hand to deprecate any interruption, “it's no use! He won't go to bed; he won't play keerds; whiskey don't take no effect on him. Ever since I knowed him, he was the most onsatisfactory critter to hev round”—     

       “What do you have him round for, then?” interrupted Miss Jinny sharply.     

       Mr. McClosky's eyes fell. “Ef he hedn't kem out of his way to-night to do me a good turn, I wouldn't ask ye, Jinny. I wouldn't, so help me! But I thought, ez I couldn't do any thing with him, you might come down, and sorter fetch him, Jinny, as you did the others.”      

       Miss Jenny shrugged her pretty shoulders.     

       “Is he old, or young?”      

       “He's young enough, Jinny; but he knows a power of things.”      

       “What does he do?”      

       “Not much, I reckon. He's got money in the mill at Four Forks. He travels round a good deal. I've heard, Jinny that he's a poet—writes them rhymes, you know.” Mr. McClosky here appealed submissively but directly to his daughter. He remembered that she had frequently been in receipt of printed elegaic couplets known as “mottoes,” containing enclosures equally saccharine.     

       Miss Jenny slightly curled her pretty lip. She had that fine contempt for the illusions of fancy which belongs to the perfectly healthy young animal.     

       “Not,” continued Mr. McClosky, rubbing his head reflectively, “not ez I'd advise ye, Jinny, to say any thing to him about poetry. It ain't twenty minutes ago ez I did. I set the whiskey afore him in the parlor. I wound up the music-box, and set it goin'. Then I sez to him, sociable-like and free, 'Jest consider yourself in your own house, and repeat what you allow to be your finest production,' and he raged. That man, Jinny, jest raged! Thar's no end of the names he called me. You see, Jinny,” continued Mr. McClosky apologetically, “he's known me a long time.”      

       But his daughter had already dismissed 

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