Ta CHRISTMAS IN AMERICA.

“Well, I don’t believe in them.”

“What’s come of that pullet, then?”

“Did n’t you fall asleep over the chopping-block, and some
one steal her?”

“Rebecca, you know that there isn’t a person in this whole
town who would steal a hen from me in the night, to say nothing
of broad daylight. What’s the use of arguing against the super-
natural? Just as soon as I had cut her head off, I let go of her,
and expected she would flutter and leap up into the air, just as
pullets do when other folks kill them. Instead of that she
never made a sound, but turned right into that there chopping-
block, and never left so much as a drop of blood or a feather
behind.”

“Tt is very mysterious.”

“ Very.”

“Where’s Jamie?”

“ He’s hid so as not to see the murder.”

Just then the sound of wheels was heard, and the Ossipee
stage stopped before the little red cottage, and Miss Van Buren,
all fluffs and furbelows, appeared. As soon as I was alone with
eee he said, —

“Jamie, you know what has happened; don’t tell your grand-
mother that rash wish of mine.”

“ What wish? ” ,

‘““What I said to you before the pullet vanished, —- that she
might turn into a chopping-block.”

I had intended to tell him what I had seen, ne a | mystery
had a charm for me even in childhood. I disliked to spoil such
a famous story as this was sure to become, and when my con-
science began to trouble me, I stifled it by reflecting that to
explain the matter too soon would cause the capture and death
of the pullet.