second-story rooms, and attempted with such earnestness to become acquainted with his new sons and daughters that he set the whole one hundred and twenty-five and the twins to crying, while his own original fifteen stood around and swelled the volume of sound. Then the bishop went out and sat on the garden fence to whittle a stick and solemnly think, while Mrs. Potts distributed herself around and Soothed the children. It occurred to the bishop while he mused, out there on the fence, that he had not enough trumpets to go around among the children as the family now stood; and so, rather than seem to be partial, he determined to go back to San Francisco for one hundred and forty-four more.

So the bishop re-packed his carpet-bag, and began again to bid farewell to his family. He tenderly kissed all of the Mrs. Potts who were at home, and started for the dépôt, while Mrs. Potts stood at the various windows and waved her handkerchiefs at him-all except the woman with the warm hair, and she, in a fit of absent-mindedness, held one of the twins by the leg and brandished it at Potts as he fled down the street toward the railway station.

The bishop reached San Francisco, completed his purchases, and was just about to get on the train with his one hundred and forty-four trumpets, when a telegram was handed him. It contained information to the effect that the auburn-haired Mrs. Potts had just had a daughter. This induced the bishop to return to the city for the purpose of purchasing an additional trumpet.

On the following Saturday he returned home. As he approached his house a swarm of young children flew out of the front gate and ran toward him, shouting, “There's pa! Here comes pa! Oh, pa, but we're glad to see you! Hurrah for pa!" etc., etc.

The bishop looked at the children as they flocked around him and clung to his legs and coat, and was astonished to perceive that they were neither his nor the late Brown's. He said, "You youngsters have made a mistake; I am not your father;" and the bishop smiled good-naturedly.

"Oh yes, you are, though!" screamed the little ones, in chorus.

But I say I am not," said the bishop, severely, and frowning; “you ought to be ashamed of yourselves. Don't you know where little story-tellers go? It is scandalous for you to violate the truth in this manner. My name is Potts."

“Yes, we know it is,” exclaimed the children—“ we know it is, and so is ours; that is our name now, too, since the wedding."

"Since what wedding?" demanded the bishop, turning pale.

"Why, ma's wedding, of course. She was married yesterday to you by Mr. Young, and we are all living at your house now with our new little brothers and sisters."

The bishop sat down on the nearest front-door step and wiped away a tear. Then he asked,

"Who was your father?"

"Mr. Simpson," said the crowd, "and he died on Tuesday."

"And how many of his infernal old widows-I mean how many of your mother-are there?"

"Only twenty-seven," replied the children, "and there are only sixty-four of us, and we are awful glad you have come home."

The bishop did not seem to be unusually glad; somehow, he failed to share the enthusiasm of the occasion. There appeared to be, in a certain sense, too much sameness about these surprises; so he sat there with his hat pulled over his eyes and considered the situation. Finally, seeing there was no help for it, he went up to the house, and forty-eight of Mrs. Potts rushed up to him and told him how the prophet had another vision, in which he was commanded to seal Simpson's widow to Potts.

"Then the bishop stumbled around among the cradles to his writing-desk. He felt among the gum rings and rattles for his letter-paper, and then he addressed a note to Brigham, asking him as a personal favor to keep awake antil after Christmas. "The man must take me for a foundling hospital," he said. Then the bishop saw clearly enough that if he gave presents to the other children, and not to the late Simpson's, the bride would make things warm for

him. So he started again for San Francisco for sixty-four more trumpets, while Mrs. Potts gradually took leave of him in the entry-all but the red-haired woman, who was up stairs, and who had to be satisfied with screeching goodby at the top of her voice.

On his way home, after his last visit to San Francisco, the bishop sat in the car by the side of a man who had left Salt Lake the day before. The stranger was communicative. In the course of the conversation he remarked to the bishop: "That was a mighty pretty little affair up there at the city on Monday."

"What affair?" asked Potts.

"Why, that wedding; McGrath's widow, you know— married by proxy."

"You don't say," replied the bishop. "I didn't know McGrath was dead."

66

Yes; died on Sunday, and that night Brigham had a vision in which he was ordered to seal her to the bishop." 'Bishop!" exclaimed Potts. "Bishop! What bishop?" "Well, you see, there were fifteen of Mrs. McGrath and eighty-two children, and they shoved the whole lot off on old Potts. Perhaps you don't know him?”

The bishop gave a wild shriek and writhed upon the floor as if he had a fit. When he recovered he leaped from the train and walked back to San Francisco. He afterward took the first steamer for Peru, where he entered a monastery and became a celibate.

His carpet-bag was sent on to his family. It contained the balance of the trumpets. On Christmas morning they were distributed, and in less than an hour the entire two hundred and eight children were sick from sucking the brass upon them. A doctor was called and he seemed so much interested in the family that Brigham divorced the whole concern from old Potts and annexed it to the doctor, who immediately lost his reason, and would have butchered the entire family if the red-haired woman and the oldest boy had not marched him off to a lunatic asylum, where he spent his time trying to arrive at an estimate of the number of his children by ciphering with an impossible combina tion of the multiplication table and algebra.

MY BREAD ON THE WATERS.-GEORGE L. CATLIN.

“Please give me a dime to buy some bread."

I turned to look at the ragged form,
That, in the midst of the pitiless storm,
Pinched and haggard and old with care,
In accents pleading, was standing there.
"T was a little boy not twelve years old:
He shivered and shook in the bitter cold,
His eyes were red-with weeping, I fear-
And adown his cheeks there rolled a tear
E'en then.

His misery struck me dumb;
'Twas a street in a crowded city slum,
Where an errand of duty led my feet

That day, through the storm and blinding sleet.
"Poor little fellow!" at last I said,

"Have you no father?"

"No, he's dead!"

The answer came: "You've a mother, then ?"
"Yes, sir," he said, with a sob; "she's been
Sick for a year, and the doctor said
She'd never again get up from bed."
"You are hungry, too?" I asked, in pain,
As I looked at his poor, wan face again.
"Hungry," he said, with a bitter groan
That would melt to pity a heart of stone;
"I am starved; we all are starving," he said,
66 We haven't had a crust of bread-

Me, nor mother, nor baby Kate-
Since yesterday morning."

I did not wait

To ask him more. Come, come," I cried,
"You shall not hunger;" and at my side
His poor little pattering footsteps fell

On my ear with a sadness I cannot tell;

But his eyes beamed bright when he saw me stop
Before the door of a baker's shop,

And we entered.

"Now eat away, my boy,
As much as you like," I said. With joy,
And a soft expression of childish grace,
He looked up into my friendly face,
And sobbed, as he strove to hide a tear :

46

Oh, if mother and baby Kate were here!"
But eat," said I,

never mind them, now."

A thoughtful look stole over his brow,

And lo! from his face the joy had fled.

"What! While they're starving at home!" he said:
"Oh, no, sir! I'm hungry, indeed, 'tis true,
But I cannot eat till they've had some too."

The tears came rushing-I can't tell why-
To my eyes, as he spoke these words. Said I:
"God bless you! Here, you brave little man,
Here, carry home all the bread you can."
Then I loaded him down with loaves, until
He could carry no more. I paid the bill;
And before he could quite understand
Just what I was doing, into his hand
I slipped a bright new dollar; then said,
'Good-by," and away on my journey sped.

'Twas four years ago. But one day last May,
As I wandered by chance through East Broadway,
A cheery voice accosted me. Lo!

"T was the self same lad of years ago,

Though larger grown--and his looks, in truth,
Bespoke a sober, industrious youth.

'Mister," he said, "I'll never forget

The kindness you showed when last we met.
I work at a trade, and mother is well,
So is baby Kate; and I want to tell
You this-that we owe it all to you.

"Twas you don't blush, sir-that helped us through
In our darkest hour; and we always say

Our luck has been better since that day

When you sent me home with bread to feed
Those starving ones in their hour of need."

LIZZIE AND I ARE ONE.

Lizzie and I are one, and one we mean to be,
Seeing it's forty years since she joined hands with me;
And this honeymoon of ours, I'm sure 'twill never sct,
For as it shone so long ago, 'tis shining on us yet.

We then were linked together for better or for worse,
She took me for a blessing-I might have proved a curse;
Perhaps I've not been either, yet luck was on my side,
For Lizzie has been a blessing since the day she was a bride.
I carry here her picture, in a pocket near my heart,
And never truer angel face was drawn by human art.
They may not think it beautiful, but never do I see,
In throngs of charming women, a face so dear to me.