I fawgot ter tell yer who I got morred to. I got morred to
Thomas Jeff'son Hollan'."

"So you're a free man," said Dr. Horton, folding the letter and handing it
to Alston. "You an' Little Lizay can get married to-day, right now, if you
wish to. Uncle Moses can marry you: he's a member of the Church in good an'
regular standin': I don't know but he's an exhorter, or class-leader, or
somethin'. What do you say? Shall I call him in an' have him tie you
together?"

"Thanky, moster, ef Little Lizay's willin'.--Is yer, Lizay?"

"I reckon so," said Lizay, her heart beating in gladness. But she
nevertheless glanced down at her coarse field-dress and thought with
longing of the new calico in her cabin.

So Uncle Moses was called in, and Mrs. Horton and all the children and
servants.

"Uncle Moses," said Dr. Horton, "did you ever marry anybody?"

"To be sho', Mos' Hawton. I's morred--Lemme see how many wives has I morred
sence I fus' commenced?"

"Oh, I don't mean that;" and Dr. Horton proceeded to explain what he did
mean.

"No," said Moses. "I never done any that business, but reckon I could: I's
done things a heap hauder."

"Well, let me see you try your han' on this couple."

"Well," said Uncle Moses, "git me a book: got ter have a Bible, or
hymn-book, or cat'chism, or somethin'."

The doctor gravely handed over a pocket edition of _Don Quixote_, which
happened to lie in his reach.

Uncle Moses took it for a copy of the _Methodist Discipline_, and made
pretence of seeking for the marriage ceremony. At length he appeared
satisfied that he had the right page, and stood up facing the couple.

"Jine boff yer right han's," he solemnly commanded. Then, with his eyes on
the book, he repeated the marriage service, with some remarkable
emendations. "An' ef yer solemnly promus," he said in conclusion, "ter lub
an' 'bey one 'nuther tell death pawts yer, please de Laud yer lib so long,
I pernounces boff yer all man an' wife."

Then the mistress looked about and got together a basket of household
articles for the new couple. Bearing this between them, Alston and Little
Lizay went back to the plantation and to their unfinished rows of cotton,
happy, poor souls! pathetic as it seems.

SARAH WINTER KELLOGG.

THE BASS OF THE POTOMAC.

Some twenty-five years ago Mr. William Shriver, a primitive pisciculturist,
took from the Youghiogheny River eleven black bass, and conveyed them in
the tank of the tender of a loco