em chu'ch books?" And
says she: "No, sar; I allus did despise dem stuck-up 'Pisclopians; dey
ain't got no 'ligion nohow."

Brover Simon, you never see a gal so holpen by a good genteel thrashin'
in all your days. I boun' she won't neber stick her nose in dem
new-fandangle chu'ches no more. Why, she jes' walks as straight dis
morning, and looks as peart as a sunflower. I'll lay a tenpence she'll
be a-singin' before night dat good ole hyme she usened to be so fond ob.
You knows, Brover Simon, how de words run:

"Baptis, Baptis is my name,
My name is written on high;
'Spects to lib and die de same,
My name is written on high."

_Brother Simon._ Yes, dat she will, I be boun'; ef I does say it, Brover
Horace, you beats any man on church guberment an' family displanement ob
anybody I ever has seen.

_Brother Horace._ Well, Brover, I does my bes'. You mus' pray for me, so
dat my han's may be strengthened. Dey feels mighty weak after dat
conversion I give dat Meriky las' night.--_Scribner's Monthly_,
_Bric-a-Brac_, 1876.

* * * * *

If it is unadulterated consolation that you need, try

AUNTY DOLEFUL'S VISIT.

BY MARY KYLE DALLAS.

How do you do, Cornelia? I heard you were sick, and I stepped in to
cheer you up a little. My friends often say: "It's such a comfort to see
you, Aunty Doleful. You have such a flow of conversation, and _are_ so
lively." Besides, I said to myself, as I came up the stairs: "Perhaps
it's the last time I'll ever see Cornelia Jane alive."

You don't mean to die yet, eh? Well, now, how do you know? You can't
tell. You think you are getting better, but there was poor Mrs. Jones
sitting up, and every one saying how smart she was, and all of a sudden
she was taken with spasms in the heart, and went off like a flash.
Parthenia is young to bring the baby up by hand. But you must be
careful, and not get anxious or excited. Keep quite calm, and don't fret
about anything. Of course, things can't go on jest as if you were
down-stairs; and I wondered whether you knew your little Billy was
sailing about in a tub on the mill-pond, and that your little Sammy was
letting your little Jimmy down from the veranda-roof in a
clothes-basket.

Gracious goodness, what's the matter? I guess Providence'll take care of
'em. Don't look so. You thought Bridget was watching them? Well, no, she
isn't. I saw her talking to a man at the gate. He looked to me like a