"I'll explain all that to you in two words, brother," answers the oracle in a tone of indulgent superiority. "Here, we'll say, is the town--this tumbler here; and these four lumps of sugar round it, here, and here, and here, are the enemy. Well, then, you see, the enemy begin firing their great cannon at the walls to try and knock them down; and then the soldiers inside dig little holes in the ground, called trenches, and burrow in them to avoid the cannon-balls. Then the people outside here--the besiegers, you know--fire great round things, called bombs, straight up in the air, so as to fall right into these holes, as you'd put a cork in a bottle, and smother the men in them; and when they're all dead the town gives in; and that's called a bombardment." "Gospodi ponilni!" (Lord have mercy!), cries the startled listener. "What strange things there are in this world, to be sure!--Well, Pavel Petrovitch, it's time for us to be going; so let's have one more little glass together and be off." DAVID KER. THE NEW SOPRANO. "Try that chair by the fire, Steve, and comfort your soles on the mantel while I unearth a pair of slippers for you. I've a small mound of them in the closet, built up of the individual gifts of 'grateful pupils.'" "A cruel waste! You should be a centipede, Hal, instead of that forlorn biped, a bachelor. By the way, speaking of single-blessedness, how it must harrow you, my boy, to witness diurnally the bliss of the bride and bridegroom who sit opposite you here at table! Favor them with Lamb's 'Complaint against Married People,' will you? and send me the bill." "Bride and bridegroom? Well, that _is_ rich! Have a cigar, deluded youth, while I enlighten you concerning this mellifluous couple. Did you mark the gentleman particularly? You can't take him in at a glance: there's too much of him. Goodwin his name is--Timothy Goodwin: 'Good Timothy' his friends dub him; and the title applies. "He sat next me at table when I first came to Mrs. Tewksbury's, five years ago, and from the outset he showed a fatherly interest in me--an interest which this quaking stripling of an organist appreciated, I can assure you. Being one of the pillars of St. Luke's--the church I play at, you remember--and an esteemed musical critic withal, his hearty approval of me as a performer was an immense advantage to me. "You'd hardly suppose such a quiet, imperturbable earthling as he looks to be would rhapsodize over music, would you? It was a surprise to me to find how deeply it moved him. He soon fell into the habit of dropping into my room after tea when he heard me at the piano; and many a time I've caught the great, strong fellow mopping his eyes surreptitiously over affecting passages.