DID you ever try to walk on logs? No? Well, then, you should. It is an experience without which no man can know the depth of malicious depravity of which inanimate things (so called) are capable. So called, I say. For in reality inanimate is an entire misnomer. A log, for example, is generally looked upon as about as lifeless as anything can be, - a very symbol, in fact, of inertia. And, indeed, a log upon land does not often exhibit its real disposition. But once get a log into the water and it will appear in its true character. At first you may not suppose that it has altered in any way, for it may lie perfectly motionless. That, however, is merely a designed veiling of a deadly purpose, - a trap to catch the unwary. You, too, are deceived by it. You step on one end fearlessly. The end upon which you stand at once submerges itself about three feet underneath the water, while the other raises itself aloft threateningly. Remembering your childish experience in see-saw, you make a rush up the log toward the middle. Arrived there you breathe a sigh of relief, for the unexpected show of vivacity on the part of such an apparently stolid mass has startled you not a little. For a moment you remain perfectly still; then suddenly, and without any manifest reason, the fiendish creature begins to revolve rapidly. You follow your natural instinct and keep your feet moving so as to counteract the motion of the log. It requires skilful timing of your movements, but your whole energies are bent upon the task before you, and at last, to your infinite satisfaction, you succeed in making the enemy come to rest. You are very much relieved and considerably set up at the success of your stratagem. You feel that you have shown a deep knowledge of cause and effect in nature. You smile complacently at your friends on shore who are breathlessly watching you, and you are resolved that they shall see you calm, cool, and collected. You think the battle over. Alas! you know not the diabolical wiles of the monster with which you have to deal; you know not the depths to which its villany will carry it (and you, too, later). In the very midst of your exultation you are disturbed at the unstable character which your underpinning is again assuming. Looking down you perceive that the log is beginning to revolve in the opposite direction with marvellous rapidity.

Now this is an alarming development. You feel like a horse in a tread-mill. A shout comes from the shore, "Keep going and you're all right." But you are painfully conscious that you can't keep going forever; that you were never designed for perpetual rotation. You are convinced that this particular log has some old-time grudge against you which it is bound to pay off now with your destruction. There is another of less truculent aspect within three feet of you. You determine to trust to its mercies. But to jump to it would be folly, for you could never get a foothold in that way. You stretch across one foot to it while the other is still engaged in "rastling" with the first log. Now how to get the second foot over? You are fearful of slipping. Yet the new support seems to maintain its composure and sobriety. You can surely count upon it. Vain hope! These two are but confederates in crime. For suddenly this, too, begins to rotate. You struggle for a moment to keep both feet moving in opposite directions, become demoralized, lose your head and your foothold, and plunge into the water, while your torturers indulge in a mighty flop of intense delight.

II. PARTICULAR.DIGGLES, '84, was no ordinary man. He was a man of ideas. Diggles had a girl, - in fact, he had several, but the others don't count. Last summer he was at the mountains; his girl was there too. This was a coincidence, though Mr. Diggles assures us it was entirely unintentional on his part.

But to return to our muttons. One bright August morning Diggles, arrayed in his spotless tennis suit, strolled nonchalantly down the hotel piazza and joined a group of young men and maidens sitting in the sun. His girl was among them. She was sitting on the railing holding on to a post. Diggles wished he were a post, but he soon banished the thought as unworthy of him. Patting on his most winsome smile he proposed an expedition to a neighboring sawmill. Ah, who could have foreseen the consequence of this little trip? But Diggles was a deep, deep man.

Arrived at the sawmill his transcendental genius came into play. He had a burning, an overwhelming, desire to do something original. He proposed to cross the mill-pond on the logs, casually remarking that it was perfectly safe. His girl - well, she trusted in Diggles and went; so did a youth from Amherst (Diggles said he always went everywhere). The others prudently sat on the bank and waited. Every voice was hushed, every heart stopped beating, as hand-in-hand the dauntless three approached the margin of the deep black waters.

Blithely they spring from log to log, and the blood tingles in the proud cheek of Diggles. What if Washington did cross the Delaware on the ice, was not this -

A shrill cry puts an end to his wild fancies, and turning, he sees his girl alternately lifting up and putting down her feet like a miniature quartzmill, while the log on which she is trying to stand performs a series of swift revolutions. Diggles madly rushes to her assistance; will he be too late? Her head swims, her brain reels. Why did she trust him? Alas! why did she trust him? Faster and faster turns the log; faster and faster twinkle the maiden's feet. A slide, a splash, a faintly gurgled "Diggles!" and the dark waters close over her bosom forever.

Diggles was almost there. In fact, he was on the next log. The maiden seized this as she went down, and Mr. Diggles - suddenly decided he could be of more assistance in the water. This, for some reason, struck the Amherst man as funny, quite irresistibly funny, and he was seized with an uncontrollable desire to laugh. But his log became restless and he - went to help Mr. Diggles in getting out the young lady.

Diggles has a new girl now.