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 a denizen. The story was related by a male friend. Said he: "Many years ago, when a mere lad of ten or a dozen years, I lived in the Metropolis of America, where also I was born. One day several lads of us were playing at ball in a street then called 'Chapel,' but since known as West Broadway. In throwing the toy at one of my playmates, it missed him, and crashed through the window of a shoe-mender's shop, the proprietor of which became greatly enraged, and in a paroxysm of fury not only cursed and swore most dreadfully at us, but also seized the offending ball, and threw it on his burning grate; we, poor mourners, in the mean while looking down into the fiery grave of all our sport. Tears, expostulations, and entreaties were all so much wasted breath, and proved utterly unavailing. The ball, unfortunate ball, was irrevocably doomed to an igneous tomb; nor could all our prayers, joined as they were, to abundant offers on our part, and that of several pitying on-lookers, to doubly pay the cost of the demolished glass, soften the obdurate heart of the revengeful cobbler in the least degree. Burn that ball he swore to; utterly consume it he vowed to, and most religiously he kept his promise.

The ball was burned, but as the smoke of its substance,—the remains of two worn-out stockings and an india-rubber shoe,—and of our torment, went up towards heaven, there accompanied it a most dire threat of vengeance from out my boyish heart,—proud, indignant little human heart, which then, for the first time, swelled almost to bursting with vindictiveness and rage. In my paroxysm of fury I swore a vendetta more fierce