"Thank you, sir, thank you. I'm only a wedge"—with a merry laugh—"but I try to fill every opening the Lord shows me. Excuse me but how far are you going?"
"I get off at Albany," I replied. He looked at me as if taking my measure, and, after a moment he said:
"I hope you are not a member of the legislature."
"No, sir," I said, "I'm a Methodist."
"Give me your hand. I am so glad to know you are going in the opposite direction. A man may go to heaven by way of the legislature, but I would as soon think of going where I could get cholera in order to secure good health, as expect to serve God by becoming a member of the legislature. Ah, here is Albany! Good day, sir; don't forget the wedge. And if you will, I wish you would remember the watchword—'Hinder nobody—Help everybody.'"
PRINCE EDWIN AND HIS PAGE.
A TALE OF THE ANGLO-SAXONS.
CHAPTER I.
On a certain high festival, which was set apart by Saxon monarchs for receiving the petitions of the poor, and the appeals of such of their subjects as had any cause of complaint, the great King Athelstane sat enthroned in royal state, to listen to the applications of all who came to prefer their suits to him.
In one corner of the hall stood a noble-looking Saxon lady dressed in deep mourning, and holding a little boy by the hand. The lady was evidently a widow, and of high rank, for she wore a widow's hood and barb—the barb, a piece of white lawn, that covered the lower part of the face, being worn only by widows of high degree. The little boy, too, was also arrayed in black attire; his youthful countenance bore an expression of the utmost grief, and his large blue eyes were full of tears. This sorrowful pair did not press forward like the other petitioners, but kept at a modest distance from the throne, evidently waiting for the king to give them some encouraging signal before they ventured to approach him.