HIS FAULT.
An amusing and eccentric character hangs around a celebrated inn up in the White Mountains which is frequented by authors, artists, and professional men. He is a shrewd fellow, and earns many a dollar by his wit. One of the new arrivals, noticing him one day, inquired who he was, and upon being informed of his wit, opened a conversation which went somewhat as follows:
"Find much to do here in summer?"
"Yaas," replied the wit. "I'm writin' er book."
"Are you, indeed? What's it about?"
The wit shifted over to his other foot, and looking mysteriously at the veranda full of people, said, "It's about the faults of celebrated men."
"Ah! And I dare say you have us all in it. Now, for instance, myself?"
"Yaas, you're there." And here he opened a greasy little leather blank book, and thumbed over the pages until he came to the entry he wanted, and then read: "'Mr. B——, the celebrated author. Fault committed yesterday, the 3d. Gave ten dollars to a messenger going to town, and instructed said messenger to buy sundry things for him.'"