THE PORTFOLIO OF THE YOUNG 'UN,
and the abridged extracts I give from it will be
full of racy colloquialisms. I will call the first

THE VERMONTER

(premising that Vermont is, par excellence, the
latitat of the farmer of the Northern States, as
Louisiana in the Southern States is of the sugar
planter).

A knot of rowdies were standing on the end
of a pier which runs into the Hudson river, in
the outskirts of a small town near Albany, each
trying to throw a stone farther into the stream
than his neighbour, when suddenly a tall, rugged-
built Vermonter direct from the Green Hill
came, and, joining in the amusement, quietly
flung half a brick some yards farther than the
best man of the party.

A fellow in a green jacket, the leader of the
gang, who declared he wouldn't be beaten "by
a feller right straight out o' the woods nohow,"
sidled up to the stranger and scraped an
acquaintance (and the dialogue is true colloquial
American):
"Where do you come from, neighbour?"

"Me? Wal, I hails from Varmount jes' now,
friend."

"Hain't been in these parts long, I reck'n?"

"Wal, no, not edxackly here, but up and
daown sorter. Yaas," heaving a big log of wood
some rods from the shore."

"You've a little strength in your arms, neighbour?"

"I 'ave pumpkins in them flippers, stranger.
Up in aour taown, more'n a munth ago, I druv
them are knuckles rite strut thru a booard more 'n
a ninch-'n-aff thick. Don't b'lieve it?"

"Haw! haw!" laughed the rowdies, "not
much."

"We ain't very green down here in York,"
said the ringleader.

"Wal, jes' yeu look yere, friend; up in aour
kounty we've a purty big river, considerin'.
Injun river, it's called. Wal, I hove a man
clean across that river t'other day, and he
came daown clean and square on t'other side.
Wal, you may laff, but I kin dew it again—
like open and shut, too."

"Bet you ten dollars of it," said the head
rowdy, covering the Vermonter's shin plaister
with the note of a broken-down-east bank.

"Kin you swim, feller?"

"Like a duck." Before the rowdy had well
uttered the words, the Vermonter had clutched
him by the seat of his pants and the nape of his
neck, and thrown him heels overhead ten yards
into the Hudson.

Wet and shivering, the loafer scrambled to
shore amid the jeers and screams of his
companions, and instantly claimed the money.

"Wal, I rekun you wun't take no ten spots
jest yet, capt'n," said the Vermonter; " I didn't
calkilate on dewin' it the fust time, but I tell
you I kin dew it." And again he seized the
loafer in his terrible grip, and threw him this
time ten yards farther than the last.

Again, dripping and cowed, the bully crawled
to shore.

"Third time never fails," said the Yankee,
peeling oft his coat; " I kin dew it, I tell yer,
and I will dew it if I try till to-morrer mornin'."

"Hold on! I give it up—take the money,"
said the defeated rowdy.

The Vermonter, coolly pocketing the "ten
spots," remarked, as he turned away with a
grin, "We ain't much acquainted with yeu
smart folks daoun here 'n York, but we
sometimes take the starch aout 'em up aour way:
p'r'aps yeu wunt try it on the stranger agin—I
reck'n you wunt."

The next story I shall call

THE CINCINNATI HERO.

The Hoosiers and Corncrackers of Ohio are a
brave and a wily race. On a raw October morning,
a young man, in seedy black, appeared on
the broad sloping shore at Cincinnati, and
elbowed his way through the crowd to the
water-side.

"Been on a bat (spree)?" said one bystander.

"Going to take a bath?" said another.

The young man, heeding no one, turned up
his eyes to heaven, clasped his hands together,
muttered some inarticulate words, probably of
despair, and dashed himself into the river.

The loafers were appalled; but, ere a foot
had moved, a second young man, more roughly
dressed, ran into their midst, shrieking wildly,
and demanding if any one had seen his brother.

Suddenly his eye fell on the man in seedy
black floundering in the water, now some yards
from shore.

"There he is! there he is!" he cried; "I'll
save him or die. Ah!" And away he dashed
into the turbid Ohio, striking out manfully. He
soon reached his brother, fought with him in
the water, and eventually dragged him to shore
by the hair of his head, amid three irrepressible
cheers from the spectators. The hero was
exhausted—the would-be suicide almost insensible.

"No, he lives!" shouted out the shivering
hero—"he lives! Again have I saved him!
Ah!"

The sufferer was carried to the nearest store,
and there, before a cheerful fire, soon restored
to consciousness.

"Brandy! or he perishes—my brother!" cried
the hero.

A dozen philanthropists ran for brandy.

"Whisky, or I die of cold!" said the hero.

And a dozen more ran for whisky.

"Oh, the agonies, gentlemen," said the hero,
"I and my brother have suffered for the last
ten months! Oh, the penury, the scorn, the
starvation! But I draw a veil over the horrid past
—for why should I give your feeling hearts one
unnecessary pang?"

"Go on," shouted twenty voices.

"But, gentlemen, should I be ungrateful for
such sympathy? Should a miserable pride bridle
my tongue? We have seen better days; yes, sure,
better days; but repeated losses have so weakened
my poor brother's brain, that this is the second
time I have saved his life this week. Ah!"