lic was the condition that made Catnach's success possible. He had only to bring out a sheet with a few glaring lines-"Murder, one penny," "Horrible," "Barbarous," "Love, one penny," "Coal Cellar," "Pool of Blood," "Former Crimes," "Nine Children," "Mysterious," etc., to catch the public eye and ear, and their loose pennies as well. In time the crying of these wares became an art, and writers of both prose and "poetry" were enlisted to dress the story thus hinted at in the most gruesome form. One of these effusions begins thus:

"Now, my friends, here you have, just printed and published, the life, trial, character, confession behavior and condemnation of that unfortunate male factor Richard Wilberforce who was executed on Monday last for the most horrible, dreadful and wicked murder of Sarah Spriggens. a lady's maid, young and handsome. It's the most foul and horrible murder that ever graced the annals of British history. Here, my customers, you may read his execution on the fatal scaffold. You may also read how he met his victim in a dark and lonesome wood, and what he did to her for a half-penny; and further you read how he brought her to London,and after that comes the murder, which is worth all the money! And you read how the ghost appeared to him and then to her parents. Then comes the capture of the villain; also the trial, sentence and execution, showing how the ghost was in the act of putting his leg on one side, and 'the old gentleman' a pulling the other, waiting for his victim (my good friends excuse my tears) etc., etc."

This was followed by some forty lines of doggerel describing the event. The wicked man says:

"And justice followed every step,
Though often I did cry;
And the cruel Judge and Jury
Condemned me for to die.
And in a cell as cold as death
I always was afraid,
For Sarah she was with me
Although I killed her dead-

For only a half-penny."

Among the stock material to be worked off when there was no available sensation, one of the most popular was "The Perpetual Almanack, or gentleman soldier's prayer book," a story of a soldier who was arrested for playing cards in a church, and his ingenious defence that he used the cards as an almanac, a prayer-book and an epitome of biblical history. This creed has become. a classic, in a way, and makes perennial appearances in various "notes and queries" receptacles.

One of Mr. Catnach's characteristic effusions, which was found among his papers after his death consisted of nineteen stanzas each capped by an explanatory note of which the following are detached samples:

G

RANDMA DAWSON sat on

the side porch paring apples for an old-time concoction called "pan-dowdy." Her lips were moving, but gave no sound.

"I'm glad I went for these apples myself and got the right kind. The pork is just right too, and John certainly will enjoy the pan-dowdy like he used to when he was a boy. He's picked up a great deal since I came and cooked things we had then."

Her visit had lengthened from the proposed three weeks to three months and once in a while she cheerfully announced the intention of staying until spring.

"Why, of course, mother," John would say, "you can just as well as not. Your house is closed and cousin Amos and Martha have the tenant house now and the farm will be cared for."

Grandma was no pessimist and never on the alert for slights and insults. She did not notice that John's wife failed to second his cordial invitation and John generally avoided her remonstrating gaze.

"I've had a beautiful time," mused she. "I see how everything has turned out for the best, though it was pretty hard for father and me to give up the idea of John staying on the farm and coming here to be a store-keeper. We both saw he wasn't stout enough for farm work and this opening was providential. If only Miriam had lived, it wouldn't

have been so lonesome for me after father died; but then, they're both in glory and I thank the good Lord."

Grandma was about to begin singing her favorite hymn of praise, "All Hail the Power of Jesus' Name," when her attention was arrested by the voices of her daughter-in-law and her intimate friend, Mrs. Jones. They had just returned from a missionary meeting.

"Oh! yes," said John's wife, in response to some remark of her friend, "she does potter around a good deal, but I don't call it helping. I have to keep a girl all the same, and Bridget finds a good deal of fault about having two mistresses. She has coddled John until he thinks he's almost an invalid, and she spoils Benny petting him. She worries the girls about taking care of their clothes, and fusses at Angeline and Lorena about putting on aprons as soon as they come home from school. She's dreadful close. She would wear an old bombazine dress to church last Sunday because it looked like rain. were really ashamed of her.

We

"Stephen Porter is waiting on Sybil, you know; he can't get away. from his business in Dexter often and generally comes Saturday evenings and grandma always comes in the room with her knitting and tells stories about old times. The other evening when

the clock struck ten, Stephen said he didn't know it was so late and he would have to run to catch the train. Grandma went with Sybil and him to the door, and told how much she enjoyed his visits."

Grandma held her knife and apple suspended. She almost gasped at the idea of Sybil thinking of marriage. Then she remembered that Sybil was nineteen years old, and she herself was married at eighteen. "Are you going to alter your home?" inquired Mrs. Jones.

"We intended to make the room grandma occupies into a parlor. We thought of putting in a bow window on the south side and getting new furniture. The girls need a parlor; but it's uncertain now, for grandma wants to stay till spring."

"Well, I must go," said Mrs. Jones. "I hope you won't be as unlucky as Mrs. Ross. Her motherin-law came on a visit and had a shock and has been bedfast for

two years. These old people are liable to give out any time."

"Old!" thought grandma, "sixtyfive isn't old," and she straightened up more erect than ever and resumed her work. She was almost dazed, but notwithstanding the pandowdy was a success.

"It must be true," she concluded, "that listeners never hear any good of themselves. I'm a meddling old woman and have been making mischief ever since I've been here."

John seemed preoccupied at dinner; evidently something had gone wrong at the store. He simply said the pan-dowdy was good, in answer to his mother's question. After dinner, grandma went to her room, instead of going to the kitchen to help Bridget wash the dishes. She drew her trunk mechanically

out of the closet and began packing it. She laid Benny's mittens, and the half dozen pairs of stockings she had knit for John, on the bureau. "Good warm ones, with long legs, like he used to have at home," she said to herself.

Supper was a quiet meal. Bridget had been scolding about having so much to do and threatened to leave, which depressed John's wife greatly. As John was returning to the store after supper, he turned to give Benny a letter for grandma, which he had forgotten.

Cousin Amos had written to tell of a storm that created havoc at the farm and wanted grandma to come home to see about repairs. She was dressed in her travelling costume when she appeared at breakfast, and announced her intention of taking the early train for home. She created some consternation by informing John that she should. have to ask him to pay the last five hundred dollars she had loaned him. The prospect for the bay window and new furniture faded in the dim distance.

Grandma's spirits rose and her cheerfulness returned as she seated herself in the train. "Thank the good Lord, I've a home of my own and am independent," thought she. Her heart gave a joyful bound as the old mountain appeared, and grew lighter as she recognized familiar landmarks.

"There," she said, almost audibly, "if Deacon Woodbury hasn't painted his house pea-green, and Captain Sanders has built a new fence!"

She was in a quiver of excitement as the train stopped at the little station. It was a mile to the farm; but after giving some directions

about her trunk, to be sent for in the morning, she gathered up her lunch basket and wraps and went trudging up the road.

"I'll stop at home and see how things look," and so saying she let down the bars and entered the lane that led to the kitchen door.

"How good it seems!" she exclaimed; "I didn't know I was homesick before. Amos and Martha don't know I'm coming so soon, and if I had a little mite of tea I'd eat supper here. Why! yes, I have tea. I remember I bought a half pound just before I went away. I'll go to the barn and see if I can find some eggs; then I'll have, with what's left of my lunch, enough for breakfast too, and I can sleep here on my good feather bed. Folks nowadays don't know what comfortable beds are."

Grandma took the egg basket, and her search was successful. When she came to the house Tabby was on the window sill, mewing to get in. Soon a bright fire was burning in the fireplace, the tea kettle hanging on the crane was singing its cheerful song and Tabby in grandma's lap purred a contented accompaniment.

Grandma sat long over her tea, looking across the intervening valley to the village of Barton Hill, and watching the setting sun gild the weather vane on the church spire, and then darkness gathered and the villagers began to light up here and there.

"There goes Almira Powers's light, the first one always; guess she's as much tailoring to do as ever," said grandma. "There's Deacon Davis's. Then the last of all, Widow Skinner's; she's just as close as ever. Oh! I forgot. I'm

close myself. John's folks thought So. I'll have to be careful about criticising. How I shall enjoy going to meeting Sunday and seeing old friends. I'll sing, too, just as loud as I please. At John's church, whenever I began to sing, people turned to stare at me, as if I had no right to praise. They thought, I guess, that they paid the choir for all the singing. I never heard how the Smith twins got through the measles. I wonder how Miss Bacon's rheumatism is. There's so much I want to hear."

She lighted a candle, wound the clock and went into the chilly parlor. She lingered long over the fading daguerreotypes of her loved ones in solemn array on the mantel. Then after clearing away the supper, she covered the fire. Her heart was overflowing with thankfulness, as she knelt down by the bed and prayed. Soon she was sleeping, with Tabby curled up on the foot of the bed.

After the busy weeks of repairing the ravages of the storm, grandma tried to settle down and take up the thread of life which she had dropped; but a flood of memories swept over her and as the tide receded it carried away almost all remembrance of the later, lonely years and the charm of the old days. was upon her, and her mind refused to accept the actual conditions. A toiler in the distant fields was her husband in his manhood's prime, until with an effort she recalled the day when he left her forever. A school boy coming around the bend of the road at the juniper trees was John hurrying home from school, until he came near and a pang shot through her heart as she realized he had gone out of her life and had