(My room had two beds in it, which suggested the above story.) DR. K.'S MARE. The outline of the following ludicrous "situation" was given me by a gentleman of Framingham:-- Old Dr. K., of F., was represented as a rough and off-handed specimen of the genus _homo_, who liked a horse even better than a woman,--not that he was by any means unmindful of the charms and claims of the beautiful,--better than he loved money, though the latter passion bordered on avariciousness. An over-nice and sensitive spinster once was visiting the family of Mr. T., in town, which employed a younger and more refined physician than Dr. K.; and the spinster, being somewhat indisposed, requested Mr. T. to call a physician. His own family doctor was suggested; but on close inquiry, she concluded to have "the oldest and most experienced physician that the town afforded," and old Dr. K. was called. Mr. T. had just purchased a beautiful mare, which the doctor was desirous of possessing; and the animal was the subject of conversation as the two entered the house, even to the parlor, where the spinster reclined upon a sofa. The old doctor examined the lady for a moment in silence, but his mind was all absorbed in the reputed qualities of the mare, as he timed the lady's pulse. "Slightly nervous," he said to the spinster. "Tongue? Ah! coated. Throat sore?" and turning towards T., he resumed the horse discussion, still holding the lady's wrist. "Good wind, Mr. T.? No spavins? Nothing the matter? Suppose you trot her out this afternoon." The spinster, supposing the conversation alluded to her, went into the most extreme kind of hysterics. "A SCARED CUSTOMER." We give this incident for what it is worth. A man recently entered a restaurant in Utica, N. Y., and ordered a very elaborate dinner. He lingered long at the table, and finally wound up with a bottle of wine. Then lighting a cigar, he sauntered up to the bar, and remarked to the proprietor,-- "Very fine dinner, landlord. Just charge it, for I haven't a cent." "But I don't know you," replied the proprietor, indignantly. "No, of course you don't, or you never would have let me have the dinner." "Pay me for the dinner, I say," shouted the landlord. "And I say I can't," vociferated the customer. "Then I'll see about it," exclaimed the proprietor, who snatched something from a drawer, leaped over the counter, and grasping the man by the collar, pointed something at his throat. "I'll see if you get away with that dinner without paying for it, you scoundrel." "What is that you hold in your hand?" demanded the now affrighted customer, trying to get a sight at the article. "That, sir, is a revolver; loaded, sir." [Illustration: NOT A STOMACH-PUMP.] "O, d---- that; I don't care a continental for a revolver; I've got one myself. _I was afraid it was a stomach-pump!_" "WHAT'S TRUMPS?" Mrs. Bray, in her book of _Anecdotes_, relates a story illustrative of the power of the ruling passion.