Hans Breitmann gife a barty: Dere all vas Souse und Brouse; Ven de sooper comed in, de gompany Did make demselfs to house. Dey ate das Brot und Gensy broost, De Bratwurst und Braten fine, Und vash der Abendessen down Mit four parrels of Neckarwein. Hans Breitmann gife a barty: We all cot troonk ash pigs. I poot mine mout to a parrel of beer, Und emptied it oop mit a schwigs. Und denn I gissed Madilda Yane Und she shlog me on the kop, Und de gompany fited mit dable-lecks Dill de coonsthable made oos shtop. Hans Breitmann gife a barty---- Where ish dat barty now! Where ish de lofely golden cloud Dat float on de mountain's prow? Where ish de himmelstrahlende Stern---- De shtar of de shpirit's light? All goned afay mit de Lager Beer---- Afay in de Ewigkeit! CHARLES GODFREY LELAND. FRANCES M. WHICHER TIM CRANE AND THE WIDOW "O, no, Mr. Crane, by no manner o' means, 'tain't a minnit tow soon for you to begin to talk about gittin' married agin. I am amazed you should be afeerd I'd think so. See--how long's Miss Crane ben dead? Six months!--land o' Goshen!--why, I've know'd a number of individdiwals get married in less time than that. There's Phil Bennett's widder 't I was a-talkin' about jest now--she 't was Louisy Perce--her husband hadent been dead but _three_ months, you know. I don't think it looks well for a _woman_ to be in such a hurry--but for a _man_ it's a different thing--circumstances alters cases, you know. And then, sittiwated as you be, Mr. Crane, it's a turrible thing for your family to be without a head to superintend the domestic consarns and tend to the children--to say nothin' o' yerself, Mr. Crane. You dew need a companion, and no mistake. Six months! Good grievous! Why, Squire Titus dident wait but six _weeks_ arter he buried his fust wife afore he married his second. I thought ther wa'n't no partickler need o' his hurryin' so, seein' his family was all grow'd up. Such a critter as he pickt out, tew! 'twas very onsuitable--but every man to his taste--I hain't no dispersition to meddle with nobody's consarns. There's old farmer Dawson, tew--his pardner hain't ben dead but ten months. To be sure, he ain't married yet--but he would a-ben long enough ago if somebody I know on'd gin him any incurridgement. But 'tain't for me to speak o' that matter. He's a clever old critter and as rich as a Jew--but--lawful sakes! he's old enough to be my father. And there's Mr. Smith--Jubiter Smith; you know him, Mr. Crane--his wife (she 'twas Aurory Pike) she died last summer, and he's ben squintin' round among the wimmin ever since, and he _may_ squint for all the good it'll dew him so far as I'm consarned--tho' Mr. Smith's a respectable man--quite young and hain't no family--very well off, tew, and quite intellectible--but I'm purty partickler. O, Mr. Crane! it's ten year come Jinniwary sence I witnessed the expiration o'