The two city young men before mentioned sat near us at the performance. They were mightily tickled at Mike's discomfiture. Miss Kitty had not noticed them since expressing a doubt whether they were proper acquaintances. What was my surprise now to hear her speak to one of them, "You try it, Mr. Simpkins," she said; "I am sure you could ride that poor little mule." Mr. Simpkins declined in a way which implied that Miss Kitty was right, that he could ride the mule if he chose. Miss Kitty was evidently disappointed, and I am very much afraid that instead of being sure that Mr. Simpkins could ride the mule, she was very sure he could not. I have never spoken to her about her effort to entice Mr. Simpkins to make himself ridiculous, because I was not at all sure that she was not wrong thus to try to get revenge on one who had made merry at the expense of the simple and honest people who were her friends and neighbors. But even though the feeling was a very wrong one it was very human, and I shared in it myself.
For a week after the circus, Nearbye was more deserted than I have ever known it before. The next Sunday comparatively few people came to church. The circus had been too much for them. They had to stay at home to recover from the excitement of so unusual an entertainment. If the merry clown should ever care to retire from the sawdust ring, and should choose Nearbye as a home, I am sure the people would make him right welcome; and if he wanted an office, I am certain that he could have the pick, and be either constable or justice of the peace, whichever suited him the better. The storekeepers of Nearbye for a fortnight after the circus had gone could not make change for a bill, as the circus treasurer had taken away with him pretty nearly all the silver coins in the township. This circus will doubtless be talked of in Nearbye when many of the barelegged boys who came at daylight to see it have grandsons eager in their turn for the passing shows, and when Miss Kitty has taken to spectacles and caps, and prefers a cozy corner within-doors to the breezy piazza or the hammock beneath the apple-trees.
Many stories are told of actors and musicians who give tickets to their washwomen, their boot-makers, or to others who cannot afford to pay to hear the great ones with whom their trades may have brought them into contact. Seldom, however, do we hear an anecdote with a twist to it like this one concerning Paganini, and so it is possibly worth telling. One of his biographers is responsible for it, but he prefaces the story with the explanation that the great violinist was a most eccentric man, and although as a rule very generous, he was also at times guilty of petty meannesses. This was one of those times. He was to perform in a concert, for which the price of seats was very high. His washwoman had been bemoaning the fate which made her unable to afford to be present. Finally Paganini wrote out an order for a seat in the top gallery, and handed it to her. She thanked him effusively, and boasted to her friends of the present she had got. Great was her surprise, therefore, when she presented her bill for his laundry at the end of the week to have Paganini request her to deduct from the amount of his indebtedness the price of the ticket he had given her to the concert.
[ALL SEASONS.]
I love to play in winter-time,
When all the earth is white with snow,
When down the gleaming shining hill
My long red sled can go.
I love to play in summer-time,
When in the pond beneath the trees
My pretty ship, with sails puffed out,
Goes skimming in the breeze.
Marie L. Van Vorst.