"Joseph Gunter mout have been a good man and he mout not," continued the Squire; "some thinks he was not; I only say he was a queer old mortal, and here's his will. Last will and testament of Joseph Gunter, &c., &c.," continued the Squire.

"Poor, dear old man," sobbed Lev. "Poor _dear_ old man!"

"Being without wife or children," continued the 'Squire.

"O, dear! poor, dear old man, how _I_ shall miss him in this world of sorrow and sin," sobs Lev, while old Williams bit his skinny lips, and the neighbors again stroked their beards.

"To comfort my declining years--"

"Poor, _dear_ old man, he was to be pitied; I did all I could do,"

groaned the disconsolate Lev, "but I didn't do half enough."

"Pa.s.sing coldly and cheerless through the world--" continued the 'Squire.

"Yes, he did, poor old man; O, dear!" says Lev.

"Cared for by none, hated and shunned by all (Lev looked vacantly over his handkerchief, at the Squire), I have made up my mind (Lev all attention) that no mortal shall benefit by me; I have therefore mortgaged and sold (Lev's eyes spreading) everything I had of a dollar's value in the world, and buried the money in the earth where none but the devil himself can find it!"

There was a general snicker and stare--all eyes on Lev, his face as blank as a sham cartridge, while old Williams's countenance fell into a concatenation of grimaces and wrinkles--language fails to describe!

"But here's a codicil," says the 'Squire, re-adjusting his gla.s.ses.

"Knowing my nephew, Levi Smith, expects something (Lev brightens up, old Williams grins!)--he has hung around me for a long time, expecting it (Lev's jaw falls), I do hereby freely forgive him his six years boarding and lodging, and, furthermore, make him a present of my two old negroes, Ben and Dinah."

"The--the--the--cussed old screw," bawls old Williams.

"The infernal, double and twisted, mean, contemptible, miserable old scoundrel!" cries poor Lev, foaming with virtuous indignation, and swinging his doubled up fists.

"And you--you--you cussed, do-less, good for nothing, hypocritical skunk, you," yells old Williams, shaking his bony fingers in poor Lev's face, the neighbors grinning from ear to ear, "to humbug me, my wife, my Polly, in this yer way. Now clear yourself--take them old n.i.g.g.e.rs, don't leave 'em here for the crows to eat--clear yourself!"

Lev Smith sneaks off like a kill-sheep dog, leaving old Ben and Dinah to the tender mercies of a quite miserable and equally wretched neighborhood. Polly Williams didn't "take on" much about the matter, but in the course of a few weeks took another venture in love's lottery, and--was married. Poor Lev Smith returned to the scenes of his childhood, a wiser and a poorer man.

The Troubles of a Mover.

"Mr. Flash in?"

"Mr. Flash? Don't know any such person, my son."

"Why, he lives here!" continued the boy.

"Guess not, my son; I live here."

"Well, this is the house, for I brought the things here."

"What things?" says our friend, Flannigan.

"Why, the door mat, the brooms, buckets and brushes," says little breeches.

Flannigan looks vacantly at his own door mat, for a minute, then says he--

"Come in my man, I'll see if any such articles have come here, for us."

The boy walks into the hall, amid the barricades of yet unplaced household effects--for Flannigan had just moved in--and Flannigan calls for Mrs. F. The lady appears and denies all knowledge of any such purchases, or reception of buckets, brooms, and little breeches clears out.

In the course of an hour, a violent jerk at the bell announces another customer. Flannigan being at work in the parlor, answers the call; he opens the door, and there stands "a greasy citizen."

"Goo' mornin'. Mr. Flash in?"

"Mr. Flash? I don't know him, sir."

"You don't?" says the "greasy citizen." "He lives here, got this bill agin him, thirty-four dollars, ten cents, per-visions."

"I live here, sir; my name's Flannigan, I don't know you, or owe you, of course!"

"Well, that's a pooty spot o' work, _any how_;" growls our greasy citizen, crumpling up his bill. "Where's Flash?"

"I can't possibly say," says Flannigan.

"You can't?"

"Certainly not."

"Don't know where he's gone to?" growls the butcher.

"No more than the man in the moon!"

"Well, he ain't goin' to dodge _me_, in no sich a way," says the butcher. "I'll find him, if it costs me a bullock, you may tell him so!--for _me!_" growls the butcher.

"Tell him yourself, sir; I've nothing to do with the fellow, don't know him from Adam, as I've already told _you_," says Flannigan, closing the door--the "greasy citizen" walking down the steps muttering thoughts that breathe and words that burn!

Flannigan had just elevated himself upon the top of the centre table, to hang up Mrs. F.'s portrait upon the parlor wall, when another ring was heard of the bell. He called to his little daughter to open the door and see what was wanted.

"Is your fadder in, ah?"

"Yes, sir, I'll call him," says the child, but before she could reach the parlor, a burly Dutch baker marches in.

"Goot mornin', I bro't de _pills_ in."

"Pills?" says Flannigan.

"Yaw, for de prets," continues the baker; "nine tollars foof'ey cents. I vos heert you was movin', so I tink maybees you was run away."

"Mistake, sir, I don't owe you a cent; never bought bread of you!"

"_Vaw's!_ Tonner a' blitzen!--don't owes me!"