of the human head the mule has the top place among the hieroglyphics.

A mule, according to the prevalent opinion, does no regulate his movements strictly according to the will of his owner. The mule's business hours do not always correspond to those of his driver, and some inconvenience is often occasioned thereby to both parties. I think Mark Twain slanders the mule, and yet we must allow that the mule is troublesome at times.

Sometimes when I am most anxious that my mule shall go, he deliberately stands still. I try to spur him forward, but he refuses to budge. I have seen men in the pulpit and on the rostrum very much in the plight of the driver of a rebellious mule. They stormed, they hammered, but they could not get under way. I would rather be the gazingstock on Broadway, hammering and clubbing a stubborn mule, than to stand before an audience in a vain attempt to force my mind into action when it doesn't want to go. I have tried it.

I have tried patting and coaxing, and I have tried jerking and spurring. Now I make a desperate effort. I summon all my strength; I determine that my mind shall go. It does move as though it would go. It makes a few wild plunges, and away I go on a flight of imagination that I think must give me a fair start. I begin an ambitious sentence. Forward I am carried with a rush. I am goinggoing. I am not just sure where I am going,—I add one word after another, and suddenly—the mule stops. But down comes whip and spur, and with a bound I am off into another bold, emphatic sentence-yip-yip

"Now it goes, now it goes,

Now it stands still."

The mule has stopped, and I get off very ungracefully. My mule is troublesome in another way. He gets started, goes like a whirlwind or tempest, and refuses to stop at my bidding.

Bed-time comes. I go to bed. I want to sleep. Whoa! whoa!-but on the mule goes, and I can't get off. I shift from side to side. I determinedly resolve to think about nothing. I lie very still, I almost stop breathing, but it does not stop the thinking. I might as well try to stop the

circulation of the blood by a mandate of the will. I am astride the mule, and the mule is going on the jump.

I pull back with all my might, but it avails nothing. Through the city, through the country, here and there and everywhere, I am carried, in spite of my protesting that I don't want to go, till the mule is exhausted-I was exhausted long ago-and down he tumbles, and I drop into uneasy slumber in the scary dreamland just where the mule stops with me.

Again, mules are often seen, especially in pictures, with their heels at an angle of elevation which intimates that it is best to keep at a respectful distance. In other words, mules sometimes kick. This is the case especially when people take unbecoming liberties with their heels. My mental mule has heels, and it is difficult sometimes to keep them from flying in the faces of people that tempt them.

When some self-conceited creature, with an air of selfimportance that is almost unbearable, solemnly and majesti cally begs leave to inform you that you are seriously mistaken in some unimportant little opinion which you have ventured to half express, thus rapping your mule provokingly over the heels, does he not kick instinctively?

I would not blame my mule for letting the heels fly up on such an occasion, if he would then resume his gravity and maintain his just equilibrium until another such provocation should be offered; but he always assumes an offensive attitude, and gets ready to kick whenever the aforesaid individual comes near.

In this, I think, he shows a bad spirit,—a characteristic, unforgiving, mule spirit. And yet I would take this occasion to suggest respectfully to some people that they are not required to rap the heels of every mule that they see. There is no evidence of lack of good breeding, nor of want of mental capacity, nor of meagre information, in not disagreeing with every remark that any one may make in your presence. It is altogether proper not to contradict every assertion which your companion may casually make in conversation with you.

Again, my mule runs away sometimes without knowing Just where he is going.

Dick's mule got scared at an old stump as the roadside one day and dashed away into the woods. (N. B.-There were no fences along the road.) It was an unpleasant excursion for Dick,-over old logs, in dangerous proximity to huge trees, dodging under branches-until the mule was brought to a stand-still in a dense thicket of brush and briers. Dick was consoled with the thought, however, that it was a mule that did it, and so he calmly took his bearings, proceeded to extricate himself and the mule, and get back to the safe road from which he had been carried.

My mule does in a like manner sometimes. Occasionally I find myself going at a dizzy rate of speed away from my life's highway;-away from the plain road along which I have been traveling peacefully and pleasantly;-away from the long-tried and cherished truths that have been the sign-boards of my life's journey;-out of the woods of doubt and uncertainty;-out and away I know not whither, until I am brought to a halt in a dense thicket through which I cannot go and from which I have to back out. Well, my mule does it, and there is some consolation in that thought, as I hunt the way back to the old road. My mule got scared at something he did not quite understand, and so he struck off on what turned out to be no road at all. That is all.

Thus I have learned to distinguish between myself and my mule, though we always go together.

MYSTERIOUS RAPPINGS.-B. P. SHILLABER.

Late one evening I was sitting, gloomy shadows round me flitting,-

Mrs. Partington, a-knitting, occupied the grate before; Suddenly I heard a patter, a slight and very trifling matter, As if it were a thieving rat or mouse within my closet door; A thieving and mischievous rat or mouse within my closet door,

Only this, and nothing more.

Then all my dreaminess forsook me; rising up I straightway shook me,

A light from off the table took, and swift the rat's destruction swore.

Mrs. P. smiled approbation on my prompt determination, And without more hesitation oped I wide the closet door; Boldly, without hesitation, opened wide the closet door; Darkness there, and nothing more!

As upon the sound I pondered, what the deuce it was I wondered;

Could it be my ear had blundered, as at times it had before? But scarce again was I reseated, ere I heard the sound repeated,

The same dull patter that had greeted me from out the closet door;

Heard the patter that had greeted me from out the closet door;

A gentle patter, nothing more.

Then my rage arose unbounded-" What," cried I, "is this confounded

Noise with which my ear is wounded-noise I've never heard before?

If 'tis presage dread of evil, if 'tis made by ghost or devil, I call on ye to be more civil-'stop that knocking at the door!'

Stop that strange, mysterious knocking, there within my closet door;

Grant me this, if nothing more."

Once again I seized the candle, rudely grasped the latchet's handle,

Savage as a Goth or Vandal, that kicked up rumpuses of

vore

"What the dickens is the matter," said I, " to produce this patter?"

To Mrs. P., and looked straight at her. "I don't know," said she, "I'm shore;

Lest it be a pesky rat, or something, I don't know, I'm shore."

This she said, and nothing more.

Still the noise kept on unceasing; evidently 'twas increasing;

Like a cart-wheel wanting greasing, wore it on my nerves full sore;

Patter, patter, patter, patter! the rain the while made noisy clatter,

My teeth with boding ill did chatter, as when I'm troubled by a bore

Some prosing, dull, and dismal fellow, coming in but just to bore,

Only this, and nothing more.

All night long it kept on tapping; vain I laid myself for napping,

Calling sleep my sense to wrap in darkness till the night was o'er;

A dismal candle, dimly burning, watched me as I lay there turning,

In desperation wildly yearning that sleep would visit me once more;

Sleep, refreshing sleep, did I most urgently implore;

This I wished, and nothing more.

With the day I rose next morning, and, all idle terror scorning,

Went to finding out the warning that annoyed me so before; When straightway, to my consternation, daylight made the revelation

Of a scene of devastation that annoyed me very sore,
Such a scene of devastation as annoyed me very sore.

This it was, and nothing more:

The rotten roof had taken leaking, and the rain, a passage seeking,

Through the murky darkness sneaking, found my hat-box on the floor:

There, exposed to dire disaster, lay my brand-new Sunday castor.

And its hapless, luckless master ne'er shall see its beauties

more

Ne'er shall see its glossy beauty, that his glory was before; It is gone, for evermore!

THE BANKRUPT'S VISITOR.-THOMAS DUNN ENGLISH.

So you're the senior of the firm, the head

Of the great house of Erbenstone and Son-
Great house that has been. That is what is said
On street, in counting-rooms, by every one.
That house had ships one time on every sea;
But then your father with his brains had sway;
His ventures, millions. Come, don't frown at me!
Sir, I have business, and I'll have my say.

Here are the firm's acceptances-behold!
There is a list, and you may scan it well;
This paper once was thought as good as gold;
Now worthless if the tales be true they tell.
Two hundred thousand and-well, never mind
The odd amount-I bought them as they lay
In many hands, investments poor I find,
But still I put the question-can you pay?