“Ah, to think of it, only to think of it!—­the poor old faithful creature.  For she was so faithful.  Would you believe it, she had been a servant in that selfsame house and that selfsame family for twenty seven years come Christmas, and never a cross word and never a lick!  And, oh, to think she should meet such a death at last!—­a-sitting over the red hot stove at three o’clock in the morning and went to sleep and fell on it and was actually roasted!  Not just frizzled up a bit, but literally roasted to a crisp!  Poor faithful creature, how she was cooked!  I am but a poor woman, but even if I have to scrimp to do it, I will put up a tombstone over that lone sufferer’s grave—­and Mr. Riley if you would have the goodness to think up a little epitaph to put on it which would sort of describe the awful way in which she met her—­”

“Put it, ‘Well done, good and faithful servant,’” said Riley, and never smiled.

A FINE OLD MAN

John Wagner, the oldest man in Buffalo—­one hundred and four years old —­recently walked a mile and a half in two weeks.

He is as cheerful and bright as any of these other old men that charge around so persistently and tiresomely in the newspapers, and in every way as remarkable.

Last November he walked five blocks in a rainstorm, without any shelter but an umbrella, and cast his vote for Grant, remarking that he had voted for forty-seven presidents—­which was a lie.

His “second crop” of rich brown hair arrived from New York yesterday, and he has a new set of teeth coming from Philadelphia.

He is to be married next week to a girl one hundred and two years old, who still takes in washing.

They have been engaged eighty years, but their parents persistently refused their consent until three days ago.

John Wagner is two years older than the Rhode Island veteran, and yet has never tasted a drop of liquor in his life—­unless-unless you count whisky.

Science V.S.  Luck—­[Written about 1867.]

At that time, in Kentucky (said the Hon. Mr. K-----); the law was very
strict against what is termed “games of chance.”   About a dozen of the
boys were detected playing “seven up” or “old sledge” for money, and the
grand jury found a true bill against them.   Jim Sturgis was retained to
defend them when the case came up, of course.  The more he studied over
the matter, and looked into the evidence, the plainer it was that he must
lose a case at last—­there was no getting around that painful fact. 
Those boys had certainly been betting money on a game of chance.   Even
public sympathy was roused in behalf of Sturgis.   People said it was a
pity to see him mar his successful career with a big prominent case like
this, which must go against him.

But after several restless nights an inspired idea flashed upon Sturgis, and he sprang out of bed delighted.