The magnetized paper I handled with awe.  It was, in outward semblance, ordinary white blotting paper, and, from some faint indications of ink here and there, looked as though it might on occasion have served its original use; but had I not paid a dollar a sheet for it?  It must be good.

As I started for the train I put a piece on the top of my head, gave a fond, farewell look at my hair, and planted my hat firmly on my brows.  I reached the train, and while looking for a seat caught sight of my friend, Miss W——.  Of course, I instantly bowed, and instantly there came fluttering down before her astonished and bewildered eyes a piece of blotting paper.  I snatched it hastily, and in terror lest I had already broken the charm and forfeited all chance of Mediumship, retired to the rear of the car and furtively replaced the precious pad.  Decidedly I must see Caffray at once.

Luckily, when I reached New York I found that eminent Medium at home, and, ‘bonneted,’ rehearsed to him my dread anticipations.  He could not repress a grim laugh, and to my inexpressible relief gave me permission to wear the paper suspended round my neck next the skin.

With those precious slates I sat every night, at the same hour, in darkness.  I allowed nothing to interfere with this duty; no call of family, of friends, of society, was heeded.  At the end of three weeks I searched every molecule of the slate for the indication of a zig-zag line, but the surface was unsullied, and its black monotony returned stare for stare.

Still hopeful and trustful I continued, day by day and week by week.  The six weeks expired.  Not a zig, nor a zag.  Caffray was kept busy magnetizing paper.  I renewed my stock and determined to push on to two months.  I moved to the country and carried my slates thither, wrapped in double folds of black muslin.  The days and weeks rolled on.  Two months passed.  The slates were as clean as when they came into my possession.  I would go on to three months.  Does not a hen sit for three weeks?  Where a hen gives a week, shall not I give a month?  Is not a Medium worth more than a chicken?

‘Courage!’ cried Caffray, with each batch of paper.  I went to the seashore and my slates went with me.  Not a single evening did I break my rule.

And so it went on.  The three months became four; became five; became six!

And there an end, with absolutely virgin slates.

I had used enough blotting paper, it seemed to me, to absorb a spot on the sun.  I dare not calculate the number of hours I had spent in darkness.

Let Spiritualistic reproaches of investigators for lack of zeal and patience be heaped up hereafter till ‘Ossa becomes a wart;’ I care not; my withers are unwrung.

Punch gives a receipt for making ‘Gooseberry Fool:’  ’Carefully skin your gooseberries, extract the seeds and wash the pulp in three waters for six hours each.  Having done this with the gooseberries, the Fool is perfect.’