HE DIDN'T TAKE IT STRONG. {Written for the Otago Witness.) He waa a venerable, meek-eyed man of sixty -five winters, and he had just brought ua home our weekly cake. A cold night it waß, and wet, so we couldn't let him go without something, if it was only a little. We happened to have half a bottle of Old Tom in the cupboard, and we handed him the bottle and the sugar-basin, passed him a mighty tumbler, and bade him be happy. He sighed, deposited his shabby beaver behind the door, and took hold of our bottle. " I don't take it strong," he said, mourn fully. "I did used to once, but not now, not now." Slowly, almost unwillingly, he raised the botfcle over our capacious tumbler. We watched him with feelings of hospita ble delight. To our amazement, he poured all — yes, all— our loved gin into the tumbler, and then, lifting ifc up, drained the last drop, and then helped himself to a table spoonful of water. "I don't take sugar," he said, feebly; " it don't agree with me." We watched him, helplessly, fascinated, paralysed. He drained his glass without winking, put it down, on the table, and sighed heavily. Then he raked his ancient tile from its resting place. " Well, good even in'," he said as he passed outside. We could not speak. But we recovered at last, and if he comes our way again he'll find the kettle [ready, and he'll be welcome to as much hot water as he likes, but you may hold our hat if he gets hold of our Old Tom bottle ; no, sir I W. K.
