. The editor of
a rival sheet in our county declares, however, that the major actually
thirsts for blood; and in proof of the assertion he has printed the
following narrative, which, he says, he obtained from Mr. Grady, the
policeman:

"One day recently the major sent for a policeman; and when Mr. Grady,
of the force, arrived, the major shut the door of his sanctum and
asked him to take a seat.

"Mr. Grady," he said, "your profession necessarily brings you into
contact with the criminal classes and familiarizes you with them. This
is why I have sent for you. My business is of a confidential nature,
and I trust to your honor to regard it as a sacred trust confided in
you. Mr. Grady, I wish to ascertain if among your acquaintances of the
criminal sort you know of any one who is a professional assassin--who
rents himself out to any one who wants to destroy a fellow-creature?
Do you know of such a person?'

"'I dunno as I do,' said Mr. Grady, thoughtfully rubbing his chin.
'There's not much demand for murderers now.'

"'Well,' said the editor, 'I wish you'd look around and see if you can
light on such a man, and get him to do a little job for me. I want a
butcher who will slay a person whom I will designate. I don't care
how he does it. He may stab him, or drown him, or bang him with a
shot-gun. It makes no difference to me; I will pay him all the same.
Now, will you get me such a man?'

"'I s'pose I might. I'll look round, any way.'

"'Between you and me,' said the editor, 'the chap I'm going to
assassinate is a poet--a fellow named Markley. He has been sending
poetry to this paper every day for eight months. I never printed a
line, but he keeps stuffing it in as if he thought I was depositing it
in the bank and drawing interest on it. Well, sir, it's got to be so
bad that it annoys me terribly. It keeps me awake at night. I'm losing
flesh. That man and his poetry haunt me. I'm getting gloomy and
morose. Life is beginning to pall upon me. I seem to be under the
influence of a perpetual nightmare. I can't stand it much longer, Mr.
Grady; my reason will totter upon its throne. Here, only this morning,
he sent me a poem entitled "Lines to Hannah." Are you fond of poetry,
Grady?'

"'Oh, I dunno; I don't care so very much about it.'"

"'Well, I'll read you one verse of the "Lines to Hannah." He says--to
Hannah, mind you--

"The little birds sing sweetly
In the weeping willows green,
The village girls dress