CHAPTER XXV.
SOMETHING UNDER THE SOFA.
Not more than twenty-five miles from New York city, and not more than two years ago, there stood a church in which occurred a novelty.

We promised not to tell; but as we omit all names, we think ourselves warranted in writing the sketch.

The sacred edifice had stood more than a hundred years, until the doors were rickety, and often stood open during the secular week.
The window glass in many places had been broken out.

The shingles were off and the snow drifted in, and the congregation during a shower frequently sat under the droppings of the sanctuary.

All of which would have been a matter for sympathy, had it not been for the fact that the people of the neighborhood were nearly all wealthy, and lived in large and comfortable farm houses, making the appearance of their church a fit subject for satire.
The pulpit was giving way with the general wreck, was unpainted, and the upholstery on book-board and sofa seemed calling out with Jew's voice, "Any old clo'?
Any old clo' ?" One Sabbath, the minister felt some uneasiness under the sofa while the congregation were singing, and could not imagine the cause; but found out the next day that a maternal cat had made her nest there with her group of offspring, who had entered upon mortal life amid these honorable surroundings.
Highly-favored kittens! If they do not turn out well, it will not be the fault of their mother, who took them so early under good influences.