didn't know what to do with it, so he offered to send it home to my friend Jenkins. Jenkins accepted and stored it in his cellar.

The next day, the fellow upstairs, named McCarthy, came down and raised thunder with his wife. When Jenkins came home he heard all about it. He went upstairs and saw the offender.

"Say," says he, "I understand you object to the smell down in my cellar."

"No," says McCarthy, "I don't object to it down there, but when it opens the cellar door and creeps upstairs I do object. It kept me awake all last night."

"Well," said Jenkins, "I'll put it out in the yard behind the dog house."

And he did.

The next morning he went out to feed the dog and found him—dead.

That day nine families moved out of Jenkins' flat, and the tenth was just going when he donated the kraut to an orphan asylum. The orphans broke loose and took leg bail.

There wasn't any one but the janitor to feed it to and he threatened to quit.

The last Jenkins heard of the kraut, it was about to be shipped to Dick Croker to sod his lawn at Wantage.

I came near being put under the sod myself the other day.

I heard that one of my best and oldest friends, J. Fishpond O'Morgan, was down with rheumatism in his arm, so I went around to see him.

As soon as I showed my face in the door, Fishpond howled:

"I'm saved."

I did not know what he was driving at, so I said:

"Sure."

"I want you to do me a favor," says he. "Go around to Prof. Sockem's and tell him to give you some of the usual medicine."

I went to old Sockem's, and just caught him in.

"Doctor," says I, "my friend O'Morgan sent me around for some of the usual for gout."

"All right," says he. "Arm, I suppose. Just roll up your sleeve."

I thought I had struck a maniac, so I tried to humor him.

He came back with a suspicious-looking black bottle and I thought I was a gone goose sure. You see, I had heard so much about the black bottle.

He grabbed my wrist in a grip of iron, poured some of the black bottle stuff on my arm and began to rub it, gently.

Then he began to rub harder and faster, and I could see my arm swell up like a pillow under the fearful treatment.

I kicked, and finally managed to break loose.

"You confounded scoundrel," I says, "what do you mean by assulting me?"

"Assulting you?" says he; "you wanted some of the usual and you got it good and hard, but let me sell you some of my medicine for swollen arms. It's the best thing in the world for such cases."

Did you ever notice what a lot of trouble a simple, little girl may make? Oh! you girls. You're never happy unless you're making some poor lobster show how much money he has, by blowing it in on you.

You know, though, girls, I appreciate you, if no one else does.

If it weren't for you, I'll bet a dollar to Rockfeller's oil-can that none of the young fellows I see here to-night