Uncle Jim's Yarn.

Old "Uncle Jim," of Stonington, Conn., ought to have a whole drawer to himself, for nothing short of it could express the easy-going enlargement of his mind in narratives. Uncle Jim was a retired sea captain, sealer, and whaler, universally beloved and respected for his lovely disposition and genuine good-heartedness, not less than for the moderation of his statements and the truthful candor of his narrations. It happened that one of the Yale Professors, who devoted himself to ethnological studies, was interested in the Patagonians, and very much desired information as to the alleged gigantic stature of the race. A scientific friend, who knew the Stonington romancer, told the Professor that he could no doubt get valuable information from Uncle Jim, a Captain who was familiar with all the region about Cape Horn. And the Professor, without any hint about Uncle Jim's real ability, eagerly accompanied his friend to make the visit. Uncle Jim was found in one of his usual haunts, and something like the following ethnological conversation ensued:

Professor—They tell me, Capt. Pennington, that you have been a good deal in Patagonia.

Uncle Jim—Made thirty or forty voyages there, sir.

Professor—And I suppose you know something about the Patagonians and their habits?

Uncle Jim—Know all about 'em, sir. Know the Patagonians, sir, all, all of 'em, as well as I know the Stonington folks.

Professor—I wanted to ask you, Captain, about the size of the Patagonians—whether they are giants, as travelers have reported?

Uncle Jim—No, sir—shaking his head slowly, and speaking with the modest tone of indifference—no, sir, they are not. (It was quite probable that the Captain never had heard the suggestion before). The height of the Patagonian, sir, is just five feet nine inches and a half.

Professor—How did you ascertain this fact, Captain?

Uncle Jim—Measured 'em, sir—measured 'em. One day when the mate and I were ashore down there, I called up a lot of the Patagonians, and the mate and I measured about 500 of them, and every one of them measured five feet nine inches and a half—that's their exact height.

Professor—That's very interesting. But, Captain, don't you suppose there were giants there long ago, in the former generations? All the travelers say so.

Uncle Jim—Not a word of truth in it, sir—not a word. I'd heard that story and I thought I'd settle it. I satisfied myself there was nothing in it.

Professor—But how could you know that they used not to be giants? What evidence could you get? Mightn't the former race have been giants?

Uncle Jim—Impossible, sir, impossible.

Professor—But how did you satisfy yourself?

Uncle Jim—Dug 'em up, sir—dug 'em up speaking with more than usual moderation. I'd heard that yarn. The next voyage, I took the bo'sen and went ashore; we dug up 275 old Patagonians and measured 'em. They all measured exactly five feet nine inches and a half; no difference in 'em—men, women, and all ages just the same. Five feet nine inches and a half is the natural height of a Patagonian. They've always been just that. Not a word of truth in the stories about giants, sir.—Harper's Magazine.