“We omitted to state that a dead man was picked up near the unfortunate goat.  It is supposed that this person, in wandering over the cliff, lost his foothold and fell, striking the doomed animal in his progress.  Thus, through the carelessness of this obscure individual, was Col.  W’s. poor little goat hurled into eternity.”

The Superintendent asked me last Sunday to take charge of a class.  “You’ll find ’em rather a bad lot” said he.  “They all went fishing last Sunday but little JOHNNY RAND. He is really a good boy, and I hope his example may yet redeem the others.  I wish you’d talk to ’em a little.”

I told him I would.

They were rather a hard looking set.  I don’t think I ever witnessed a more elegant assortment of black eyes in my life.  Little JOHNNY RAND, the good boy, was in his place, and I smiled on him approvingly.  As soon as the lessons were over, I said: 

“Boys, your Superintendent tells me you went fishing last Sunday.  All but little JOHNNY, here.”

“You didn’t go, did you, JOHNNY?” I said.

“No, sir.”

“That was right.  Though this boy is the youngest among you,” I continued, “you will now learn from his lips words of good counsel, which I hope you will profit by.”

I lifted him up on the seat beside me, and smoothed his auburn ringlets.

“Now, JOHNNY, I want you to tell your teacher, and these wicked boys, why you didn’t go fishing with them last Sunday.  Speak up loud, now.  It was because it was very wicked, and you had rather come to the Sunday School.  Wasn’t it?”

“No, sir, it was ’cos I couldn’t find no worms for bait.”

Somehow or other these good boys always turn out humbugs.

It is hardly good taste to introduce anything of a pathetic nature in an article intended to be humorous, but the following displays such infinite depth of tenderness, fortified by strength of mind, that I cannot forbear.  Although it occurred when I was quite young, it is firmly impressed on my memory: 

The autumn winds sighed drearily through the leafless trees, as the solemn procession passed slowly into the quiet church-yard, and paused before the open grave, where all that was mortal of LUCY C----- was to be laid away forever, and when the white-haired old pastor, with trembling voice, recounted her last moments, sobs broke out afresh, for she was beloved by all.

The bereaved husband stood a little apart, and, though no tear escaped him, yet we all instinctively felt that his heart was wrung with agony, and his burden greater than he could bear.  With folded arms, and eyes bent upon the coffin, he seemed buried in a deep and painful reverie.  None dared intrude upon a grief so sacred.  At last, turning to his brother, and pointing to the coffin, he said: 

“JOHN, don’t you call that rather a neat looking box for four dollars?”

* * * * *