"Do you s'pose I'm going to believe all that tomfoolery? It doesn't weigh more'n twenty, I know. Here, Maggie! Take this out and ask Albro to weigh it for you." "I'm blamed if he hasn't hit it about right," said the farmer who had brought the turkey. "How did you find out?" "Well, you see," said I, "the flat-iron has a figure 6 on it; that shows that it weighs six pounds. Now, if the turkey had not weighed more than the flat-iron they would have balanced each other at the same distance from the balancing loop; but the turkey was the heavier, so I had to move the flat-iron out further. At the same distance from the loop as the turkey (two inches), the flat-iron pulled six pounds' weight, and at every addition of that distance it would pull six pounds more. Thus: at four inches it pulled twelve pounds; at six inches, eighteen pounds; and at eight inches, twenty-four pounds. At that distance it just balanced the turkey, thus proving that it weighed----" "Well, Maggie, what does Albro say?" "Twenty-four poun', mum," replied Maggie, coming in. "Well, I give up," said Mrs. Simpson; and she did, and so do I--till next time. NIMBLE JIM AND THE MAGIC MELON BY J. A. JUDSON. Once upon a time, in a snug little cottage by a brook under a hill, lived an old widow and her only child. She was a tidy, pleasant-faced dame, was "Old Mother Growser;" and as to her boy, there wasn't a brighter lad of his age in all the village. His real name was James, but he had always been so spry and handy that when he was a little bit of a chap the neighbors called him "Nimble Jim." At work in the cottage garden, or at play on the village green, even at his books and slate, he was ever the same industrious, active "Nimble Jim," and always a comfort to his mother. His father had been the village cobbler, and when he died the folks said: "Who'll mend our shoes now, and auld Jamie gone?" Then up sprang the boy, saying: "I'll mend them, now father's dead." The simple folks laughed at him. "Hoot! toot! lad," said they; "ye canna mend shoes!" But he answered bravely: "Am I not fifteen years old, and e'en a'most a mon? Haven't I all father's tools? Haven't I seen him do it day after day ever since I was a wee boy? It's time I was doing something besides jobbin' and runnin' and pretendin' to work! I may take to th' auld bench, and e'en get my father's place among ye in time, so I be good enough. Mother canna allus be a-spinnin', spinnin', spinnin'. The poor old eyes are growing dim a'ready,"--and Jim gently stroked her thin gray hair. "Ye're a brave darlin', and my own handy Nimble Jim," said the fond mother, smilingly. "Ah, well, boy," the neighbors said, "be about it if ye will, for there's no cobbler hereabout now, and the shoes must be mended. But ye'll do the work fairly, mind, or we'll no' pay ye a penny!" "I'll try my best, and bide your good favor, neighbors," was Jim's cheery answer.