a chance to make a little “extra.” When, however, the conversation turned upon prize chickens the other day, and the impoverished victim of dull times and a large family stated it as his opinion that he owned a pair of about the likeliest roosters in that neck of timber, for which he had recently paid twenty-five dollars, there came a lull in the conversation, and the boys looked unutterable things at each other.

The above reminds me of another similar case, which, though not strictly in our line, will no doubt be appreciated, since it affects one of the guild standing very near us—a journeyman printer. An out and out “tramp,” in broken boots, soiled shirt, and a very discouraged looking suit of clothes, dropped into the composing room of a Rhode Island daily one day, and said he wanted some “subbing.” He was worn out, he added, had walked from Worcester, and hadn’t had a square meal in a week. One of the typos “put him on,” and giving him half a dollar, told him to go and get something to eat and come around at seven o’clock sharp for “composition.” The “tramp” shuffled off, but shuffled back again at seven o’clock, and began to pile up the type at a rate of speed that made the heads of the other chaps fairly swim. He gave his whole attention to business, and as he snaked a “fat ad.” off the hook, which all the others had been working for dear life to get hold of, some one ventured to say that he was doing pretty well for a starter.

“Yes, tolerably well,” he replied, as he skipped back to his “case” and “set up” a line in about a second. “Doing as good as I generally do when I am short of rations. I am as hungry as a shark to-night.”

“Hungry,” repeated two in chorus. “Why, haven’t you had your dinner?”

“Yes, a sort of dinner,” he remarked, “but an empty comp. can’t spread himself on fifteen cents, you know.”

“Fifteen cents,” said another, in surprise. He said he gave you a half a dollar.”

“So he did,” responded the “tramp,” as he reached for a ffi, “but I paid out thirty-five of it for getting my mustache colored.”

The musical click of the types as they were dropped into the sticks was all that broke the stillness in that office for the next half hour.

Swing on

While the gorgeous spectacle of “Ahmed” was running at the Grand Opera House, a little boy between three and four years of age, who had been brought to a matinee performance by his parents, attracted considerable attention by his original and pungent observations on the peculiar phases of the play. When the ballet took their places for the grand ensemble the light attire of danseuses, nymphs, and coryphees caught the wondering eye of the youthful theater goer, and enchained his tongue in silence for a moment. Just as the dancers were posing, however, and when the profoundest silence reigned, his little voice at an excited pitch, was heard throughout the house, inquiring: “Oh! mummer, are they going in to svim?” It was a fearful commentary on the drama as developed in this nineteenth century, and an old gentleman sitting near me said something between his subdued laughter about “out of the mouths of babes and sucklings.”

When one of the present New York force was working out west, he served under J. B., a very eccentric and dignified chief operator, who used to go out and hoist in the “pizen” with the boys when all hands