"_Beautiful_ dog! _yours_, Sir?" addressing himself to a second.

"_No!_" was the blunt reply.

"Come here, Pup! Perhaps he is _yours_, Sir?"

"No!" was again the reply.

"Very sagacious animal! Belongs to YOU, I suppose, Sir?"

"No, he doesn't!"

"Then he is _yours_, and you have a treasure in him, Sir?" at the same
time throwing the animal a cracker.

"No, Sir, he is not!"

"Oh!" (_with a smile_) "he belongs to _you_, as a matter of course,
then?" addressing the last passenger.

"_Me!_ I wouldn't have him as a gift!"

"Then, you dirty, mean, contemptible whelp, get out!" And with that the
host gave him such a kick as sent him howling into the street, amidst
the roars of the company.

There was _one_ honest dog in that company, but the two-legged specimen
was a little "too sweet to be wholesome."

JOHN KEMBLE.

MOORE mentions in his diary a very amusing anecdote of John Kemble. He
was performing one night at some country theatre, in one of his
favourite parts, and being interrupted from time to time by the
squalling of a child in one of the galleries, he became not a _little_
angry at the rival performance. Walking with solemn step to the front of
the stage, and addressing the audience in his most tragic tone, he said:

"Unless _the play_ is stopped, _the child_ can not possibly go on!"

The loud laugh which followed this ridiculous transposition of his
meaning, relaxed even the nerves of the immortal Hamlet, and he was
compelled to laugh with his auditors.

CONFESSION.

A PRIEST of Basse Bretagne, finding his duty somewhat arduous,
particularly the number of his confessing penitents, said from the
pulpit one Sunday:

"Brethren, to avoid confusion at the confessional this week, I will on
Monday confess the liars, on Tuesday the thieves, Wednesday the
gamblers, Thursday the drunkards, Friday the women of bad life, and
Saturday the libertines."

Strange to relate, nobody came that week to confess their sins.

A SLEEPY DEACON.

THERE are times and seasons when sleep is never appropriate, and with
these may be classed the sleep of the good old Cincinnati deacon.

The deacon was the owner and overseer of a large pork-packing
establishment. His duty it was to stand at the head of the scalding
trough, watch in hand, to "time" the length of the scald, crying "Hog
in!" when the just slaughtered hog was to be thrown into the trough, and
"Hog out!" when the watch told three mi