hould be an amendment to the constitution of the United States
making it lawful for an ex-President to walk on grass. We have no great
admiration for Hayes, but when we read that at Cleveland he was ordered
off the grass by a thirteen dollar a month soldier, and had to shin
it-over a fence real spry to save the shoulder of his pants from assault
by a cheap bayonet, it makes us feel ashamed, and we blush for America.
The spectacle of a man who has occupied the White House, and been the
chief attraction of county fairs, being compelled to put his stomach on
a fence, and flop over, heels over appetite, like a boy playing tag, to
keep from being jabbed in a vital part, makes us sick.

THE NEW COAL STOVE.

We never had a coal stove around the house until last Saturday. Have
always used pine slabs and pieces of our neighbor's fence. They burn
well, too, but the fence got all burned up, and the neighbor said he
wouldn't build a new one, so we went down to Jones' and got a coal
stove.

You see, we didn't know anything about coal stoves. We filled the stove
about half full of pine fence, and, when the stuff got well to going, we
filled the artesian well on the top with coal. It simmered and sputtered
about five or ten minutes, and all went out, and we put on an overcoat
and a pair of buckskin mittens and "went out too"--to supper. We
remarked, in the course of the frugal meal, that Jones was a "froad" for
recommending such a confounded refrigerator to a man to get warm by.

After supper we took a piece of ice and rubbed our hands warm, and went
in where that stove was, resolved to make her draw and burn if it took
all the pine fence in the First Ward. Our better-half threw a quilt
over her, and shiveringly remarked that she never knew what real solid
comfort was until she got a coal stove.

Stung by the sarcasm in her remark, we turned every dingus on the stove
that was movable, or looked like it had anything to do with the draft,
and pretty soon the stove began to heave up heat. It was not long before
she stuttered like the new Silsby steamer. Talk about your heat! In
ten minutes that room was as much worse than a Turkish bath as Hades is
hotter than Liverman's ice-house. The perspiration fairly fried out of
a tin water cooler in the next room. We opened the doors, and snow began
to melt as far up Vine street as Hanscombe's house, and people all
round the neighborhood put on linen clothes. And we couldn't stop the
co