, and my big toe's a bit
sore, that's all."

"Corry, we have forgotten the blackthorns. Now, in this calm hour,
sacred to friendship, let us present each other with nature's staff, a
walking-stick cut from the bush, humble tokens of our mutual esteem."

Coristine agreed, and the result was a separation and careful scrutiny
of the underbrush on both sides of the road, which ended in the finding
of a dogwood by the lawyer, and of a striped maple by the dominie--both
straight above and curled at the root. These, having removed from the
bush, they brought into shape with their pocket-knives. Then Coristine
carved "F.W." on the handle of his, while Wilkinson engraved "E.C." on
the one he carried. This being done, each presented his fellow with
"this utterly inadequate expression of sincere friendship," which was
accepted "not for its intrinsic worth, but because of the generous
spirit which prompted the gift." "Whenever my eye rests on these letters
by friendship traced," said the dominie, "my pleasant companion of this
happy day will be held in remembrance."

"And when my fingers feel 'E.C.' on the handle," retorted the lawyer,
"I'll be wishing that my dear friend's lot, that gave it me, may be easy
too. Faith but that's a hard pun on an Irishman."

"Seriously, now, Corry, does it give you any satisfaction to be guilty
of these--ah--rhetorical figures?"

"All the delight in the world, Wilks, my boy."

"But it lowers the tone of your conversation; it puts you on a level
with common men; it grieves me."

"If that last is the case, Farquhar, I'll do my best to fight against my
besetting sin. You'll admit I've been very tender of your feelings with
them."

"How's your foot now?"

"Oh, splendid! This stick of yours is a powerful help to it.

Jog on, jog on, the footpath way,
And merrily hent the stile-a:
A merry heart goes all the day,
Your sad tires in a mile-a.

Shakespeare's songs remind me of young Witherspoon. There was a party at
old Tylor's, and a lady was singing 'Tell me where is fancy bred?' when
young Witherspoon comes up to the piano in a hurry, and says: 'Why,
don't you know?--at Nasmith's and Webb's.'

"Lord! how savage old Tylor was! I thought he would have kicked the
young ass out."

"That is just what we lovers of literature have to endure from the
Philistines. But, Corry, my dear fellow, here is the rain!"

The rain fell, at first drop by drop, but afterwards more smar