"I can't tell what you are driving at," said the clerk. "What is it you want to know?" "I'm gettin' to the pint. Now there's hair dye, Monroe docterin', and widders. Got them all down in your mind?" "Yes, but--" "Jest hold on, now, and I'll explain. There's the unhappiest fat and sassy widder moved into the adjinin' farm to me, you ever see, and if I knows the female heart she has cast eyes of longin' upon yours truly. Now if I dyes these here white whiskers I ketches her. By blackin' said whiskers and insertin' say four fingers of rye where it properly belongs, I kicks up my heels and I waltzes up and salutes the widder like a calf of forty." "Well," said the clerk, "our hair dye is--" "Wait a minute, young feller. Now on the other hand I hears rumors of wars this mornin', and I hears alarmin' talk about this here Monroe docterin'. Ef I uses hair dye and trains down to thirty-eight or forty years of age, I ketches the widder, but I turns into a peart and chipper youth what is liable to be made to fight in this here great war. Ef I gives up the hair dye, the recrutin' sargent salutes these white hairs and passes by, but I am takin' big chances on the widder. She has been to meetin' twicet with a man what has been divorced, and ties his own cree-vat, and this here Monroe docterin' is all what keeps me from pulling out seventy-five cents and makin' a strong play with said dye. What would you do, ef you was me, young feller?" "I don't think there will be any war soon," said the clerk. "Jerusalem; I'm glad to hear it! Gimme the biggest bottle of blue-black hair dye fur seventy-five cents that you got. I'm goin' to purpose to that widder before it gets dry, and risk the chances of Monroe takin' water again on this war business." Something for Baby This is nothing but a slight jar in the happy holiday music; a minor note struck by the finger of Fate, slipping upon the keys, as anthems of rejoicing and Christmas carols make the Yuletide merry. The Post man stood yesterday in one of the largest fancy and drygoods stores on Main Street, watching the throng of well-dressed buyers, mostly ladies, who were turning over the stock of Christmas notions and holiday goods. Presently a little, slim, white-faced girl crept timidly through the crowd to the counter. She was dressed in thin calico, and her shoes were patched and clumsy. She looked about her with a manner half mournful, half scared. A clerk saw her and came forward. "Well, what is it?" he asked rather shortly. "Please, sir," she answered in a weak voice, "Mamma gave me this dime to get something for baby." "Something for baby, for a dime? Want to buy baby a Christmas present, eh? Well now, don't you think you had better run around to a toyshop? We don't keep such things here. You want a tin horse, or a ball, or a jumping jack, now don't you?"