistling," said the grocery man to the bad
boy, as he sat on a bag of peanuts, whistling and filling his pockets.
"There is no sense in such whistling. What do you whistle for, anyway?"

"I am practicing my profession," said the boy, as he got up and stretched
himself, and cut off a slice of cheese, and took a few crackers. "I have
always been a good whistler, and I have decided to turn my talent to
account.