Says I, in awful axents, “It is very appropriate to have it right here handy.” Says I, “Liquor does more towards makin' the laws of the United States, from caucus to convention, than any thing else does; and it is highly proper to have some liquor here handy, so they can soak the laws in it right off, before they lay 'em onto the tables, or under 'em, or pass 'em onto the people. It is highly appropriate,” says I. “Yes,” says he. “It is very handy for the senators. And let me get you a glass.” “No, you won't,” says I firmly, “no, you won't. The nation suffers enough from that room now, without havin' Josiah Allen's wife let in.” Says he (his friendship for Bub Smith makin' him anxious and sot on helpin' me), “If you have any feeling of delicacy in going in there, let me make some wine here. I will get a glass of water, and make you some pure grape wine, or French brandy, or corn or rye whiskey. I have all the drugs right here.” And he took out a little box out of his pocket. “My father is a importer of rare old wines, and I know just how it is done. I have 'em all here,--capiscum, coculus Indicus, alum, coperas, strychnine. I will make some of the choicest and purest imported liquors we have in the country, in five minutes, if you say so.” [Illustration: SAMANTHA REFUSING TO BE TREATED.] “No,” says I firmly. “When I want to follow up Cleopatra's fashion, and commit suicide, I am goin' to hire a rattlesnake, and take my poison as she did, on the outside.” “Cleopatra?” says he inquiringly. “Is she a Washington lady?” And I says guardedly, “She has lots of relations here, I believe.” “Wall,” he said, “he thought her name sounded familiar. Then, I can't do any thing for you?” he says. “Yes,” says I calmly: “you can open the front door, and let me out.” Which he did, and I was glad enough to get out into the pure air. When I got back to the house, I found they had been to supper. Sally had had company that afternoon,--her husband's brother. He had jest left. He lived only a few miles away, and had come in on the cars. Sally said he wanted to stay and see me the worst kind: he wanted to throw out some deep arguments aginst wimmen's suffrage. Says she, “He talks powerful about it: he would have convinced you, without a doubt.” “Wall,” says I, “why didn't he stay?” She said he had to hurry home on account of business. He had come in to the village, to get some money. There was goin' to be a lot of men, wimmen, and children sold in his neighborhood the next mornin', and he thought he should buy a girl, if he could find a likely one. “Sold?” says I, in curious axents. “Yes,” says Sally. “They sell the inmates of the poor-house, every year, to the highest bidder,--sell their labor by the year. They have 'em get up on a auction block, and hire a auctioneer, and sell 'em at so much a head, to the crowd. Why, some of 'em bring as high as twenty dollars a year, besides board. [Illustration: BUYING TIME.]