I was once at one of those little social gatherings which the Scotch call a "cooky-shine," and the English a "tea-fight," where two young ladies appeared escorted by a rustic beau (for be it known this was in the country), who, like many beaux from both city and country, had a very well-developed opinion of his own shrewdness and sagacity, of which opinion he gave several rather obtrusive illustrations during the course of the evening. This peculiarity, added to the fact that, quite early in the festivities, he displayed an anxiety to hurry the young ladies home in the midst of their enjoyment, made him anything but popular. The fact was that the young man, having exhausted his limited stock of conversation, grew bored and sleepy, and wanted to go home himself. Not being able to accomplish this, he seated himself in an obscure corner of the room, where he soon dropped off into a doze. Now among the company was a little imp of a boy, a son of the hostess, who seemed to feel himself called upon to amuse the rest of the guests. He whispered a few words in his sister's ear, and then left the room. In about fifteen minutes the drowsy beau woke up with a start, and asked what o'clock it was. "I really don't know," responded one of the ladies. "What time was it when you went to sleep?" "Sleep--sleep! I haven't been to sleep--'wake all the time." "Indeed you have," chorussed the party; "nearly two hours, and saying all sorts of things." [Illustration: WHAT TIME IS IT?] The youth looked blank, and rather frightened, but tried to brave it out. "Oh, pshaw! two hours. Sleep!--why, I haven't been to sleep ten--that's to say, I've been awake the whole time. Now we'll see." And he arose and walked into the next room, which was rather dimly lighted, to look at the clock. He remained there a long time, shuffling about, and emitting sundry whiffs and snorts, and then rejoined the company, rubbing his eyes, and rumpling his hair all over his head, with an expression of bewilderment on his countenance which set every one present tittering. "All right," he said. "Guess't's 'bout time to start home." "Oh no, not yet," answered the hostess. "We are going to have some cider and doughnuts." The cider and doughnuts were brought in and handed round, the sleepy beau receiving his last. He took a good Irish bite. A pause. Something was the matter. He pulled, he gnawed, he wrestled, he grunted, he struggled: it was no use; that doughnut was too much for him. Suddenly, with a quick motion worthy of the late lamented Mr. Grimaldi, he whipped the doughnut out of his mouth and into his pocket. He thought he was unobserved, but a roar of rustic laughter from all sides of the room soon undeceived him. We will draw a veil over the scene, etc., etc., as the novels say. In a few seconds his two fair charges, in charity, proposed to go home; and they went.