natʼral; no man ever talked in poetry 'cept a beadle on boxin'-day, or Warren's blackin', or Rowland's oil, or some o' them low fellers; never let yourself down to talk poetry, my boy. Begin again, Sammy."

Mr. Weller resumed his pipe with critical solemnity, and Sam once more commenced, and read as follows:

"Lovely creetur', I feel myself a charmed-"

"That ain't proper," said Mr. Weller, taking his pipe from his mouth.

"No, it ain't charmed,” observed Sam, holding the letter up to the light; "it's 'shamed; there's a blot there-'I feel myself ashamed." "

"Wery good," said Mr. Weller. "Go on."

"Feel myself ashamed and completely cir-' I forget wot this here word is," said Sam, scratching his head with the pen, in vain attempts to remember.

"Why don't you look at it, then ?" inquired Mr. Weller. "So I am a lookin' at it," replied Sam, "but there's another blot; here's a 'c,' and a 'i,' and a 'd.""

"Circumwented, p'r'aps," suggested Mr. Weller.

"No, it ain't that," said Sam; "circumscribed-that's it." "That ain't as good a word as circumwented, Sammy,” said Mr. Weller, gravely.

"Think not ?" said Sam.

"Nothin' like it," replied his father.

"But don't you think it means more ?" inquired Sam. "Vell, p'r'aps it is a more tenderer word," said Mr. Weller, after a few moments' reflection. Go on, Sammy."

66

"Feel myself ashamed and completely circumscribed in a dressin' of you, for you are a nice gal, and nothin' but it." "That's a wery pretty sentiment," said the elder Mr. Weller, removing his pipe to make way for the remark.

"Yes, I think it is rayther good," observed Sam, highly flattered.

"Wot I like in that 'ere style of writing," said the elder Mr. Weller, "is, that there ain't no callin' names in it—no Wenuses, nor nothin' o' that kind: wot's the good o' callin' a young 'ooman a Wenus or an angel, Sammy ?" "Ah! what, indeed ?" replied Sam.

"You might jist as vell call her a griffin, or a unicorn, or a king's arms at once, vich is wery vell known to be a collection o' fabulous animals," added Mr. Weller.

"Just as well," replied Sam.

"Drive on, Sammy," said Mr. Weller.

Sam complied with the request, and proceeded as follows; his father continuing to smoke with a mixed expression of wisdom and complacency which was particularly edifying. "Afore I see you I thought all women was alike.”” "So they are," observed the elder Mr. Weller, parenthetically.

66 "But now,' "" continued Sam, 666 'now I find what a reg'lar soft-headed, ink-red'lous turnip I must ha' been, for there ain't nobody like you, though I like you better than nothin' at all.' I thought it best to make that rayther strong," said Sam, looking up.

Mr. Weller nodded approvingly, and Sam resumed:

"So I take the privilidge of the day, Mary, my dearas the gen'lem'n in difficulties did ven he valked out of a Sunday to tell you that the first and only time I see you, your likeness was took on my heart in much quicker time and brighter colors than ever a likeness was took by the profeel macheen (which, p'r'aps, you may have heerd on, Mary, my dear), altho' it does finish a portrait, and puts the frame and glass on complete, with a hook at the end to hang it up by, and all in two minutes and a quarter.""

"I am afeered that werges on the poetical, Sammy,” said Mr. Weller, dubiously.

"No, it don't," replied Sam, reading on very quickly, to avoid contesting the point.

666

'Except of me, Mary, my dear, as your walentine, and think over what I've said. My dear Mary, I will now conclude.' That's all," said Sam.

"That's rayther a sudden pull up, ain't it, Sammy ?" inquired Mr. Weller.

"Not a bit on it," said Sam; "she'll vish there vos more, and that's the great art o' letter-writin'."

"Well," said Mr. Weller, "there's somethin' in that; and I wish your mother-in-law'd only conduct her conwersation

on the same gen-teel principle. Ain't you a goin' to sign it?"

"That's the difficulty," said Sam; "I don't know what to sign it."

66

'Sign it-Veller," said the oldest surviving proprietor of that name.

"Won't do," said Sam. "Never sign a walentine with your own name."

"Sign it-Pickwick, then," said Mr. Weller; "it's a wery good name, and a easy one to spell."

"The wery thing," said Sam. "I could end with a werse; what do you think?"

"I don't like it, Sam," rejoined Mr. Weller. "I never know'd a respectable coachman as wrote poetry, 'cept one as made an affectin' copy o' werses the night afore he was hung for highway robbery, and he was only a Cambervell man, so even that's no rule."

But Sam was not to be dissuaded from the poetical idea that had occurred to him, so he signed the letter

"Your love-sick

PICKWICK," and having folded it in a very intricate manner, he squeezed a down-hill direction in one corner-"To Mary, Housemaid, at Mr. Nupkins's, Mayor's, Ipswich, Suffolk"-and put it into his pocket, wafered, and ready for the General Post.

PUTTING UP STOVES.

One who has had considerable experience in the work of putting up stoves says the first step to be taken is to put on a very old and ragged coat, under the impression that when he gets his mouth full of plaster it will keep his shirtbosom clean. Next he gets his hands inside the place where the pipe ought to go, and blacks his fingers, and then he carefully makes a black mark down one side of his nose. It is impossible to make any headway, in doing this work, until this mark is made down the side of the nose. Having got his face properly marked, the victim is ready to begin the ceremony. The head of the family-who is the big goose of the sacrifice-grasps one side of the bottom of the stove,

and his wife and the hired girl take hold of the other side. In this way the load is started from the wood-shed towards the parlor. Going through the door, the head of the family will carefully swing his side of the stove around, and jamb his thumb-nail against the door-post. This part of the ceremony is never omitted. Having got the stove comfortably in place, the next thing is to find the legs. Two of these are left inside the stove since the spring before; the other two must be hunted after for twenty-five minutes. They are usually found under the coal. Then the head of the family holds up one side of the stove while his wife puts two of the legs in place, and next he holds up the other side while the other two are fixed, and one of the first two falls out. By the time the stove is on its legs he gets reckless, and takes off his coat, regardless of his linen. Then he goes off for the pipe, and gets a cinder in his eye. It don't make any difference how well the pipe was put up last year, it will be found a little too short or a little too long. The head of the family jams his hat over his eyes, and, taking a pipe under each arm, goes to the tin-shop to have it fixed. When he gets back he steps upon one of the best parlor chairs to see if the pipe fits, and his wife makes him get down for fear he will scratch the varnish off from the chair with the nails in his boot-heel. In getting down he will surely step on the · cat, and may thank his stars if it is not the baby. Then he gets an old chair, and climbs up to the chimney again, to find that in cutting the pipe off the end has been left too big for the hole in the chimney. So he goes to the woodshed, and splits one side of the end of the pipe with an old axe, and squeezes it in his hands to make it smaller. Finally he gets the pipe in shape, and finds that the stove does not stand true. Then himself and wife and the hired girl move the stove to the left, and the legs fall out again. Next it is to move to the right. More difficulty with the legs. Moved to the front a little. Elbow not even with the hole in the chimney, and he goes to the wood-shed after some little blocks. While putting the blocks under the legs the pipe comes out of the chimney. That remedied, the elbow keeps tipping over, to the great alarm of the wife. Head of

the family gets the dinner-table out, puts the old chair on it, gets his wife to hold the chair, and balances himself on it, to drive some nails into the ceiling. Drops the hammer on to wife's head. At last gets the nails driven, makes a wireswing to hold the pipe, hammers a little here, pulls a little there, takes a long breath, and announces the ceremony completed.

Job never put up any stoves. It would have ruined his reputation if he had.

THE POWER OF HABIT.

JOHN B. GOUGH.

I remember once riding from Buffalo to the Niagara Falls. I said to a gentleman, "What river is that, sir ?" "That," said he, "is Niagara River."

"Well, it is a beautiful stream," said I; "bright, and fair, and glassy. How far off are the rapids ?"

"Only a mile or two," was the reply.

"Is it possible that only a mile from us we shall find the water in the turbulence which it must show near the Falls ?" "You will find it so, sir." And so I found it; and the first sight of Niagara I shall never forget.

Now, launch your bark on that Niagara River; it is bright, smooth, beautiful, and glassy. There is a ripple at the bow; the silver wake you leave behind adds to your enjoyment. Down the stream you glide, oars, sails, and helm in proper trim, and you set out on your pleasure excursion. Suddenly some one cries out from the bank," Young men, ahoy !” "What is it ?"

"The rapids are below you!"

"Ha! ha! we have heard of the rapids, but we are not such fools as to get there. If we go too fast, then we shall up with the helm and steer to the shore; we will set the mast in the socket, hoist the sail, and speed to the land. Then on, boys! don't be alarmed; there is no danger." "Young men, ahoy there!"

"What is it ?"

"The rapids are below you!"

"Ha! ha! we will laugh and quaff; all things delight us