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their number to do something which he was unwilling, or affected to be unwilling, to do. "Do now, Pete." "Oh, you kin-you know you kin." "Pshaw! I wouldn't be a fool!" "Jist this one time, Pete," were some of the exclamations and expostulations that we heard. They were not without effect: a young man in a blue coat, with big brass buttons, cleared his throat, and commenced singing, to a tune whiningly dolorous, nasal, unvaried, and interminable, the popular ditty of

"The Old Bachelare"

'Come, while you set silent, I'll have you to hear,

The truth or a lie, from an old bachelare:

They'll set and they'll think, twell they war out their brains,
And wish for a wife-but it is all in vain-

Sing down, dary down."

Before this verse was half-finished, Andy (the dog), who was coiled up in the entry, commenced a howling accompaniment, worse even than the vocalism of Mr. Peter Marks, who looked vexed and confused, and stopped singing.

"I wouldn't mind it, Peter," said good old Mrs. Kuncker, who now approached; "I wouldn't mind it. It's nothin' but that dratted yaller brute of old Kit's, and, bless the Lord, it's jist the way he does me, constant-his master's larnt it to him— I never kin begin to sing, 'I rode on the sky, quite ondestified I,' or 'Primrose,' or 'Zion,' or any of them sperechal himes, but what the stinkin', yaller cuss strikes up his everlastin' howl, and jist makes me quit whether or no!" and Aunt Hetty went and drove Andy away!

"He! he! yah! yah! e-e- yah!" chuckled Uncle Kit-"ain't Andy got a noble v'ice? Ain't he, 'squire? yah! yah! He sings bass, and yer Aunt Hetty sings tribble, and I'm gwine to

git a middlin'-size dog to sing tenor, and then we'll be fixed— he! he! yah!—and you must come over every other Sunday to yer Uncle Kit's singing school"-laughing immoderately at the conceit.

And Hetty said "pish!" with a worried air, and Mr. Marks re-tuned his pipes:

"But when you are married, it is for to please,

And when you have children you're never at ease;
You'll go bare and stint, just to make 'em suppo't,
But a bachelor's care is his back and his throat;

Sing down, dary down."

The applause being loud and enthusiastic, Mr. Marks passed his right hand over his well-tallowed side locks, glanced at the buttons of his coat, cleared his throat, and proceeded to give the other side of the picture:

"But when you are gone, your wife will prepar’

A dish of fine dainties, or somethin' that's rar';
So smilin' and pleasin' when you do draw near-
There's no such delight for the old bachelare!

Sing down, dary down."

Andy, by this time, had got under the house, and accompanied the singer in the two last lines and the chorus, without any particular reference to "time," but with an earnestness that showed that the love of music was in his soul. Mr. Marks bit his lips and frowned, but as he had only one more verse to sing, determined to try and get through with it:

"When I go abroad, and sich things I do see"

(Andy howled furiously.)

"I wish, but in vain, that it only was me"

("Oo-oo-au-e-au-oo-oo-oo!" from the dog!)

"Whilst I must both breeches and petticoat ware"

(Andy kept "even along.") ·

"It grieves me to think I'm an old bachelare;

Sing down, dary down."

Andy howled through the last line beautifully, but getting into the chorus, commenced a series of barks which seemed likely to be prolonged indefinitely.

"My poor dog!" exclaimed Mr. Kuncker, affecting great anxiety, "my poor dog has got tangled up in that cussed tune, and 'll choke hisself to death! Run, Jim" -to his son-"and ontie the blasted thing, or cut it in two! yah e-e yah! yah! yaw!"

"Bein' as my kumpny ain't adceptable here, I'll dismiss," said Mr. Marks, the vocalist, in a pet; at the same time buttoning up his blue swallow-tail, and sleeking down his greasy locks.

"Couldn't you give us somethin' sperechal before you go?" asked Uncle Kit, "your Aunt Hetty and Andy's tip-top on sperechal songs;" and the wrinkles on Mr. Kuncker's face formed themselves into fifty little smilets.

"Kee-yow! yow!" all of a sudden from Andy, as he ran from under the house.

"Make up your bread with that!" said Aunt Hetty, as she raised up with the tea-kettle in her hand, from which she had been pouring boiling water through a crack upon Andy.

"Old 'oman!" said Uncle Kit passionately, "I'll take that dog kleen away"-thinking, in the energy of his own affection for Andy, that the announcement would have a decidedly pain

ful effect upon the mind of his wife-"and you never shall set eyes upon him agin, as long as you live!”

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"I only wish-to-thewould!" said Aunt Hetty, emphatically shaking her head between each word.

"I won't do no sich a thing!" said old Kit, in the spirit of contradiction; "I'll keep him here allers, jist to sing! He shall sing 'Primrose

"Can't help it!"

"And 'Zion,' and

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"Can't help that nuther!"

"Won't you come and go with me,' and

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"And all the rest of the songs in the Mezooree Harmony, and 'Mearcer's Cluster,' too! Cust ef he sha'n't!"

"Well! well! Christopher, old man!" said Aunt Hetty, in a conciliatory tone; "don't be aggrawated. I oughtent to fret you, I know; and ef Andy'll behave hisself like a decent doglike Bull Wilkerson, now, for a sample, which never comes in the hou

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"Thar ain't”—said Uncle Kit, swelling with indignation at the indirect attack upon the morals of his dog-"thar ain't a dog of a better karackter in the settlement than Andy Kuncker -Bull Wilkerson or no Bull Wilkerson! No! thar ain't no better nor no gentlemanlier a dog in the whole county than Andy! Savin' the presence of this kumpny, I'll be damned ef thar is!" and having so spoken, Mr. Kuncker went out to seek his dog and console him in his afflictions.

As soon as Mr. Kuncker returned, the couple desirous of matrimony took the floor, and 'Squire Berry united them in the bonds of wedlock after the most summary fashion. Uncle Kit then announced that some "cold scraps" were to be found in

an adjoining room-which said "cold scraps" consisted, principally, of one or two half-grown hogs baked brown; two or three very fat turkeys; a hind quarter of beef; together with about a half wagon-load of bread, cake, pies, stewed fruit, and so forth.

"'Squire! 'squire! don't set thar!" said Uncle Kit, addressing himself to us as we were taking a chair among the masculine portion of the guests; "oh, no! he! yah! yah! your Uncle Kit didn't bring you here for that, yah! yah! yah! Here's a little gal has never had her sensis taken, and I want you to see ef you kan't git 'em, yah! yah!" and Uncle Kit forced us into a chair, greatly against our will, by the side of Miss Winny Folsom, a very pretty girl, with a pouting mouth. Mr. Kuncker drew up a chair behind us.

Standing near Uncle Kit's back, we observed a young man who, somehow or other, took a great apparent interest in either Miss Winny or ourself; but he said nothing. He was a rare specimen of the piney-woods' species of the genus homo. His face was not unhandsome, but he had a considerable stoop of the shoulders, and was knock-kneed to deformity. His coat was "blue mixed," with a very acute terminus, and it seemed to have a particular affection for the hump of his shoulders, for it touched no other part of his person. His pantaloons were of buff cassimere-most probably bought at second-hand -and contracted, from excessive washing, or some other cause, to a painful scantiness. There was a white "streak" between his vest and the waistband, and a red one between the ends of the legs and the tops of his white cotton socks. A pair of redleather straps, some twenty inches long, exerted themselves to keep the legs down to this mark; but every time that Mr. Isaac Hetson-that was his name-stooped, the pantaloons had slightly the advantage, by reason of the superior elasticity

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