But Leola's appealing cadences moved me also. When Paul was dead, she made her pretty little bow, and we sat spellbound, then gave her applause surpassing Guy's. Unexpectedly I found embarrassment of choice dazing me, and I sat without attending to the later speakers. Was not successful humor more difficult than pathos? Were not tears more cheaply raised than laughter? Yet, on the other hand, Guy had one prize, and where merit was so even--I sat, I say, forgetful of the rest of the speakers, when suddenly I was aware of louder shouts of welcome, and I awaked to Josey Yeatts bowing at us. “Spit it out, Josey!” a large encouraging voice was crying in the back of the hall. “We'll see you through.” “Don't be scared, Josey!” yelled another. Then Josey opened his mouth and rhythmically rattled the following: “I love little pussy her coat is so warm And if I don't hurt her she'll do me no harm I'll sit by the fi-yer and give her some food And pussy will love me because I am good.” That was all. It had come without falter or pause, even for breath. Josey stood, and the room rose to him. “Again! again!” they roared. “He ain't a bit scared!” “Go it, Josey!” “You don't forgit yer piece!” And a great deal more, while they pounded with their boots. “I love little pussy,” began Josey. “Poor darling!” said a lady next me. “No mother.” “I'll sit by the fi-yer.” Josey was continuing. But nobody heard him finish. The room was a Babel. “Look at his little hand!” “Only three fingers inside them rags!” “Nobody to mend his clothes any more.” They all talked to each other, and clapped and cheered, while Josey stood, one leg slightly advanced and proudly stiff, somewhat after the manner of those military engravings where some general is seen erect upon an eminence at the moment of victory. Mr. Eastman again appeared from the bunting, and was telling us, I have no doubt, something of importance; but the giant barkeeper now shouted above the din, “Who says Josey Yeatts ain't the speaker for this night?”