It was a very sad woman that came into our sanctum the other day. Not to put too fine a point on it, she wept. " I am Mraßriggs," she murmured Badly. The sub-editor said he was glad to know it, and inquired after Mr Briggs. "You don't seem to keep the run of our eminent citizens much," she said with some asperity ; "for, you know, he died last Friday." The sub stammered out that he had indeed overlooked it. "That's just it," said the grief- stricken one. I want an obitury rit on to him — something strong, you know." "Ah, precisely," said the sub-editor ; "I will just take down the points. He was public-spirited, of course ? " " Certainly," sighed the widow. "Respected, influential, high toned ] " " Way up," sobbed the relict. " Fine feelings, self-made, rich 1 " " Well, no," said the mourner ; "he would have been rich ; his partner was just elected Supervisor, but he didn't wait for the first day even ; he faded away, faded away." "All right, madam, we will get up a notice that will make all the other bereaved families in your part of the town howl with envy. "On the front page, mind," she sighed. " Just so, ma'am. It will be eight dollars." "Eight dollars for an obituary, with sugar at thirteen cents ? " " But reflect, madam, that you will have an article that will make Andrew Johnson and Henry Wilson turn over in their graves." " Eight dollars — and Johnny's shoes will be four dollars, and Jane's pull-back — well, mister, I guess the old man will have to slide through on his merits. The regular four-bit send-off will about do, I guess," and depositing that coin on the desk, she sobbed herself downstairs. — San Francisco News Letter.
