he would jerk his chin back, and stiffen his neck, as he defiantly waited for a reply.

Not content with exulting in successful prophecy, Jake got a notion from the first that it devolved on him now to see that this young scapegrace should not fail of merited punishment. His neighbors at the Run, having boasted much of the value of what they called "Broad Run law," were willing to add a leaf to their laurels as reformers of the county; and he counted also on finding recruits among the loafers on the outskirts of the camp-meeting, if the coroner's jury should return a verdict adverse to Tom.

Bob McCord was able to conjecture something of this state of affairs from the slender information the schoolmaster had given him. During all his morning's walk to Broad Run, Bob's thoughts had chiefly revolved about plans for circumventing Hogan. His first crude scheme was to join the reformers in their little excursion, and then mislead or betray them; but his friendly relations with the Graysons were too well known to Jake for this to be possible. It was not until the old man Britton had mentioned Zeke Tucker that there occurred to Bob's inventive mind a proper agent for his purpose. Wishing to have his coming known, he steered his course near to the rickety cabin of Eleazar Brown, or, as he was commonly called, "Ole Lazar Brown."

"G'-mornin', S'manthy," Bob called to Lazar Brown's daughter, at the same time giving his head a little forward jerk,—the very vanishing point of a bow,- but without stopping his march. S'manthy had buried two husbands, and had borne eight white-headed children, but she had never been called by any other name than S'manthy. Just now she was "batting" clothes on a block in front of the house, turning a wet garment over with her left hand from time to time, and giving it the most vindictive blows with a bat held in her right.

"Y' ain't heern nothin' 'v no bears a-cap'rin' 'round h-yer lately, eh?" Bob asked, relaxing his gait a little.

"They say as they 's a b'ar been seed furder upt the run, un I 'low you mout fine some thar ur tharabouts," replied the woman, intermitting her batting a moment and pushing back her faded pink sun-bonnet. "But wha' choo doin' away f'om home, I'd thes like to know, when they 's so much a-goin' on in your diggin's? They say you 've had a murder 'n' all that."

"I don't talk, S'manthy. I'm a-lookin' fer bears. They 's times when you 'd orter hole onto yer tongue with both uh yore han's."

Bob quickened his stride again and was

soon out of sight among the scrubby trees of the rugged valley.

"I say, daddy!" called S'manthy, when Bob had had time to get out of hearing; "looky h-yer, daddy!"

Old Lazar Brown, in answer to this call, came and stood in the door, taking his cobpipe from his mouth with his shaky hand and regarding his daughter.

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Big Bob McCord 's thes gone along upt the run a-huntin' fer b'ars," said S'manthy. "Un they say as the feller that killed t' other feller las' night 's the son uh the woman 't 'e works fer. Bob 's the beatinest hunter! Ef Gaberl wuz to toot his horn, Bob 'd ax him to hole on long anough fer him to git thes one more b'ar, I'll bet."

Lazar Brown had shaking-palsy in his arms, and, being good for nothing else, could devote his entire time to his congenial pursuits as gossip and wonder monger of the neighborhood. Having listened attentively to S'manthy, he shook his head incredulously.

"Yeh don' think ez he's arter b'ars, do yeh, S'manthy? Bob's got some trick er 'nother 'n 'is head. W'y, thes you look, he mus' uh le't home afore daybreak. Now, Bob'd natterly go to the carner's eenques' to-day, whar they 'll be a-haulin' that young feller up that shot t' other feller las' night. Big Bob's got some ornery trick 'n 'is head." Here Lazar Brown stopped to replace his pipe in his mouth. He was obliged to use both hands, but after two or three attempts he succeeded. "Looky h-yer, S'manthy, you thes keep one eye out fer Bob; I 'low he'll go down the run to-wurds ev'nin'. He'll be orful dry by that time, fer he 's one of the driest fellers. Thes you tell him 't I 've got a full jug, un ax him in, un we 'll kind-uh twis' it out uh 'im. I 'low I'll go 'n find Jake."

Lazar returned to the house, knocked the ashes out of his pipe and refilled it. Then with some difficulty he succeeded in taking a live coal from the ashes: holding it in the leathery palm of his shaking left hand, he got it deposited at last on the corn-cob bowl of his pipe. As soon as this operation of firingup was completed, he set out in a trotty little walk, glad to have news that would make the neighbors hearken to him.

Meantime Bob McCord, having passed out of sight of S'manthy in his progress up the creek, had faced about and come back through the bushes to a point overlooking Lazar Brown's cabin, where, in a dense patch of papaws, he stood in concealment. movement greatly perplexed the old dog Pup, who stood twitching his nose nervously, unable to discover what was the game that had attracted his master's eye. When at length

This

Bob saw Lazar start off down the run, he smote his knee with his hand and gave vent to half-smothered laughter.

"Tuck like the measles!" he soliloquized. "Un it'll spread too. See 'f it don't! Come, Pup-bears! bears! ole boy!"*

The dogs took the hint and ceased their nosing about the roots of trees for squirrels, and in beds of leaves and bunches of grass for hares. They began to make large circles through the trees about Bob, who moved forward as the center of a sort of planetary system, the short-legged dog keeping near the center, while Pup ranged as far away as he could without losing sight of his master,the remote Uranus of the hunt. Joe, having "tairrier" blood in him, ran with his nozzle down; but long-legged Pup, with a touch of greyhound in his build, carried his head high and depended on his eyes. The fact that Tom Grayson's life was at stake afforded no reason, in Bob's view, for giving over the pursuit of bears. Nor did he hunt in serious earnest merely because there was neither bread nor meat at home. A cat will catch mice for the mere fun of it, and with Bob the chase was ever the chief interest of life. But Bob did not forget his other errand: while the dogs were seeking for bears, he was eagerly scanning the bushes in every direction for Zeke Tucker. Half a mile above Lazar Brown's he encountered Zeke, carrying a blind-bridle on his arm, and still looking in vain for Britton's stray horse.

"Hello, Zeke! the very feller I wuz lookin' fer. Don't ax me no questions about what I'm a-doin' over h-yer, an' I won't tell you no lies. Let's set down a minute on that air hackberry log."

The writer of a local guide-book to the city of Genoa recounts, among the evidences of piety exhibited by his fellow-citizens, the hospital built by them for those "al quale non è conceduto di bearsi nel sorriso di un padre." Zeke was one of those to whom, in the circumlocution of the Genoese writer, had not been granted the benediction of a father's smile. Such unfortunates were never wanting in a community like Broad Run, but no one had ever thought of building an asylum for them, though there were many ready to make them suffer the odium of sins not their own. From that unexpected streak of delicacy which is sometimes found in a rough man of large mold, Bob McCord had always refrained from allusion to the irregularity of Zeke's paternity,

Why it was that Bob said "bears." and did not say "b'ars," as some of his class did, I do not know. Broad as his dialect was, it was perceptibly less aberrant than that of Lazar Brown's family, for example. It is impossible to trace the causes for local and family variations of speech; nor is a word always pronounced

and had frequently awed into silence those who found pleasure in jibing him. This had awakened in Zeke a gratefui adhesion to Bob, and in the young man's isolation among his neighbors and his attachment to himself Bob saw a chance to secure an ally.

"Zeke," said McCord, when once they were seated on the hackberry log, "you 'n' me 's al'ays been frien's, hain't we?"

"Toobshore, Bob! they hain't no man a-livin' I 'd do a turn fer quicker."

"Well, now, you tell me this: Is Jake Hogan a-goin' to town weth the boys to-night?" "I had n't no ways orter tell, but I 'low 't 'e is."

"You a-goin' along?"

"I dunno. 'F you don't want me to, I don't reckon ez I shall."

"Yes, but I'd ruther you'd go. I don't want that air fool boy hung 'thout a fair stan'up trial, 'n' I may 's well tell you 't I don't mean he shall be nuther, not 'f I have to lick Jake Hogan tell his ornery good-fer-nothin' hide won't hold shucks. But don't choo tell him a word 't I say.”

"Trust me." Zeke was pleased to find himself in important confidential relations with a man so much "looked up to" as Bob McCord. "Jake 's been the hardest on me 'v all the folks, un they 's been times when I 'lowed to pull up, un cl'ar out fer the Injun country, to git shed uv 'im. I wish to thunder you would lick him 'thin 'n inch 'viz life. He's a darnsight wuss 'n git-out.”

"Looky h-yer, Zeke; I'll tell you how you kin git even with Jake. You jest go 'long weth the boys to-night, wherever they go. I'm goin' to fix it so 's they won't do nuthin' to-night. You 're livin' 't ole man Britton's now, ainch yeh?"

"Yes."

"Well, you git off fer half a day f'om Britton's, un go to the eenques' this arternoon, un fine out all you kin. Arter supper, you go over to the groc'ry; un jest as soon's you fine out whech way the wind sets, you 've got to let me know. 'T won't do fer me to be seed a-talkin' to you, ur fer me to loaf aroun' Britton's. But ef Jake makes up his mine to go to Moscow, you light a candle tonight un put it in the lof' where you sleep, so 't 'll shine out uv a crack on the south side uv the chimbley, in the furder eend uv the house."

"But his mine 's already made up," said Zeke.

in the same way in a dialect.-it varies in sound some. times, when more or less stress is put upon it. The varieties are here set down as they existed, except that print can never give those shades of pronunciation and inflection that constitute so large a part of the peculiar ities of speech, local, personal, and temporary.

66

'They 's time to change afore night. Ef he 's goin' to Perrysburg-"

"Perrysburg? They ain't no talk uv Perrysburg," said Zeke.

"They may be," answered Bob. "Un ef Perrysburg's the place, you put the candle at the leetle winder on the north side uv the chimbley. Un when I shoot, you put out the candle, un then I'll know it's you, un you'll know 't I understan'. You see, 't won't do fer me to stop any nearder 'n the hill, un I'll wait there till I see your candle. Then you go weth Jake." Here Bob got up and strained his long-sighted eyes at some object in the bushes on the other side of the brook. "Is yon hoss yourn, on t' other side of the branch? "

"I don't see no hoss," said Zeke.

66

Well, you watch out a minute un you'll ketch sight uv 'im. He's gone in there to git shed of the flies."

"That's our clay-bank, I believe," said Zeke, getting up and carefully scanning the now half-visible horse.

"Mine! you hain't seen nor heern tell of me, un you b'long to Jake's crowd weth all your might."

With these words Bob set out again for his bear-hunt, while the bare-foot Zeke waded through the stream, which was knee-deep, and set himself to beguile Britton's clay-bank horse into standing still and forfeiting his liberty. Edward Eggleston.

amass twenty-five hundred dollars for each of their children on marriage. The hall-porter gave them the garret closet free. The tenants gave them scraps of bread and broken victuals. They drank only water. The wife did the washing in the yard; neither soap nor irons were used. The husband was employed all night at the goods-station of a railway, and he there got odd jobs during the day; the wife did chores. The children went to a free school. A great many of the hall-porters spend nothing. They have their lodging free; the wife is employed as a char-woman in the house or neighborhood; the husband is often a tailor. They get broken victuals and second-hand clothes and shoes from tenants, and sometimes a bottle of wine.

There are eighty thousand houses in Paris, and nearly every one of them has a hall-porter; some of them have two. There are petty needle and thread shops, or shops for notions, which anybody can manage. The husband is a clerk in some office. If the shop yields income enough to pay its rent, both husband and wife are content.

The absence of servants is very remarkable. I have lived in houses where I was the only person who kept a servant, and she was merely a char-woman.

This work is much easier than in America. No fuel is used in the kitchen but charcoal, which is burned in a sort of shelf with four holes, one of which is for the soup-pot, another for the stew-pan or gridiron; the others are rarely used. I have, while hunting lodgings, visited thousands of kitchens. I have seen only these two holes which bore marks

of use. Eighty pounds of charcoal (all wood is sold by weight), costing one dollar and sixty cents for the very best quality of Yonne make, medium thickness, last a month or six weeks. It makes no dust, leaves few ashes, and is easily lighted. Recently a sort of artificial "lightwood" has come into great favor. It is sold in coarse paper boxes, holding from forty to forty-eight pieces, which cost one cent a box; for four cents a month the fires are lighted instantly and without paper. A match and this lightwood are all that is required.

The butcher calls twice a day, first to get orders, lastly with the orders filled. The baker comes every morning, bringing what bread you want. The grocer calls twice on an appointed day (always the same), once to get, next to fill orders. The vintner calls on an appointed day, if you please, bringing a week's or a fortnight's or a month's supply, just as you wish. Your laundress comes once in ten days if she live in the country: Saturday to return the clean, Monday to get the soiled linen, if she live in town. A note to your coal-dealer brings fuel. Every morning costermongers call at the door, one with fish, another with oysters, another still with vegetables; you may order from them what you desire; but don't order anything anywhere in Paris; find what you want and there buy. If you order, you are sure to be cheated in quality, in quantity, or in price; commonly in all three. To make costermongers bring what you want, say: "You have no strawberries?" or, "You have no tomatoes?" When you get a tolerably good costermonger, especially a fishmonger, stick to him. There is at least one good pastry-cook in every respectable neighborhood. Visit, buy from each of them, and select the best. The pastry-cook is very useful. He supplies delicious meat and fish pies and such dessert (I use the word in the American sense) as an ordinary cook could not be expected to make; for instance, Charlotte Russe, St. Honoré, Frangipane, and the like. Never buy cake of any sort at a baker's. All bakers make several sorts of bread, but scarcely a baker in Paris makes bad bread; some of them make bread as good as cake. If you want to see bread in perfection, the beau idéal of bread, go to Versailles and buy it, especially their pain marquise for Sunday's sale. Do not buy fuel of any sort from the petty coal-dealers found in every

IN A CHURCH CORNER.

street, unless you have no place to store a large quantity; then you must buy of your neighbor.

Lodgings in Paris are of several classes. The lowest is cabinet, which is a cupboard with room enough for a cot, if the cot be not long, if the cot be not wide, if the cot be not high, and if the cot can enter. There is never a fire-place, rarely a window, unless the cabinet be next to the roof, where there may be a skylight. A cabinet is to be had for from twelve to twenty-four dollars a year. It is tenanted by servants, sometimes husband and wife, but commonly by unmarried servants, by shopboys in their first wrestle with fortune, and by other persons who are employed all day, eat at public dining-rooms, and ask of home only shelter from rain and a place to lie down.

Next is chambre, which is a room with a fire-place and commonly with a window, or at least an apology for a window. It is let for from twenty-four to fifty dollars a year, but the latter price is very rare and could be gotten