Passing down Chatham street the other day, PUNCHINELLO stopped in front
of a window where hung a highly-colored engraving of an Austrian
sovereign engaged in the Easter ceremony of washing the feet of twelve
old men and women.

An Irishman at our side, who had been puzzling some time to comprehend
the problem thus submitted to him, finally broke out:

"An' may I ax ye, misther, to be koind enough to exshplain phat in the
wurruld that owld roosther's doin'?" pointing to the figure of the
kneeling monarch.

"He is washing the feet of the ladies and gentlemen," mildly put in
PUNCHINELLO.

"Bedad," says PAT, "don't I see that for meself; but phatis he doin' it
for?"

"It is a ceremony of the Catholic Church," PUNCHINELLO explained,
"typical of the washing of the feet of the Twelve Apostles."

PAT eyed PUNCHINELLO askance with an expression which plainly enough
said that he did not believe we had been reared to tell the truth
strictly upon all occasions, and then added:

"Bad cess to your manners, then, don't I know betther nor that; for
haven't I been in the church these forty years, and sorrow a sowl ever
washed _me_ feet!"

* * * * *