A Domestic Broil

Mr. Setemup carne down stairs to a ten o'clock breakf'ast with a vacant countenance and a backward tendency in the hair that mado his two eyes ache. He sat dowa at the table, and picked up his knife and fork, glared with uneasy wonder at something in the platter before hini. It had evidently been fried in butter, and was intended for food. Mr. Setemup harpooned it with his fork and lifted it up bodily, gazing at it with cver-increasing wonder. "What under the sun," he exclaimed at last, "is this thing?" "Well," replied _ his patiënt wif'e, with just a shadow of a igh, "it looks like your new soft feit bat, and that is what I thought it was, but you pulled it out of your pocket when you came home this uiorning and said it was a nice porter-house steak, and you wanted it broiled for breaktast." "You needn't give me any of' it ; I'm not hungry. " And Mr. Setemup, who was just wild to know what elsc he said whcn he carne home, and what time it was, for the life of'hiin didn't