"'She is all cut to pieces,' says he; 'do you know whether she was in your stable, Mr. Hitchcock, last night?'
"Wall, mister, with this I let out: 'Do I know it?'—(the Yankee here, in illustration, made way for him, unconsciously, as it were.) 'Do I know it, you no-souled, shad-bellied, squash-headed old night owl, you!—you hay-lookin, corn-cribbin, fodder-fudgin, cent-shavin, whitlin-of-nothin, you? Kate kicks like a dumb beast, but I have reduced the thing to a science!'"
The Yankee had not ceased to advance, nor the dandy, in his astonishment, to retreat; and now the motion of the latter being accelerated by the apparent demonstration on the part of the former to suit the action to the word, he found himself in the "social hall," tumbling backwards over a pile of baggage, tearing the knees of his pants as he scrambled up, and a perfect scream of laughter stunning him on all sides. The defeat was total. A few moments afterward he was seen dragging his own trunk ashore, while Mr. Hitchcock finished his story on the boiler deck.—St. Louis Reveille.
DANCING THEIR RAGS OFF.
Two unsophisticated country lasses visited Niblo's in New York during the ballet season. When the short-skirted, gossamer clad nymphs made their appearance on the stage they became restless and fidgety.
"Oh, Annie!" exclaimed one sotto voce.
"Well, Mary?"
"It ain't nice—I don't like it."
"Hush."
"I don't care, it ain't nice, and I wonder aunt brought us to such a place."