But here Mr. Smith was interrupted by a shout of exulting laughter from one of his listeners. It was Mr. O'Brien. "O, ho!" screamed that gentleman; "I'll be kilt intirely. A mighty ingenious tale you've made of it, Mr. Smith. And sure I must tell the thruth, if you bate me for it. Sure and wasn't it the day after we had the stag-hunt, and didn't you get so over head and ears in liquor that you went sleep-walking about the house all night, disturbing the people that were fast asleep: and the night after, sure didn't we tie your pigtail to the bell-rope at the head of the bed, to keep you still, or give us notice of your rambles--and a pretty good notice we got, by the powers! for what wid the bell ringing and your bawling, we thought the house was on fire. I'll never forget seeing you pulling one way and the bell pull pulling the other--and all we could do, we could not keep you aisy, till we undid your tail; so faith it was Betty, the cook, I remember, who whipt out her scissors, and cut the knot. Oh! oh! och!--and that's the _thrue_ way you lost your pigtail, Mr. Smith." [Illustration] IRISH SIMPLICITY. A military officer, living in barracks, ordered his Irish servant to boil him an egg for breakfast, adding an injunction to "boil it soft." The officer took up the newspaper and read for ten minutes, then wondered why his egg did not arrive, and rang the bell.--"My egg?"--"I'm seeing about it, sir." Another five minutes elapsed. "Where's this egg?" "Not done, sir." "Not done! do you mean to keep me waiting all day?" "Bring it directly, sir." Still no egg came; the bell rang once more: "Where _is_ the egg?" thundered the officer. "Yer honor," cried Thomas, in alarm, "didn't you tell me to bile it soft, sir! and haven't I biled it this quarter of an hour, and it isn't soft yet." [Illustration] LITTLE SPITZ. A LENTEN ANECDOTE, FROM THE GERMAN OF PROFESSOR SPASS. BY MICHAEL ANGELO TITMARSH. "I think," said Rebecca, flinging down her beautiful eyes to the ground, and heaving a great sigh--"I think, Signor Lorenzo, I could eat a bit of--sausage." "Of _what_?" said Lorenzo, bouncing up and forgetting all sense of politeness in the strange demand. "My dearest madam, _you_ eat a sausage?" "Ha, ha, I'm blesht," shouted Abednego, the banker, Rebecca's papa, "I'm blesht, if Signor Lorenz does not think you want to eat the unclean animal, Rebecca, my soul's darling. These shtudents are dull fellows, look you, and only know what's in their books. Why, there are in dis vicked vorld no less than four hundred kindsh of shausages, Signor Lorenz, of which Herr Bürcke, the court-butcher, will show you the resheipts.--Confess now, you thought my darling wanted to eat pig--faugh!"