"SOCKERY"
"SETTING A HEN.

MEESTER VERRIS: I see dot mosd efferpoty wrides something for de shicken pabers nowtays, and I tought praps meppe I can do dot, too; so I wride all apout vot dook blace mit me lasht Summer: you know - oder, uf you dond know, den I dells you - dot Katrina (dot is mine vrow) und me, ve keep some shickens for a long dime ago, und von tay she sait to me, "Sockery," (dot is mein name,) "vy dond you put some uf de aigs under dot olt plue hen shickens. I dinks she vants to sate." "Vell," I sait, "meppe, I guess I vill." So I bicked oud some ou de best aigs, und dook um oud do de parn fere de olt hen make her nesht in de side of de haymow, poud fife six veet up. Now you see I nefer was ferry pig up and down, but I vas pooty pig all de vay around in de mittle, so I koodn't reach up till I vent und got a parrel do stant on. Vell, I klimet me on de parrel, und ven my hed rise up py de nesht, de olt hen she gif me such a bick dot my nose runs all over my face mit plood, und ven I todge pack dot plasted olt parrel het preak, und I vent town kershlam.

Py cholly, I didn't tink I kood go insite a parrel pefore, but dere I vas, und I fit so dite dot I koodn't git me oud efferway, my fest vas bushed vay up unter my arm-holes. Ven I fount I vos dite shtuck, I holler, " Katrina! Katrina ! Und ven she koom and see me shtuck in de parrel up to my arm-holes, mit my face all plood und aigs, by cholly, she chust lait town on de hay und laft, und laft till I got so mat I sait, "Vot you lay dere und laf like a olt vool, eh? Vy dond you koom bull me oud?" Und she set up und sait, "O, vipe off your chin, und bull your fest down"; den she lait back und laft like she vood shplit herself more as ever.

"

Mat as I vas, I tought to myself, Katrina, she sbeak English pooty good; but I only sait, mit my greatest dignitude, "Katrina, vill you bull me oud dis parrel? Und she see dot I look pooty red, so she sait, "Of course I vill, Sockery." Den she lait me und de parrel town on our site, und I dook

holt de door sill, und Katrina she bull on de parrel, but de first bull she mate I yellet, "Donner und blitzen, shtop dat, py golly; dere is nails in de parrel!" You see de nails bent town ven I vent in, but ven I koom oud dey schticks in me all de vay rount. Vell, to make a short shtory long, I told Katrina to go und dell naypor Hansman to pring a saw und saw me dis parrel off. Vell, he koom und he like to sphlit himself mit laf, too, but he roll me ofer und saw de parrel all de vay around off, und I git up mit half a parrel around my vaist. Den Katrina she say, "Sockery, vait a leetle till I get a battern of dot new oferskirt you haf on." But I didn't sait a vort; I shust got a nife oud, und vittle de hoops off, und shling dot confounted olt parrel in de voot pile.

Pimeby, ven I koom in de house, Katrina she said, so soft like, “Sockery, dond you go in to put some aigs under dot olt plue hen?" den I sait, in my deepest voice, “Katrina, uff you effer say dot to me again I'll git a pill from you, so help me chiminy cracious!" Und I dell you she didn't say dot any more. Vell, ven I step on a parrel now, I dond step on it, I git a pox.

IRISH.

CONNOR.

"To the memory of Patrick Connor: this simple stone was erected by his fellow-workmen."

THOSE Words you may read any day upon a white slab in a cemetery not many miles from New York; but you might read them a hundred times without guessing at the little tragedy they indicate, without knowing the humble romance which ended with the placing of that stone above the dust of one poor, humble man.

In his shabby frieze jacket and mud-laden brogans, he was scarcely an attractive object as he walked into Mr. Bawne's

great tin and hardware shop one day, and presented himself at the counter with an

"I've been tould ye advertized for hands, yer Honour."

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"Fully supplied, my man," said Mr. Bawne, not lifting his head from his account-book.

"I'd work faithfully, sir, and take low wages, till I could do better, and I'd learn, I would that."

It was an Irish brogue, and Mr. Bawne always declared that he never would employ an incompetent hand. Yet the tone attracted him. He turned briskly, and, with his pen behind his ear, addressed the man, who was only one of fifty who had answered his advertisement for four workmen that morning. "What makes you expect to learn faster than other folks? are you any smarter?"

“I'll not say that," said the man;

to; and that would make it aisier."
"Are you used to the work?"
"I've done a bit of it."

"Much?"

"but I'd be wishing

"No, yer Honour, I'll tell no lie; Tim O'Toole hadn't the like of this place; but I know a bit about tins.”

"You are too old for an apprentice, and you'd be in the way, I calculate," said Mr. Bawne, looking at the brawny arms and bright eyes that promised strength and intelligence. "Besides, I know your country-men, — lazy, good-for-nothing fellows who never do their best. No, I've been taken in by Irish hands before, and I won't have another."

"The Virgin will have to be after bringing them over to me in her two arms, thin," said the man, despairingly, "for I've tramped all the day for the last fortnight, and niver a job can I get, and that's the last penny I have, yer Honour, and it's but a half one."

As he spoke, he spread his palm open, with an English half-penny in it.

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Bring whom over?" asked Mr. Bawne, arrested by the odd speech, as he turned upon his heel and turned back again.

"Jist Nora and Jamesy." "Who are they?"

"The wan's me wife, the "O masther, just thry me. if no one will give me a job? whole big city seems against it, and me with arms like them."

other me child," said the man How'll I bring 'em over to me, I want to be airning, and the

He bared his arms to the shoulder, as he spoke, and Mr. Bawne looked at them, and then at his face.

"I'll hire you for a week," he said; "and now, as it's noon, go down to the kitchen, and tell the girl to get you some dinner, a hungry man can't work."

With an Irish blessing, the new hand obeyed, while Mr. Bawne, untying his apron, went up stairs to his own meal. Suspicious as he was of the new hand's integrity and ability, he was agreeably disappointed. Connor worked hard, and actually learned fast. At the end of the week he was engaged permanently, and soon was the best workman in the shop.

He was a great talker, but not fond of drink or wasting money. As his wages grew, he hoarded every penny, and wore the same shabby clothes in which he had made his first appearance.

"Beer costs money," he said one day, "and ivery cent I spind puts off the bringing Nora and Jamesy over; and as for clothes, them I have must do me. Better no coat to my back than no wife and boy by my fireside; and, anyhow, it's slow work saving."

He kept his way, a martyr to his one great wish, living on little, working at night on any extra job that he could earn a few shillings by, running errands in his noon-tide hours of rest, and talking to any one who would listen to him of his one great hope, and of Nora and of little Jamesy.

At first the men who prided themselves on being all Americans, and on turning out the best work in the city, made a sort of butt of Connor, whose "wild Irish" ways and verdancy were indeed often laughable. But he won their hearts

at last, and when one day, mounting a work-bench, he shook his little bundle, wrapped in a red kerchief, before their eyes, and shouted, "Look, boys; I've got the whole at last! I'm going to bring Nora and Jamesy over at last! Whorooo!! I've got it!!!" all felt sympathy in his joy, and each grasped his great hand in cordial congratulations, and one proposed to treat all round, and drink a good voyage to Nora.-'

They parted in a merry mood, most of the men going to comfortable homes. But poor Connor's resting-place was a poor lodging-house, where he shared a crazy garret with four other men; and in the joy of his heart the poor fellow exhibited his handkerchief, with his hard-earned savings tied up in a wad in the middle, before he put it under his pillow and fell asleep.

When he awakened in the morning, he found his treasure gone; some villain, more contemptible than most bad men, had robbed him.

At first Connor could not even believe it lost. He searched every corner of the room, shook the quilt and blankets, and begged those about him "to quit joking, and give it back." But at last he realized the truth:

"Is any man that bad that it's thaved from me?" he asked, in a breathless way. "Boys, is any man that bad? And some one answered, "No doubt of it, Connor; it's sthole."

Then Connor put his head down on his hands and lifted up his voice and wept. It was one of those sights which men never forget. It seemed more than he could bear, to have Nora and his child "put," as he expressed it,

away from him again."

66 months

But when he went to work that day it seemed to all who saw him that he had picked up a new determination. His hands were never idle. His face seemed to say, "I'll have Nora with me yet."

At noon he scratched out a letter, blotted and very strangely scrawled, telling Nora what had happened; and