“Jake, I’m yur dead father. I come back to have a talk with ye ’bout the way things is agoin’ on. I want to know ’f you think it’s right notter _recognise_ yur dead parent?” “It _is_ a little rough on you, dear,” replied the son without looking up, “but the fact is that [7 and 3 are 10, and 2 are 12, and 6 are 18] it is so long since you have been about [and 3 off are 15] that I had kind of forgotten, and [2 into 4 goes twice, and 7 into 6 you can’t] you know how it is yourself. May I be permitted to again inquire the precise nature of your present business?” “Well, yes—if you wont talk anything but shop I s’pose I must come to the p’int. Isay! you don’t keep any thing to drink ’bout yer, do ye—Jake?” “14 from 23 are 9—I’ll get you something when we get done. Please explain how we can serve one another.” “Jake, I done everything for you, and you ain’t done nothin’ for me since I died. I want a monument bigger’n Dave Broderick’s, with an eppytaph in gilt letters, by Joaquin Miller. I can’t git into any kind o’ society till I have ’em. You’ve no idee how exclusive they are where I am.” This dutiful son laid down his pencil and effected a stiffly vertical attitude. He was all attention: “Anything else to-day?” he asked—rather sneeringly, I grieve to state. “No-o-o, I don’t think of anything special,” drawled the ghost reflectively; “I’d like to have an iron fence around it to keep the cows off, but I s’pose that’s included.” “_Of_ course! And a gravel walk, and a lot of abalone shells, and fresh posies daily; a marble angel or two for company, and anything else that will add to your comfort. Have you any other extremely reasonable request to make of me?” “Yes—since you mention it. I want you to contest my will. Horace Hawes is having his’n contested.” “My fine friend, you did not make any will.” “That ain’t o’ no consequence. You forge me a good ’un and contest that.” “With pleasure, sir; but that will be extra. Now indulge me in one question. You spoke of the society where you reside. _Where_ do you reside?” The Dutch clock pounded clamorously upon its brazen gong a countless multitude of hours; the glowing coals fell like an avalanche through the grate, spilling all over the cat, who exalted her voice in a squawk like the deathwail of a stuck pig, and dashed affrighted through the window. A smell of scorching fur pervaded the place, and under cover of it the aged spectre walked into the mirror, vanishing like a dream. “Love’s Labour Lost” Joab was a beef, who was tired of being courted for his clean, smooth skin. So he backed through a narrow gateway six or eight times, which made his hair stand the wrong way. He then went and rubbed his fat sides against a charred log. This made him look untidy. You never looked worse in your life than Joab did.