of two hard substances, but rather of the heavy “thud” order of sound, like the descent of a solid into a soft substance; say, for instance, of a flat-iron into a jar of unrisen buck-wheat batter.  I glanced along the ghostly battalions of family linen; along the fences traversed by feline sentries; along the latticed arbors; but nothing to indicate the origin of the alarm could be discovered, and as at that moment a breeze stirred in the apartment, producing a chilling sensation, I thought it prudent to jump back into bed.

Next morning, upon making my usual visit to note the progress of the early bulbs in the flower-beds, I encountered at the further end of the garden the remains of a cat—­a portly and ancient grimalkin of the sterner sex.  Close at hand was a bottle lying face downward, and corked.  I raised it—­first in my hands, and then to my lips.  The cork fell out, accidentally as it were, and, as a consequence, death.  “Poor thing!” I murmured; “poor—­” and a portion of the contents glided carelessly down my throat.  I perceived that the liquid was “Old Rye.”  As I stooped down, tears would have come to my eyes; but it was useless, seeing that the breath had left the unfortunate’s body.  Nevertheless, I rested my hand a moment upon his head, and then glided it in a semi-professional manner along the line of dorsal elevation, until I came to a deep depression in his backbone, which corresponded exactly with the convexity of the bottle.  Then I saw at once how it was; this missile, (in the heat of passion, being mistaken for an empty one, probably,) had been hurled by some treacherous hand upon the unsuspecting Tom, striking him midway between the root of the tail and the base of the brain, causing instant suspension of his vertebral communications, “Poor thing!  You were the victim of a Catastrophe.  You were also the victim of the bottle.  The ‘Rye’ was too heavy for you, and should have been drawn milder.”  This said, I turned sadly away to find a burial spade, and it then occurred to me that this little incident was kindly meant to confirm my view that cats are susceptible, even to a fatal extent, of spiritual impressions—­especially when conveyed by spirits of “Old Rye.”

GOBBO.

* * * * *

From the Tombs.

When a drunken man has been locked up for beating his wife, it is reasonable to suppose that he must feel rather the worse for lick her.

* * * * *

[Illustration:  PERSONAL GOSSIP.

(From the Daily Press.)

“A SON OF ONE OF OUR WEALTHIEST RESIDENTS DISPLAYS GREAT TALENTS AS A SCULPTOR.  HE IS BUT NINE YEARS OLD.”]

* * * * *

A BIT OF NATURAL HISTORY.