On reaching the pen, and while in the act of dumping the howling viper over the side, the woman next door made an unfortunate discovery. His hogs were in the pen; the truants were hers. The man, who was still holding the pig, and might have, with reason, taken a prominent part in the debate, contented himself by merely expressing a hope that he might be blessed, and then trudged around to the other pen, where he arrived after much unlooked for tribulation, and again hoisted the howling monster up to the top, when the woman next door made another and still more remarkable discovery. Her pigs were in their pen.
"What's that?" screamed the man, who was so fixed he could not very well see into the pen, and was obliged to lift his voice to make himself heard above the din.
"Them ain't my pigs," screamed the woman.
"Why ain't they?" he yelled.
"Cause my pigs are here," she shrieked back.
It is needless to say that the strange animals were urged out of that garden without the use of subterfuge.
LITTLE JIM.
BY GEORGE R. SIMS.
Our little Jim
Was such a limb
His mother scarce could manage him.
His eyes were blue,
And looked you through,
And seemed to say,
"I'll have my way!"
His age was six,
His saucy tricks
But made you smile,
Though all the while
You said, "You limb,
You wicked Jim,
Be quiet, do!"