as leave go to London on a ship as the West Injies on a schooner. So to make the story short, sir, we two lunatics--'cause that's ezackly what we was--shipped on to that there wessel as green hands." Hiram paused a moment, overcome by the flood of his melancholy recollections. "I hope, sir," he continued, gravely, "that you was never a green hand on a ship. A green hand don't know how to do nothin', an' one o' the mates tells him to do it, an' then yells, 'I'll l'arn ye, ye slob!' An' he allus teaches him with his fist or his foot or a belayin'-pin. I bin punched, kicked, an' knocked down all the way from off Long Beach to the North Foreland. I was taught to furl a royal off Davis South Shoal with a kick in the ribs. I had a long splice, a short splice, an eye splice, an' a black eye punched into me off George's Bank. I got the science o' heavin' to in a gale o' wind kicked clean through me off Cape Race. I learned how to heave the log off Sable Island by bein' hove down the forehatch head fust,'cause I didn't know how to do 't. I got a fust-class chart o' the North Atlantic Ocean hammered on to my body in black an' blue, an' ef ever I git lost out there again, it'll be because the Jersey coast has lost its anchor an' gone adrift. An' now, sir, here's Dave an' me; we don't want to go South on to a schooner no more. All we wants to do is to git back to Joppa, let our fathers lick us, an' then settle down to cod-fishin' an' peace an' quiet for the rest of our lives." Mr. Whittingham laughed heartily over this account of the two boys, but said their final decision was a very wise one, and that he thought they had paid in full all they owed for having run away from home. He sent them home in the steerage of a swift ocean liner that landed them in Joppa a week later. * * * * * THE SCIENTIST AND THE FARMER. A distinguished scientific writer was once on a shooting excursion in an English shire. Coming across a bluff, hale farmer, he entered into conversation with him. As they walked along, they reached a heap of stones. Pointing to them, the scientific man asked the farmer if he knew how they were made. The farmer grinned and replied, "Why, they bean't made, sir; they grows." "Grow? Why, nonsense, man! What do you mean by grow?" "Why, same as 'taters grows." "Dear me! Why, those stones can never grow!" said the scientific man. "They have been that way for years and years, and if you were to look at them years hence, they would be just the same size." At this the farmer actually laughed, and looked at the man of science as though he pitied his ignorance as he exclaimed, "Why, in course they'd be, 'cause they've been taken out o' the earth, and they stops growin' then same as 'taters would." FOR KING OR COUNTRY. BY JAMES BARNES. A Story of the Revolution. CHAPTER XXIV. A LOYAL TRAITOR. "How many men have you?" inquired William, as he accompanied the black-bearded man down the road.