to hear the genial printer rehearse his experiences, ranging all the way
from Belfast, Ireland, where he was born, to all the nooks and corners
of the United States, including the little settlement where the
plantation newspaper was published. Mr. Snelson had been a tramp and
almost a tragedian, and he was pleased on many occasions to give his
little apprentice a taste of his dramatic art. He would stuff a pillow
under his coat and give readings from Richard III, or wrap his wife's
mantilla about him and play Hamlet.

When tired of the stage he would clear his throat and render some of the
old ballads, which he sang very sweetly indeed.

One night, after the little domestic concert was over and Joe was
reading a book by the light of the pine-knot fire, a great fuss was
heard in the hen-house, which was some distance from the dwelling.
"Run, John," exclaimed Mrs. Snelson; "I just know somebody is stealing
my dominicker hen and her chickens. Run!"

"Let the lad go," said Mr. Snelson, amiably. "He's young and nimble,
and whoever's there he'll catch 'em.--Run, lad! and if ye need help, lift
your voice and I'll be wit' ye directly."

The dwelling occupied by Mr. Snelson was in the middle of a thick wood,
and at night, when there was no moon, it was very dark out of doors; but
Joe Maxwell was not afraid of the dark. He leaped from the door and
had reached the hen-house before the chickens ceased cackling and
fluttering. It was too dark to see anything, but Joe, in groping his way
around, laid his hand on Somebody.

His sensations would be hard to describe. His heart seemed to jump into
his mouth, and he felt a thrill run over him from head to foot. It was
not fear, for he did not turn and flee. He placed his hand again on the
Somebody and asked:

"Who are you?"

Whatever it was trembled most violently and the reply came in a weak,
shaking voice and in the shape of another question:

"Is dis de little marster what come fum town ter work in de paper

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