fted fully half an
inch sence ye placed yer ladle to it, and it'll keep on liftin'. Rover
knows what is comin' as well as I do, for the old dog, as ye see,
begins to edge away, and Sport has started for the door already."

"What shall I do, John Norton? What shall I do? The lid is lifting
again."

"Is yer ladle well placed, Bill? Have ye got it in the center of the
lid?" returned the Trapper.

"Dead in the center, old man," responded Bill, confidently, "dead in
the center."

"Put yer whole weight on it, then, and don't waste yer strength in
talkin'. Ye know yer own strength, and I know the strength of Indian
meal when hot water gits at it, and ef the ladle don't slip or the
kettle-lid split it's about nip and tuck atween ye."

"Old man," yelled Bill, as he put his whole weight on the ladle
handle, "this lid has lifted again. Get a stick and come here and help
me."

"No, no, Bill," answered the Trapper, "the puddin' is of yer own
mixin' and ye must attend to the job yerself. I stuck to yer box with
a hole underneath me and a pig under the hole till somethin' happened
and ye must stick to yer puddin'."

"But I can't hold it down, John Norton," yelled poor Bill. "The lid
has lifted again and the whole darned thing is coming out of the
pot."

"I conceit as much, I conceit as much," answered the Trapper. "There
go the pups out of the door, Bill, and when the dogs quit the cabin
it's time for the master to foller." And the old man started for the
door.

* * * * *

The catastrophe! Who could describe it? Bill's strength was adequate,
but no human power could save the pudding. Even as Bill put his
strength on to the ladle, the wooden cover of the kettle split with a
sharp concussion in the middle, the kettle was upset, and poor Bill,
covered with ashes and pursued by a cloud of steam, shot out of the
door and plunged into the snow.

Oh, laughter, sweet laughter, laugh on and laugh ever! In the smile of
the babe thou comest from heaven. In the girl's rosy dimples, in the
boy's noisy glee, in the humor of strong men, and the wit of sweet
women, thou art seen as a joy and a comfort to us humans. When fortune
deserts and friends fall away, he who keeps thee keeps solace and
health, hope and heart, in his bosom. When the head groweth white and
the eye getteth dim, and the soul goeth out through the slow closing
gates of the senses, be thou then in us and of us, thou sweet angel of
heav