subject justice, so I jest held in.” I have been led into this desultory, and, I fear, not very entertaining train of thought, by a little episode happening just across the aisle, and within earshot, as I sit dating some red blanks preparatory to the grand rush, soon to commence.

Fred Catlin, of the St. Louis “quad,” has agreed to work from 5:30 until 6 o’clock for a way man, and he sails airily down the room to the vicinity of a rather “rocky” railroad wire, with that beatific expression of countenance that fits so well the face of the perfect telegrapher, and which can no more be counterfeited by a base pretender, than the look which obtains on the face of the man whose turn is next in a crowded barber shop. Fred scans the solitary message on the hook, devotes himself for a moment to the list of calls tacked up before him, and having selected his man he proceeds to raise him. The office responds promptly, when the following dialogue ensues:

Cat. (Scrutinizing the number sheet.)—“I don’t see your place down here; what is the next number, please?”

Office.—“Your next number is 1.”

Cat.—“Thank you. No. 1, New York 9th to—.”

Office.—“Please sqe.”

Cat. (Disgusted of course.)—“I sign &.”

Office.—“Never heard you on here before. Where did they dig you out? That’s a hot sig. Ha! Ha!”

Cat.—“Pls take this: No. 1 New York 9th to—.”

Office.—“Look here young fellow is that message city or through?”

“Major Feeney,” said a dignified police justice one morning, “You are charged with being down drunk. I am amazed, Major, that a man with a soldier’s record should ever become intoxicated; but what especially pains me is, that a man of your intelligence should drink himself so drunk within a block of his own house that he couldn’t reach home without falling by the wayside. Major Feeney, what have you to say for yourself?”

“May it plaze the court,” replied the Major, majestically, but with a sly twinkle in his eye, “I am sinsible of me misdemanor, but I wad sthate in silf defince, that it was not the lingth of the road which exharsted me, but the width uf it.”

It was the width of the road also which confounded Mr. Jennison of Maguffinsville and his friend Trenholm of Newark. They had been out to dinner and were returning home about midnight. There was no moon, and it was with extreme difficulty that they kept on the sidewalk. Presently they tried the middle of the street, but their success was no better, and finally both fell. Getting up independently of each other they became separated in the dark, and at the end of five minutes each had struggled to a lamp post, but these posts were on opposite sides of the street. Mr. Jennison was the first to discover that he was solitary and alone, and he peered into the darkness for Trenholm. Espying a human form across the way, he straightened himself up and inquired, “William, my dear boy, is that you over there?” The reply came back in thick, irresolute tones, “Yessur, Warrington, its your olefren Willyum.” “Willie,” continued Mr. Jennison, “come (hic) over here.” The reply was mournful but decisive. “Oh, I can’t come over there, Warry. I can’t stay where I am.”

A Friend writes me asking what I think about consistency being a jewel, and states that a low salaried operator in the office where he works, who has a wife and family of little ones, had, up to within a short time, aroused the sympathies of his fellows by his forlorn condition and undoubted poverty. All the men in the office who had any cast off clothing to dispose of bestowed it on the needy fellow, and many of the operators took a holiday oftener than they could afford just for the sake of giving their worthy associate