consequently we were mournful. Thick-coming
fancies brooded in our brain--all things conspired against us; the day was
damp and wretched--the church-bells emulated each other in announcing the
mortalities of earth's bipeds--each _toll'd_ its tale of death. We thought
upon our "absent friend." A funeral approached. We were still more gloomy.
Could it be his? if so, what were his thoughts? Could ghosts but speak,
what would he say? The coffin was coeval with us--sheets were rubicund
compared to our cheeks. A low deep voice sounded from its very bowels--the
words were addressed to us--they were, "Take no notice; it's the first
time; it will soon be over!"

"Will it?" we groaned.

"Yes. I'm glad you know me. I'll tell you more when I come back."

"Gracious powers! do you expect to return?"

"Certainly! We'll have a screw together yet! There's room for us both in my
place. I'll make you comfortable."

The cold perspiration streamed from us. Was there ever anything so awful!
Here was an unhappy subject threatening to call and see us at night, and
then screw us down and make us comfortable.

"Will you come?" exclaimed the dead again.

"Never!" we vociferated with fearful energy.

"Then let it alone; I didn't think you'd have cut me now; but wait till I
show you my face."

Horror of horrors!--the pall moved--a long white face peered from it. We
gasped for breath, and only felt new life when we recognised our uncle Job
Bucket, as the author of the conversation, and one of the bearers of the
coffin! He had turned mute!--but that was a failure--no one ever died in
his parish after his adopting that profession!

* * * * *

He has been seen once since in the backwoods of America. His fate seemed
still to follow him, and his good temper appeared immortal--his situation
was more peculiar than pleasant. He was seated on a log, three hundred
miles from any civilised habitation, smiling blandly at a broken axe (his
only one), the half of which was tightly grasped in his right hand,
pointing to the truant iron in the trunk of a huge tree, the first of a
thriving forest of fifty acres he purposed felling; and, thus occupied, a
solitary traveller passed our uncle Job Bucket, serene as the melting
sunshine, and thoughtless as the wild insect that sported round the owner
"of the lightest of light hearts."--PEACE BE WITH HIM. FUSBOS.

* * * * *

IMPORTANT DISCOVE