“Well, Maggie, what does Albro say?”

“Twenty-four poun’, mum,” replied Maggie, coming in.

“Well, I give up,” said Mrs. Simpson; and she did, and so do I—­till next time.

NIMBLE JIM AND THE MAGIC MELON

BY J. A. JUDSON.

Once upon a time, in a snug little cottage by a brook under a hill, lived an old widow and her only child.  She was a tidy, pleasant-faced dame, was “Old Mother Growser;” and as to her boy, there wasn’t a brighter lad of his age in all the village.  His real name was James, but he had always been so spry and handy that when he was a little bit of a chap the neighbors called him “Nimble Jim.”  At work in the cottage garden, or at play on the village green, even at his books and slate, he was ever the same industrious, active “Nimble Jim,” and always a comfort to his mother.

His father had been the village cobbler, and when he died the folks said:  “Who’ll mend our shoes now, and auld Jamie gone?”

Then up sprang the boy, saying:  “I’ll mend them, now father’s dead.”

The simple folks laughed at him.  “Hoot! toot! lad,” said they; “ye canna mend shoes!”

But he answered bravely:  “Am I not fifteen years old, and e’en a’most a mon?  Haven’t I all father’s tools?  Haven’t I seen him do it day after day ever since I was a wee boy?  It’s time I was doing something besides jobbin’ and runnin’ and pretendin’ to work!  I may take to th’ auld bench, and e’en get my father’s place among ye in time, so I be good enough.  Mother canna allus be a-spinnin’, spinnin’, spinnin’.  The poor old eyes are growing dim a’ready,”—­and Jim gently stroked her thin gray hair.

“Ye’re a brave darlin’, and my own handy Nimble Jim,” said the fond mother, smilingly.

“Ah, well, boy,” the neighbors said, “be about it if ye will, for there’s no cobbler hereabout now, and the shoes must be mended.  But ye’ll do the work fairly, mind, or we’ll no’ pay ye a penny!”

“I’ll try my best, and bide your good favor, neighbors,” was Jim’s cheery answer.

And so he succeeded to his father’s old bench by the window, the lap-stone and hammer and awl; and as he waxed his thread and stitched away, singing the old songs, the country folks passing by would listen, look at each other, smile and nod approvingly, or say: 

“Hark to that, friend!  One might think auld Jamie back again, with the whack o’ the hammer and the blithe song, though the voice ben’t so crackit like as th’ auld one.”

“Aye, it’s a bit clearer, but no happier.  Auld cobbler Jamie was a merry soul,” says one.

“And the lad’ll prove worthy his father, I warrant.  Listen to the turn of that song, now; I’ve heard Jamie singin’ it many a day,” says another.

  “Whack! whack! thump-pet-ty crack! 
  In go the shoe-nails with many a smack. 
  Zu! zu! pull the thread through;
  Soon will the shoe be, done, master, for you!