a turn to mesmerism and phrenology when there's a chance; teach singing-geography school for a change; sling a lecture sometimes--oh, I do lots of things--most anything that comes handy, so it ain't work.  What's your lay?” “I've done considerble in the doctoring way in my time.  Layin' on o' hands is my best holt--for cancer and paralysis, and sich things; and I k'n tell a fortune pretty good when I've got somebody along to find out the facts for me.  Preachin's my line, too, and workin' camp-meetin's, and missionaryin' around.” Nobody never said anything for a while; then the young man hove a sigh and says: “Alas!” “What 're you alassin' about?” says the bald-head. “To think I should have lived to be leading such a life, and be degraded down into such company.”  And he begun to wipe the corner of his eye with a rag. “Dern your skin, ain't the company good enough for you?” says the baldhead, pretty pert and uppish. “Yes, it _is_ good enough for me; it's as good as I deserve; for who fetched me so low when I was so high?  I did myself.  I don't blame _you_, gentlemen--far from it; I don't blame anybody.  I deserve it all.  Let the cold world do its worst; one thing I know--there's a grave somewhere for me. The world may go on just as it's always done, and take everything from me--loved ones, property, everything; but it can't take that. Some day I'll lie down in it and forget it all, and my poor broken heart will be at rest.”  He went on a-wiping. “Drot your pore broken heart,” says the baldhead; “what are you heaving your pore broken heart at _us_ f'r?  _we_ hain't done nothing.” “No, I know you haven't.  I ain't blaming you, gentlemen.  I brought myself down--yes, I did it myself.  It's right I should suffer--perfectly right--I don't make any moan.” “Brought you down from whar?  Whar was you brought down from?” “Ah, you would not believe me; the world never believes--let it pass--'tis no matter.  The secret of my birth--” “The secret of your birth!  D