down;

Oh! here's to good old Busted,

Write him down;

Oh! here's to good old Busted,

For his balm is always trusted:

Write him down, write him down, write him down.

(Stands off, and looks at his work.) Again the missionary of health plants his victorious banner on a giant bowlder, that shall forever point the westward hoers to the fountain of health. (Sets down pail, and looks at his hands.) A fountain of water would be more to my taste just now: the handle of that pail is in a bad condition, but I'll fix it. (Takes a newspaper from his pocket, and wraps it round handle while speaking.) Big scheme of Busted to spread his balm all over the continent, from Switcham, Vt., to the top of the Sierra Nevadas. Such outward applications of the infallible awaken curiosity, curiosity stirs the sluggish brain to action, the active brain arouses the torpid system, and health re-animates the sinking frame. For further particulars see small bills. That M's a little shaky; I'll touch it up a little, or some of these hardy miners will take it for a bad spell: and, being so choice in their language, that would never do. (Works with brush. Sings),—

   (Enter from cabin Mother Merton, with broom.)

Mother. Who on earth is that howling?

Silas (sings),—

Mother. A stranger! What's he doing to that rock?

Silas (sings),—

Mother. Busted! I do believe he's trying to blast it right before my door—blow us all up. (Brings broom down on his back smartly.) Here, stop that!

Silas (turning, and presenting brush like a pistol). Look out for paint. (Mother steps back.) I beg your pardon; but, if there is any thing in my personal appearance that leads you to suspect my jacket needs dusting, a gentler application of the duster might save the dustor some strength, and the dusteed much wind. Hang it! you nearly took away my breath.

Mother. Served you right. Who are you? Where did you come from? What's that daub?

Silas (aside). Daub! shade of Michael Angelo! (Aloud.) Madam, I am a missionary.

Mother. Good gracious! A parson. Why didn't you say so before? Settled?

Silas. No. (Rubs shoulders.) I thought I was just now.

Mother. Where do you hail from, parson?

Silas. Switcham, Vt. That answers your second interrogatory. The third I will save you the trouble of repeating by announcing the fact that the daub, as you are pleased to call my etching, is the good tidings I am ordained to proclaim. That's one of my sermons; and sermons in stones, though not original with me, have at least the merit of brevity to recommend them.

Mother. "Busted's Balm." Are you Busted?

Silas. No; but I shall be if you ask any more questions.

Mother. Oh, come, be sociable! I came from Vermont myself.

Silas. Possible?

Mother. Yes: twelve years ago, with my husband, expecting to return in two