some sort.

How do you account for the phenomena connected with the steel pen I placed on the floor, and which was attracted into the Hole so quickly and so mysteriously?"

I asked this question, not without a tone and air of triumph. The Doctor was posed.

"Fact," said he, "fact; the pen did go down the Hole-I saw it myself. I had forgotten it entirely. That is really a problem.”

He bowed his broad forehead upon his hand and sank into a fit of profound reflection.

"Pshaw!" he at length broke out, "pshaw! I have it. The simplest thing in the world-I wonder it should have puzzled me a moment."

I felt sure that he was mistaken, but was anxious to hear his explanation. Not that I wished to see him at fault, completely at fault, but that I objected to being driven from a position I had taken at first from a sudden impulse, but afterwards had deliberately maintained, and which facts seemed to corroborate.

"Where did you put the pen-I mean upon what part of the floor?"

I showed him the precise spot. It was not far from the door leading into the passage.

"I thought so," said he.

"Why?"

"Was it windy last night?"

The relevancy of this question I could not at all perceive; nevertheless I promptly answered:

"Yes, just about night, it was quite windy."

"Well, when we were all in here, trying to pull Mr. Mosby out of the Hole, the door leading from the passage into the yard was open, was it not?" "I believe it was."

"The wind came from that side of the housefrom the east?"

"Yes."

"You say the passage-door was open; how about the door leading from this room into the passage?" "That was closed to keep the negroes from venturing in."

"The wind, then, was coming from the east-of course it came into the passage-and after getting there, I don't know," said he, quizzingly, "but I am strongly inclined to think it would rush under the only place it could rush, that is, under the parlor door, and in a pretty strong current-strong enough to drive a small object-say, for example, a steel pen-before it. And from the parlor door it would rush right across this floor, and of course right across the hole, if there was a hole in the floor-right into the fire-place, and right up the chimney; taking good care, however, to drop on the way any little incumbrance into any little opening it might chance to encounter. In a word," concluded the Doctor, "your wonderful and mysterious pen was only indulging in a game of draughts."

FILL JOANSES.

A MONEFUL DITTE.

W

HEN I wuz yung and in my priem,

I had sum meat uppuu my boanses; I loss it all in sicks weeks' time,

At a place they call Fill Joanses.

Too and 20 yeer agoe it were—
I cack'late it by my groanses—
That I set 4th from Linchbug toun
On a vizzit to Fill Joanses.

Miss Bobry, she wuz with me, too,
And Wilyum, bruther of Fill Joanses,

Miss Jessie, with her eye so blue,—
Wuz all a-stayin at Fill Joanses.

'Twuz in the good old days of ole

We was Monnuks on our throansesThe crap was wuth its weight in gole, At the plais they call Fill Joanses.

Fillup then were but a boy,

And Sedden toddlin oar the stoanses, He holp us to cumpleet our joy

While a-stayin at Fill Joanses.

Big Mister Willis at the mill,

He had sum meat uppun his boanses; Frank Gnawl, he clum the red-clay hill, And Farmer John cum down to Joanses.

Miss Mary Stannud, she was thar,—
How mellojus was her toanses!
Anuther gearl that had black har,
And menny mo', wuz at Fill Joanses.

Sech dinin out and dinin in,

Sech drivin o'er the rocky stoanses!

My soul! I think it were a sin,

The way they liv'd aroun Fill Joanses.

Sech lamb and jelly-everything,—
But I were usen to corn poanses;
Fat mutton was the truck-by jing!—
That laid me out at Fillup Joanses.

For from that day untoo this hour

The sartin fack to all well known is-My stummuk, she have loss her power, And leff it all at Fillup Joanses.

Dyspepsy are a fearful ill;

'Tis made of grunts and made of groanses;

No tiem will settle that ar bill

That I cuntrackted at Fill Joanses.

My days is past in constunt pain,
My nites in everlastin moanses;
And oft I cuss, and cuss in vain,
That fatal summer at Fill Joanses.

But sert❜ny I duz luv to eet,—

Man warn't made to live on stoanses; And now I know 'twuz hard to beat That blessid summer at Fill Joanses.

Ah! tiems is sadly changed since then;
The Yanks has got us for thar oanses;
Thar's not a man, not one in ten,

Livs like they lived at Fillup Joanses.

Bad as I feel, ef I could bring

Them days agin, I'd heish my groanses; I'd fill my stummuk with mint sling, And dine wunst mo' at Filiup Joanses.

The good ole man is livin still,

As young as ever in his boanses;

Lass tiem I clum the red-clay hill,

They had good eatin at Fill Joanses.

So mote it bee, so mote it bee,

Twell deth shall heish up all our groanses;

For not twell then will I agree

To eat no mo' at Fillup Joanses.