minutes by a child of ten years, the daughter of the widow Felicie Grandissime; and the siege of Troy, in ordinary ink, done entirely with the pen, the labor of twenty years, by “a citizen of New Orleans.”  It was natural that these things should come to “Frowenfeld’s corner,” for there, oftener than elsewhere, the critics were gathered together.  Ah! wonderful men, those critics; and, fortunately, we have a few still left.

The young man with auburn curls rested the edge of his burden upon the counter, tore away its wrappings and disclosed a painting.

He said nothing—­with his mouth; but stood at arm’s length balancing the painting and casting now upon it and now upon Joseph Frowenfeld a look more replete with triumph than Caesar’s three-worded dispatch.

The apothecary fixed upon it long and silently the gaze of a somnambulist.  At length he spoke: 

“What is it?”

“Louisiana rif-using to hanter de h-Union!” replied the Creole, with an ecstasy that threatened to burst forth in hip-hurrahs.

Joseph said nothing, but silently wondered at Louisiana’s anatomy.

“Gran’ subjec’!” said the Creole.

“Allegorical,” replied the hard-pressed apothecary.

“Allegoricon?  No, sir!  Allegoricon never saw dat pigshoe.  If you insist to know who make dat pigshoe—­de hartis’ stan’ bif-ore you!”

“It is your work?”

“’Tis de work of me, Raoul Innerarity, cousin to de disting-wish Honore Grandissime.  I swear to you, sir, on stack of Bible’ as ’igh as yo’ head!”

He smote his breast.

“Do you wish to put it in the window?”

“Yes, seh.”

“For sale?”

M. Raoul Innerarity hesitated a moment before replying: 

“‘Sieur Frowenfel’, I think it is a foolishness to be too proud, eh?  I want you to say, ‘My frien’, ’Sieur Innerarity, never care to sell anything; ‘tis for egs-hibby-shun’; mais—­when somebody look at it, so,” the artist cast upon his work a look of languishing covetousness, “’you say, foudre tonnerre! what de dev’!—­I take dat ris-pon-sibble-ty—­you can have her for two hun’red fifty dollah!’ Better not be too proud, eh, ’Sieur Frowenfel’?”

“No, sir,” said Joseph, proceeding to place it in the window, his new friend following him about spanielwise; “but you had better let me say plainly that it is for sale.”

“Oh—­I don’t care—­mais—­my rillation’ will never forgive me! Mais—­go-ahead-I-don’t-care!  ’T is for sale.”

“’Sieur Frowenfel’,” he resumed, as they came away from the window, “one week ago”—­he held up one finger—­“what I was doing?  Makin’ bill of ladin’, my faith!—­for my cousin Honore! an’ now, I ham a hartis’!  So soon I foun’ dat, I say, ‘Cousin Honore,’”—­the eloquent speaker lifted his foot and administered to the empty air a soft, polite kick—­“I never goin’ to do anoder lick o’ work so long I live; adieu!”