DUNS.

WE have all known them, even those of us who are of methodical habits and ever-ready purse. We know their step on the stair, their heavy tread along the entry, their ominous knock at the door, their bland departure if met with refusal, their look of astonishment if paid.

I knew a dun once. He came, I think, from some coal-office in the distant Port. He was the most affable dun that ever made out a bill. He did not seem to care so much for his money as for the pleasure of my society. I have known him come into my room, fill his brier-wood pipe from my jar of green seal, seat himself comfortably before the fire of his own coal, and enter into lively conversation with me on politics, literature, or art. His pipe out, he would take his departure with never a word in regard to his "memorandum." When, at a thoughtless moment, I paid him, he seemed surprised at the fact, and mournful that he was deprived of further pretext for visiting me.

I know fellows who descend to the playing of mean tricks on duns. I was in Smith's room last week, when there came a suspicious knock at the door, - suspicious because it was unaccompanied by that vigorous kick on the lower panel which usually characterizes the summons of Smithie's friends. That individual in fearless tone said, "Come!" Enter an elderly gentleman with silver locks, supposed to be not entirely unconnected with the coal-trade. "Is Mr. Smith in?" Smith, in dressing-gown and slippers: "No, sir, Mr. Smith has just gone to recitation, and won't be back for four hours." Exit the thrall of carbon, and great hilarity on the part of Smith.

But Smith afterwards found his match at that coal-office. A younger employee, a youth with small and silky beard, showed strategic powers far superior to those of my friend. Smith and I were one day seated in his room, - which, by the way, is a very pleasant one, - when we heard some one ascend the stairs with nimble step and cheerful whistle. He went past Smith's door and up the next flight to one of the rooms above. In about five minutes' time he came down, whistling as before, and with light knock and heavy kick demanded admittance at our door. Smith, innocent youth, supposing that he was about to admit a jovial classmate, drew back the latch, opened the door, and stood face to face with the enterprising young dun above mentioned. Outwitted and crestfallen, Smith paid his bill of $17.50 without a murmur, and ever since that day he has been an altered man.

Now let me tell you of the low trick played on a dun by my chum last year. My chum had been deluded enough to subscribe to one of those periodical editions of Don Quixote, under the pleasing belief that it would be a fine thing to acquire Cervantes in so cheap a manner. "Just think!" he said. "Only fifty cents to be paid each week. And, really, every fellow should own Don Quixote." Affairs went on smoothly for two or three weeks. The payments were prompt, and each number of the periodical was eagerly devoured. But at about the time mentioned my chum became very hard up, and consequently the payment of fifty cents became worse than a bore. His passion, too, for Spanish literature was evidently on the decline. Well, one day he said to the knight-errant who formed the other party to the contract: "Now, my friend, I shall be obliged to study during almost the whole time in future, and my door will be often locked to keep out loafers; so whenever you come here, just cry out 'Sancho Panza,' and I shall know who is without." Why proceed? Of course the name of poor Sancho never proved the "open sesame" to our room, and my chum's edition of Don Quixote remains a fragment.

For myself, let me say that, although duns are sometimes a source of amusement, I intend henceforth to know them only in their relations to my friends, and that I shall only sport my oak on the night before my annual examination in Math. X.

SCOTUS.