travel-stained. repentant, his errands finished, took that bottle of horseradish and dumped it on the ash heap.

It is reported that when a Washington correspondent called on our valiant Secretary of the Interior to obtain his views on the personal appearance of Mrs. Belknap, Mr. Chandler rose to the importance of the occasion and said that she wore her dresses very low in the neck, and he added that he liked low- necked dresses outside of his own family. Most people like a quiz in pretty much the same way. He is a very amusing and clever person to know, provided he does not select his victims too near home. Artemus Ward was, perhaps, the greatest quiz in our time. Mark Twain tells us that the first time he met the celebrated humorist, Artemus invited him to have a whisky cocktail. Mark declined on the ground that a whisky cocktail always flew to his head and made him as useless as a rotten stick. This was enough for Artemus. He insisted on the whisky cocktail being brought, and with protests Mark gulped it down. As soon as he was outside of it, Artemus assumed a look of superhuman earnestness, and began to make inquiries about silver mining, talking the most plausible nonsense about ores, veins, castings of granite, formations, shafts, ledges, layers, bridges, sulphurets, the medium of forces, remote agencies, etc., until Mark, thinking it was the whisky which prevented him from grasping the subject, jumped from his chair and pacing wildly about, said: “I don’t understand any more than a clam; that cussed whisky cocktail has done the business for me. The more you talk the more I don’t get the hang of what you say.” As he looked toward Artemus he espied a quiet smile lingering about his lips, and so ordered up more whiskys, and concluded that for once he had been disposed of at retail. On another occasion Artemus struck up an acquaintance on a Mississippi steamboat with a forbidding looking blue stocking, who said she was reading “Le Roi Des Montagues,” and inquired if he read French. A friend who came to ask him to join in a cigar on the upper deck found him in a brown study, and the forbidding female was staring at him hard enough to stop a Waltham watch. “Excuse me,” said Artemus, looking up, “this lady was asking me if I read French. It is a serious question, and I am considering whether I do.” She then went on to recount some points in the story, when Artemus interrupted her, and eyeing her sadly said: “Do you think the glorious sunshine in Greece is constitutional—that is to say, if early be the dream of youth, or more so with regard to it viewed morally? Because the Ægean is sea, a blue sea which might in parallel instances, but before breakfast. Always before the morning meal. You agree with me, I hope?” And he smiled and bowed politely. She looked as horror struck as if she had been told at 2 A.M. to answer Chicago for San Francisco cables. And as her questioner moved off he observed in a deploring tone of voice, “Blue Greeks—blue Ægean brigands, dead before their breakfast.” But what I set out to say is, that the telegraphic profession does not lack men whose great delight lies in an opportunity to guy somebody. It seems to be an element of character which the business fosters and develops wonderfully. One of the keenest of this ilk was Mr. Joseph Hurley, who worked at No. 145 Broadway, a year or so ago. For a long time I regarded him as a theological student, but he came out strong on several occasions and established a reputation as a wit, which, I dare say, follows him to the sunny South, whither he has gone. A good many who read this will remember the days when “what do you sign?” succeeded “report about the usual bulk” as the office joke. Briefly stated, this inquiry became a by-word from the fact that visiting artists from the country when taken around the office and confronted with different operators who were introduced as Oney Gagin, Hank Cowan, Jim Lawless, Ed. Schermerhorn, Tip McClosky, etc., would invariably inquire “What do you sign?” and on being told “Ms,” “Bw,” “Ew,” “N,” and so on, would put forth their flipper and say, effusively: “Put it there ‘Ms,’ or ‘Bw,’ etc.—know you like a brother.” When memorial day came around last year, “what do you sign” was in the zenith of its popularity. A number of the “boys,” among whom was Hurley, were present at one of the cemeteries where graves were being decorated. When the cavalcade had proceeded, Hurley stepped up to a glum looking old chap connected with the place and inquired, in a faltering voice, “Can you tell me, good sir, where Kirby lies buried?” He was told that no grave of a man bearing that name was thereabout. Then, after a pause, Joe observed in breaking tones: “It might please you, sir, to know his sig.—he signed K. And the “gang” moved on, leaving the old man dazed and groping.

Among my friends in Maguffinsville is Mr. John Gaylord, the druggist, and at his store I find great diversion. To illustrate, I will relate one incident which came under my observation there the other day.