Almost every person has some trouble, real or imaginary. I have seen a story of a philosopher who travelled over the world in search of a person who was perfectly happy. He visited the halls of the rich and the hovels of the poor, and everywhere found each individual afflicted with some rooted sorrow, care, or vexation. At last, as he was about giving up the search in despair, he fell in with a shepherd who seemed perfectly free from every evil. He had a pleasing wife, lovely children, a competent support, and good health. What could he desire beside? “Nothing--nothing,” said the philosopher; but when he asked the shepherd if he was happy--“Alas! alas!” said the man; “I am far from it. There is a black sheep in my flock that is forever running off and leading the rest astray. While I am awake, that black sheep is the torment of my life; and when asleep, it disturbs my dreams!” It is said that Sir Walter Scott was talking on this subject, one day, with some gentlemen--he contending that no one was perfectly happy, and they maintaining the reverse--when a half-witted fellow, whom they knew, came up. It was agreed to settle the question by appealing to him. “Good day to ye, Sawney!” said Sir Walter. “Good day,” said Sawney, in reply. “Well now, Sawney,” said Sir Walter, “how does the world use you?” “Well--well, your honor.” “Have ye plenty to eat?” “Yes.” “And to drink?” “Yes.” “Good clothes?” “Yes.” “Then you have nothing to trouble you?” “No--nothing but the bubly Jock,” (a cock-turkey.) “Ah, what of the bubly Jock?” “Oh, he is always running after me; night or day, asleep or awake, I can always see him--gobble, gobble!” “There!” said Sir Walter to the gentlemen; “the decision is in my favor. This poor simpleton, though he is provided with every comfort, is still beset by a tormentor. It matters not that it is invisible--that it exists only in his fancy--it is to him a real bubly Jock, and as truly disturbs his peace as if it were a thing of flesh, and strutted forth in feathers.” And now I must tell of my troubles. Perhaps you will laugh--but one thing that frequently makes me very fidgety, is an itching in the great toe of my wooden leg! If you think this nonsense, just ask any old soldier who has lost a limb, and he will tell you, if it is a foot or a hand, that he has all the sensations of heat or cold in the fingers or toes of the absent member, just as distinctly as if it was in its place and as sound as ever. This is no joke--it is a reality that you can easily verify.