THE MAN WHO LOST HIS NAME.

ON the second day of June, 186—, a young Norseman, Halfdan Bjerk by name, landed on the pier at Castle Garden. He passed through the straight and narrow gate where he was asked his name, birthplace, and how much money he had,—at which he grew very much frightened.
"And your destination?"—demanded the gruff-looking functionary at the desk.
"America," said the youth, and touched his hat politely.
"Do you think I have time for joking?" roared the official, with an oath.
The Norseman ran his hand through his hair, smiled his timidly conciliatory smile, and tried his best to look brave; but his hand trembled and his heart thumped away at an alarmingly quickened tempo.
"Put him down for Nebraska!" cried a stout red-cheeked individual (inwrapped in the mingled fumes of tobacco and whisky) whose function it was to open and shut the gate.
"There ain't many as go to Nebraska."
"All right, Nebraska."