A BULLETIN STORY.

Hastings Standard, Issue 279, 24 March 1897, Page 4

A BULLETIN STORY.

Up in the far north of the Piebald Land, a freshly arrived Mahommedan lately prosecuted a new-chum Chinaman for something connected with wood. It was a blazing day, and the Magistrate's liver was out of order, he having kept it up late with the local sub-inspector the previous night ; and the flies and mosquitos raged tremendously, and a dust-storm blew continuously. The local interpreter was missing, and the court tackled the case single-handed. The Mahommedan couldn't bo properly sworn for want of a Koran, and tho Chinaman was only partly sworn, because, instead of blowing out the match, the dust-storm blew it out for him. The Mahommedan tried to explain the charge to the court and tinj court tried to explain it to the Chinaman. Neither succeeded. Then the Chinaman tried to explain something at length, and the court, which didn't understand him, tried to Convey his meaning to the Mahommedan, and failed badly. Finally the court drew out of the contest, and stood aside while the Chinaman and the Mahommedan yelled in different languages at each other. By-and by their row lulled it to sleep, and it dozed ofl leaving the policeman to act as peacemaker and hottleholder to the litigants. It woke after half an-hour and found the policeman gone and the Chinaman and the Moselm still haranguing each other incomprehensibly with the idea that they were getting justice. Then it doxed off again and when it woka an hour later both litigants were gone, so an entry was made to the eftV:t that the matter had Iw-en settled out of court, and the embodiment of the law went home. Away down tin? street a cloud of dust showed where the Mohemmedaii and the Chow were still arguing with a casual Afghan and a small boy and a dog and goat and a superannuated working bullock looking on. And of

such is the course of justice in the Piebald Land. —Bulletin.

ITE DESERVED TO BE SICK

A medical friend of mine (says a writer in the Yorkshire post) told me the following story of a patient of Sir Andrew Clark, which is a smoking story in so far as the interest of it ceht-res in a cigar. The patient had consulted Sir Andrew about his health, and the doctor having looked at his tongue and felt his pulse and gone through the usual medical manoeuvres, came to the conclusion that it was the not uncommon case of overeating, over - drinking, over - smoking, and under-walking. So he gave him little or no medicine, but put him on a strict diet mutton chop for his luncheon, roast chicken for his dinner, no potatoes or sugar, claret for his beverage, with two tablespoonfuls of whisky at night. " And then," added Sir Andrew, " a daily walk of three miles, to bed at ten—and, mind ! one cigar a day, and come and see me again in a week's time." At the end of the week the patient called again, and the following dialogue took place : " Well," said the doctor, " and how do you feel ?" " To tell the truth, I don't feel as well as I did a week ago." " Well, but how's that ? Have you carried out my directions ?" "Yes, in every particular."

" Had you chop and roast chicken and claret, and all that sort of thing?!' " Yes, regularly." " And had a good walk every day gone to bed in good time ?" " Yes, never missed once." " Well, I own I'm puzzled," said the doctor, and then after a pause, " Can you account for it yourself in any way ?" " Well, I fancy it is the cigar. You see, Sir Andrew, I'm no smoker, and that cigar every day made me so ." Well, now, didn't he deserve to be sick? I'm sure Sir Andrew thought so, though perhaps he didn't say it.