PUNCHINELLO

THE MYSTERY OF MR. E. DROOD, By ORPHEUS C. KERR,
Continued in this Number.

See 15th page for Extra Premiums.

THE MYSTERY OF MR. E. DROOD.

AN ADAPTATION.

BY ORPHEUS C. KERR.

CHAPTER XV.

“SPOTTED.”

When the bell of St. Cow’s began ringing for Ritualistic
morning-service, with a sound as of some incontinently rambling dun
spinster of the lacteal herd—now near at hand in cracked dissonance, as
the wind blows hither; now afar, in tinkling distance, as the wind
blows hence—MONTGOMERY PENDRAGON was several miles away from
Bumsteadville upon his walking-match, with head already bumped like a
pineapple, and face curiously swelled, from amateur practice with the
Indian Club. Being by that time cold enough for breakfast, and willing
to try the virtues of some soothing application to his right eye,
which, from a bruise just below it, was nearly closed, the badly banged
young man suspended his murderous calisthenics at the door of a rustic
hotel, and there entered to secure a wayside meal.

The American country “hotel,” or half-way house, is, perhaps,
one of the most depressing fictions ever encountered by
stage-passenger, or pedestrian afield: and depends so exclusively upon
the imagination for any earthly distinction from the retired and
neglected private hiding-place of some decayed and morbid agricultural
family, that only the conventional swing sign-board before the door
saves the cognizant mind from a painfully dense confusion. Smelling
about equally of eternal wash-day, casual cow-shed, and passing
feather-bed, it sustains a lank, middle-aged, gristly man to come out
at the same hour every day and grunt unintelligibly at the
stage-driver, an expressionless boy in a bandless straw-hat and no
shoes to stare blankly from the doorway at the same old pole-horse he
has mechanically thus inspected from infancy, and one speckled hen of
mature years to poise observingly on single leg at the head of the
shapeless black dog asleep at the sunny end of the low wooden stoop. It
is the one rural spot on earth where a call for fresh eggs evokes
remonstrative and chronic denial; where chickens for dinner are sternly
discredited as mere freaks of legendary romance, and an order for a
glass of new milk is incredulously answered by a tumblerful of water
which tastes of whitewash-brush. Whosoever sleeps there of a night
shall be crowded by walls which rub off into a faint feather-bed of the
flavor and consistency of geese used whole, and have for his feverish
breakfast in the morning a version of broiled ham as racy of attic-salt
as the rasher of BACON’S essays. And to him who pays his bill there,
ere he straggles weakly forth to repair his shattered health by
frenzied flight, shall be given in change such hoary ten-cent shreds of
former postal currency as he has not hitherto deemed credible, sticking
together in inextricable conglomeration by such fragments of
fish-scales as he never before believed could be gathered by handled
small-money from palms not sufficiently washed after piscatorial
diversion.

It was in at a country hotel, then, that the young Southern
pedestrian turned for temporary rest and a meal, and pitiless was the
cross-examination instituted by the inevitable lank, middle-aged
gristly man, before he could reconcile it with his duty as a cautious
public character to reveal the treasures of the larder. Those bumps on
the head, that swollen eye, and nose, came—did they?—from swinging this
here club for exercise. Well, he wanted to know, now! People generally
used two of the clubs at once—did they?—but one was enough for a
beginner. Well, he wanted to know, now! Could he supply a
couple of poached eggs and a cup of milk? No, young man; but a slice of
corned pork and a bowl of tea were within the resources of the
establishment.

When at length upon the road again, the bruised youth resolved
to follow a cattle-track “across lots,” for the greater space in which
to exercise with his Indian club as he walked. Like any other novice in
the practice, he could not divest his mind of the impression, that the
frightful thumps he continually received, in twirling the merciless
thing around and behind his devoted head, were due to some kind of
crowding influence from the boundaries on either side the way, and it
was to gain relief from such damaging contraction of area that he left
the highway for the wider wintry fields. Going onward in these latter
at an irregular pace; sometimes momentarily stunned into a rangy
stagger by a sounding blow on the cerebrum or the cerebellum; and,
again, irritated almost to a run by contusion of shoulder-blade or
funny-bone; he finally became aware that two men were following him
through the lots, and that with a closeness of attention indicating
more than common interest. To the perception of his keenly sensitive
Southern nature they at once became ribald Yankee vandals, hoping for
unseemly amusement from the detection of some awkwardness in the
Indian-club-play of a defeated but not conquered Southern Gentleman;
and, in the haughty sectional pride of his contemptuous soul, he
indignantly determined to show not the least consciousness of their
disrespectful observation. Twirling the club around and around his
battered head with increasing velocity, he smiled scornfully to
himself, nor deigned a single backward glance at the one of his two
followers who approached more rapidly than the other. He heard the
hindermost say to the foremost, “Leave him alone, I tell you, and he’ll
knock himself down in a minute,” and, in a passionately reckless effort
of sheer bravado to catch the club from one hand with the other while
it yet circled swiftly over his skull, he accidentally brought the
ungovernable weapon into tremendous contact with the top of his head,
and dashed himself violently to the earth.

“Didn’t I tell you he’d do it?” cried the hindermost of the
two strangers, coming up; while the other coolly seated himself upon
the prostrated victim. “These here Indian clubs always throw a man if
he ain’t got muscle in his arms; and this here little Chivalry has got
arms like a couple of canes.”

“Arise from me instantly, fellow. You’re sitting upon my
breast-pin,” exclaimed MONTGOMERY to the person sitting upon him.

They suffered him to regain his feet, which he did with
extreme hauteur, and surveyed his bumped head and swollen countenance
with undisguised wonder.

“How dare you treat a Southerner in this way?” continued the
young man, his head aching inexpressibly. “I thought the war was over
long ago. If money is your object, seek out a citizen of some other
section than mine; for the South is out of funds just now, owing to the
military outrages of Northern scorpions.”

“We’re constables, Mr. PENDRAGON,” was the reply, “and it is
our duty to take you back to the main road, where a couple of your
friends are waiting for you.”

Staring from one to the other in speechless wonder at what
this fresh outrage upon the down-trodden South could mean, MONTGOMERY
allowed them to replace his Indian club in his hand, and conduct him
back to the public road; where, to his increased bewilderment, he found
Gospeler SIMPSON and the Ritualistic organist.

“What is the matter, gentlemen?” he asked, in great agitation:
“must I take the oath of Loyalty; or am I required by Yankee
philanthropy to marry a negress?”

At the sound of his voice, Mr. BUMSTEAD left the shoulder of
Mr. SIMPSON, upon which he had been leaning with great weight, and,
coming forward in three long skips, deliberately wound his right hand
in the speaker’s neck-tie.

“Where are those nephews—where’s that umbrella?” demanded the
organist, with considerable ferocity.

“Nephews!—umbrella!” gasped the other.

“The EDWINS—bone handle,” explained Mr. BUMSTEAD, lurching
towards his captive.

“Mr. MONTGOMERY,” interposed the Gospeler, sadly, Mr. DROOD
went out with you last night, late, from his estimable uncle’s
lodgings, and has not been seen since. Where is he?”

“He went back into the house again, sir, after I had walked
him up and down the road a few times.”

“Well, then, where’s that umbrella?” roared the organist, who
seemed quite beside himself with grief and excitement.

“Mr. BUMSTEAD, pray be more calm,” implored the Reverend
OCTAVIUS.

“Mr. MONTGOMERY, this agitated gentleman’s nephew has been
mysteriously missing ever since he went out with you at midnight: also
an alpaca umbrella.”

“Upon my honor, I know nothing of either,” ejaculated the
unhappy Southerner.

Mr. BUMSTEAD, still holding him by the neck-tie, cast a fiery
and unsettled glance around at nothing in particular; then ground his
teeth audibly, and scowled.

“My boy’s missing!” he said, hissingly.—”Y’understand?—he’s
missing.—I must insist upon searching the prisoner.”

In the presence of Gospeler and constables, and loftily
regardless alike of their startled wonder and the young man’s protests,
the maddened uncle of the lost DROOD deliberately examined all the
captive’s pockets in succession. In one of them was a penknife, which,
after thoughtfully trying it upon his pink nails, he abstractedly
placed in his own pocket. Searching next the overwhelmed Southerner’s
travelling-satchel, he found in it an apple, which he first eyed with
marked suspicion, and then bit largely into, as though half expecting
to find in it some traces of his nephew.

“I’ll keep this suspicious fruit,” he remarked, with a hollow
laugh; and, bearing unreservedly upon the nearer arm of the hapless
MONTGOMERY, and eating audibly as he surged onward, he started on the
return march for Bumsteadville.

Not a word more was spoken until, after a cool Christmas
stroll of about eight and a quarter miles, the whole party stood before
Judge SWEENEY in the house of the latter. There, when the story had
been sorrowfully repeated by the Gospeler, Mr. BUMSTEAD exhibited the
core of the apple, and tickled the magistrate almost into hysterics by
whispering very closely in his ear, that it was a core curiously
similar to that of the last apple eaten by his nephew; and, having been
found in an apple from the prisoner’s satchel, might be useful in
evidence. Judge SWEENEY wished to know if Mr. PENDRAGON had any
political relations, or could influence any votes? and, upon being
answered in the negative, eyed the young man sternly, and said that
appearances were decidedly against him. He could not exactly commit him
to jail without accusation, although the apple-core and his political
unimportance subjected him to grave suspicion: but he should hold the
Gospeler responsible for the youth’s appearance at any time when his
presence should be required. Mr. BUMSTEAD, whose eyes were becoming
very glassy, then suggested that a handbill should be at once printed
and circulated, to the effect that there had been Lost, or Stolen, two
Black Alpaca Nephews, about 5 feet 8 inches high, with a bone handle,
light eyes and hair, and whalebone ribs; and that if the said EDWIN
would return, with a brass ferule slightly worn, the finder should
receive earnest thanks, and be seen safely to his home by J. BUMSTEAD.
Mr. Gospeler SIMPSON and Judge SWEENEY agreed that a handbill should be
issued: but thought it might confuse the public mind if the missing
nephew and the lost umbrella were not kept separate.

“Has either ‘f you gen’l’men ever been ‘n Uncle?” asked the
Ritualistic organist, with dark intensity.

They shook their heads.

“Then,” said Mr. BUMSTEAD, with great force,—”THEN,
gen’l’men, you-knownor-wahritis-to-lose-‘n-umbrella!”

Before they could decide in their weaker minds what the
immediate connection was, he had left them, at a sharp slant, in great
intellectual disturbance, and was passing out through the entry-way
with both his hands against the wall.

Early next morning, while young Mr. PENDRAGON was locked in
his room, startled and wretched, the inconsolable uncle of EDWIN DROOD
was energetically ransacking every part of Bumsteadville for the
missing man. House after house he visited, like some unholy inspector:
peering up chimneys, prodding under carpets, and staying a long time in
cellars where there was cider. Not a bit of paper or cloth blew along
the turnpike but he eagerly picked it up, searched in it with the most
anxious care, and finally placed it in his hat. Going to the Pond, with
a borrowed hatchet, he cut a bole in the thick ice, lost the hatchet,
and, after bathing his head in the water, declared that his alpaca
nephew was not there. Finding an antique flask in one of his pockets,
he gradually removed all the liquid contents therefrom with a tubular
straw, but still could discern no traces of EDWIN DROOD. All the
live-long day he prosecuted his researches, to the great discomposure
of the populace: and, with whitewash all over the back of his coat, and
very dingy hands, had just seated himself at his own fireside in the
evening, when Mr. DIBBLE came in.

“This is a strange disappearance,” said Mr. DIBBLE.

“And it was good as new,” groaned the organist, with but one
eye open.

“Almost new!—what was?”

“Th’umbrella.”

“Mr. BUMSTEAD,” returned the old man, coldly, “I am not
talking of an umbrella, but of Mr. EDWIN.”

“Yesh, I know,” said the uncle. “Awright. I’m li’lle sleepy;
tha’sall.”

“I’ve just seen my ward, Mr. BUMSTEAD.”

“‘She puerwell, shir?”

“She is not pretty well. Nor is Miss PENDRAGON.”

“I’m vahr’ sorry,” said Mr. BUMSTEAD, just audibly.

“Miss PENDRAGON scorns the thought of any blame for her
brother,” continued Mr. DIBBLE, eyeing the fire.

“It had a bun-bone handle,” muttered the other, dreamily.
Then, with a momentary brightening—”‘scuse me, shir: whah’ll y’take?”

“Nothing, sir!” was the sharp response. “I’m not at all
thirsty. But there is something more to tell you. At the last meeting
of my ward and your nephew—just before your dinner here,—they concluded
to break their engagement of marriage, for certain good reasons, and
thenceforth be only brother and sister to each other.”

Starting forward in his chair, with partially opened eyes, the
white-washed and dingy Mr. BUMSTEAD managed to get off his hat,
covering himself with a bandanna handkerchief and innumerable old
pieces of paper and cloth, as he did so, from head to foot; made a
feeble effort to throw it at the aged lawyer; and then, chair and all,
tumbled forward with a crash to the rug, where he lay in a refreshing
sleep.

(To be Continued.)

CHINCAPIN AT LONG BRANCH.

A QUAKER friend of mine once observed that he loved the Ocean
for its Broad Brim. So do I, but not for that alone. I am partial to it
on account of the somewhat extensive facilities it affords for Sea
Bathing. Learning to swim, by the way, was my principal Elementary
study. I have just returned from taking a plunge in company with many
other distinguished persons. How it cools one to rush into the “Boiling
Surf.” How refreshing to dive Below the Billow. I don’t think I could
ever have a Surfeit of the Surf, I am so fond of it. Oh! the Sea! the
Sea! with its darkly, deeply cerulean—but stop! I am getting out of my
depth. Would that I were a poet, that I—But I ain’t, so what’s the use?

As I sat on the verandah of the —— Hotel the other
morning, gazing on the broad expanse of Ocean and wiping the
perspiration which trickled from my lofty brow, (the thermometer marked
90 degrees,) I could not help recalling the beautifully appropriate
lines of the celebrated bard:

What a pity that the Bathing here has a drawback. I refer, of
course, to the Under Tow, which has caused some Untoward accidents.
Those who have experienced it, say it is impossible to keep your Feet
when caught by the Under Tow. Presence of mind is indispensable in such
a case, but, unfortunately, timid swimmers are too apt to lose their
Heads as well as their feet. Some of the lady visitors are Beautiful
Swimmers, and their Divers Charms excite universal admiration. Many of
these fair Amphitrites are so constantly in or on the water that it
would hardly be a Fib to call them Amphibious. Their husbands and
brothers are, I regret to say, not so much On the Water, preferring
something a trifle stronger semi-occasionally, if not oftener.

You know what a popular amusement crabbing is here. I seldom
indulge in it myself, as I have bad luck, which makes me Crabbed.

Our “distinguished guests,” as JENKINS would say, are very
numerous, and it is truly an edifying sight to see judges, legislators,
eminent politicians, and other “Heads of the People” bobbing about in
the water together.

Some folks don’t seem to care what they spend when they come
here, and no sooner arrive at the Branch than they Branch out into all
sorts of extravagance. There is some superb horseflesh here just now,
and the fastest nags may be seen doing their Level best on the Smooth
Beach. The Race Track, Grand Stand, &c., are all that the vivid
fancy of a PUNCHINELLO can paint them. The bathing costumes! who can do
justice to them and their lovely wearers? Some time ago, (as I am
informed,) a lady made her appearance on the beach as a Nereid. Did you
Ne’er read of the Nereids, Mr. PUNCHINELLO? If you have, you are aware
that they were the Sea Nymphs of the Ancients, in other words the Old
Maids of the Sea, who never got married, and frequently played Scaly
tricks on Mariners. The Nereid referred to was arrayed in pea green and
spangles, with green tresses, which is very well known to be the
correct costume of a mermaid of antiquity, copied from the latest Paris
fashions. This Spritely lady was, however, unprovided with a tail,
which was Unmermaidenlike in the Extreme.

You know how brilliant the Hops are, so I will Skip them. One
thing, however, is worth noting. At some of the Hotels they have a
Spread on the carpet before the dancing begins, as well as a supper
afterwards. The excellent music of the Hotel bands is Instrumental in
drawing crowds of listeners to the Ball rooms. Some Chinese Jugglers
gave an entertainment here the other evening, but I didn’t go, not
being in the Juggler Vein. Yours Reverentially,

CHINCAPIN.

PRUSSIC ACID.

“FIFTY DOUSAND FENIANS ARMED MID REPEATERS FOR FRANCE! LET ‘EM
GO! BEESMARK WILL MAKE DEM NOT COOM PACK TO REPEAT IN DIS GOONDERY NO
MORE!”

THE POEMS OF THE CRADLE.

CANTO IV.

In Canto I, I have shown the varied emotions which seized the
tender soul of Old Mother HUBBARD’S Dog. Emotions so fierce in their
sorrow, that they left not a single wiggle in his tail: his hopes were
crushed, his expectations ruined. In Canto II I have pictured the
musical propensities of the genus Cat, the wandering vagaries
of the moon-dane cow, the purp’s withering contempt thereat, and the
frisky evolutions of the dish which rolled off on its ear. In Canto III
I have portrayed the “tender passion” and its melancholy result on the
hill-side—a fitting illustration of the fact that the course of true
love never did run smooth, especially if there were big rocks to knock
one’s toes against. And now, in Canto IV, I am about to portray
childish innocence in the pursuit of bliss.

All things are graded, with the trifling exception of many of
our streets. But who cares about this grade of bliss? I don’t, and I am
sure the poet didn’t when he sang the lines at the head of this
chapter. Bliss is graded. The old man in Wall street, with white hair
and white necktie, and smooth polished tongue, has his degree of bliss
when he is engaged in throwing stones at the Apes in the tree-top, that
they may return the throw with gold cocoa-nuts. The young lady has her
degree of bliss when her waist is entwined by “Dear CHAWLES,” who
soothes her troubled spirit with the tender melody of “Red as a beet is
she,”— alluding to her would-be rival. The nice young man has his
degree of bliss when he chews a tooth-pick—poor goose! (not the nice
young man, but the fowl which gave the quill,)—and is given a smile by
a dark-eyed female in a passing stage.

And Infantdom has—But our poet beautifully illustrates this in
the stanzas we have quoted.

says he, with the easy grace of one perfectly familiar with
the subject he is to treat; neither frightened at its immensity, nor
putting himself in the way of a dilemma by stopping to examine details.
Little JACK was the poet’s pet because he was the afflicted one of the
household, and poets know full well how to sympathize with affliction.
Perhaps JACK sat down to dinner next to cross-eyed SUSAN ANN, “by
Brother BILL’S gal,” and perhaps JACK’S nose was tickled by a little
blue-bottle, and that he sneezed right into her soup-plate; and then he
was hurried from the table for blowing a fly into SUSAN ANN’S soup! He
would lose his dinner. His napkin would miss its accustomed wash!

“Shall it be thus? No!” says the poet. “Dry your tears, little
JACK, go to the well-stocked pantry, my boy, and get something to eat.
The jury will not convict you of stealing, for their verdict will be
that you did the deed in self-defence.” And he did—go to the closet,
and—

See the smiles as they wreathe themselves on his chubby
countenance. How little JACK looks at the pie! how he turns it round
and round to find the best spot whereon to begin the attack! How he
smacks his lips, and thinks how nice it would be if he could
wish to give SUSAN ANN a taste! But he can’t.

Suddenly an idea strikes JACK. He has heard Uncle TOM talk of
a big war between Frawnce and Proossia, and all about the soldiers and
the cannon, and the big noises. Little JACK will make war on the pie.
He will be Frawnce, the pie will be Proossia. He sets it squarely
before him on the floor; rolls up his sleeves, may be; his eyes sparkle
with determination; he finds the most vulnerable spot in the crust; he
makes one bold dive with his thumb, it goes down, down down, crushing
everything before it; it feels something; renewed vigor flows through
JACK’S veins, and gives him new strength for the attack; victory crowns
him; and, in the words of the poet,

—Now he is happy. He has realized his fondest hopes. The
blue-bottle has no tickle for him now. He was Frawnce and he has licked
Proossia. There is nothing left but the plate, and his teeth are not
hard enough for that.

“Hooray for the Impurrur!”

The ardor with which our Milesian element embraces the cause
of France furnishes a puzzle for many thoughtful minds; and yet its
solution is simple. In planning a passage of the Rhine, LOUIS NAPOLEON
proposes to BRIDGET. That’s all.

A Roland for his Oliver.

OLIVER DYER, of the Sun, is the original “Dyer
Necessity that knows no law.”

OUR PORTFOLIO.

And now comes to light another divorce case in Chicago. Mrs.
HUGG sues Mr. HUGG for a decree e vinculo matrimonii. If there
is anything in a name, no one will gainsay the observation that if
hugging has lost its charm, Mrs. HUGG is the last person to make a fuss
about it. She took her HUGG with a full knowledge of the circumstances,
and it is contrary to public policy and good morals that her plea of
“hugged out” should enable her to obtain the remedy which she seeks.

In France they do not wait for the completion of the years of
adolescence to dub a scion of the royal family with the title of “man.”
The Prince Imperial, prior to his departure for the wars, was presented
at Court as the “first gentleman” of France. For a youth of fourteen he
is said to have gone through the trying ceremonies with great credit
until directed by his mamma to dance with a venerable female of noble
blood, just as he was about to lend a beautiful American miss through
the mazes of a Schottische. The son of his father took one glance at
the ancient dame, and one at the lovely creature beside him, and then
set up a right royal blubber of disappointment.

“Remember, my son,” said EUGENIE, “you are a man now, and men
never cry.”

“Oh! mamma,” sighed the afflicted Prince, “let me be a boy
again, rather than dance with cette vieille yonder!”

Alas! for the ambition of monarchs, who put forward their
beardless progeny to do the deeds of men, and to suffer with men’s
fortitude, when they are more fit to be puling in a nurse’s arms, or
unravelling silk skeins for some maid of honor.

THE WATERING PLACES.

Punchinello’s Vacations.

It was hot when Mr. PUNCHINELLO started for Niagara. So hot
that no allusions to Fahrenheit would give an idea of the tremendous
preponderance of caloric in the atmosphere. The trip was full of
discomforts, and there was great danger, at one time, that the train
would arrive at Niagara with a load of desiccated bodies. Of course the
water all boiled away in the engine-tanks, causing endless stoppages;
and of course the hot sun, pouring directly upon the roof of the cars,
caused the boards thereof to curl up and twist about in such fantastic
fashion, that they afforded no protection whatever to the passengers,
who were obliged to resort to sunshades and umbrellas, or get under the
seats. Added to this were the facts that the ice-water in the coolers
scalded the mouth; the brass-work on the seats blistered the hands; and
the empty stoves, almost red-hot from their exposure to the sun,
superheated the cars to a degree that was maddening. Added to these was
the fact that the intense heat expanded the rails until they were
several miles longer than usual, and thus the passengers suffered the
tortures of the transit for an increased length of time.

When, at last, Mr. P. was conveyed, in a stifling hack, (the
fare had risen, under the unusual circumstances, about one hundred and
ten degrees,) to a stifling little room under the hot roof of an hotel
exposed to the sun on every side, and had taken an extempore Russian
bath while changing his linen, and had partaken of a hot dinner, he
might have been excused for saying that he would like to cool off a
little.

Inquiring if there was any stream of water convenient, he was
directed to the river Niagara, which runs hard by the hotel.

Reaching the banks of the river, Mr. P. was very much pleased
by the prospect. There is a considerable depression in the bed of the
stream at one point, and the water runs over the rocks quite rapidly,
carrying with it such leaves, twigs, steamboats or other objects that
may be floating upon its surface.

Mr. P. immediately perceived the advantages of this condition
of things to a a gentleman suffering from the heat, and procuring a
boat, he rowed close to the foot of a cascade formed by the inclination
in the bed of the river, and throwing out his anchor, revelled in the
luxury of the cool spray and the refreshing sound of the rushing water.

Does not this look cool?

When sufficiently refreshed, Mr. P. rowed to shore, feeling
like another man. With the greatest confidence in its merits, he
recommends his plan to those who may be suffering from the summer heat.

After breakfast the next morning, Mr. P. set out to see what
he could see. He did not engage the services of any hackman or
professional guide.

He had heard of their extortions, and determined to submit to
nothing of the kind. He intended relying entirely upon himself. He
walked some distance without meeting with any of the places of interest
of which he had heard so much.

Meeting at length with a respectable elderly gentleman, Mr. P.
inquired of him the way to the Cave of the Winds.

“The Cave of the Winds? Ah!” said this worthy person. “You
turn to your left here, sir—ah! and then you keep on for about—ah! half
a mile, and you will—ah! see a gate—ah! Behind that is a man and the
cave—ah!”

Mr. P. thanked him and was proceeding on his way, when the
worthy citizen touched him on the arm, saying:

“Twenty-one dollars, if you please, sir.”

“Twenty-one dev—-developments!” cried Mr. P; “Why, what do
you mean?”

“Information, sir; fifty cents a word; forty-two words;
twenty-one dollars.”

It must not be supposed that Mr. P. submitted tamely to this
outrage, but after a long dispute, it was agreed to refer the matter to
the arbitration of three of the principal citizens. They promptly
decided that the charge was just and must be paid, but, owing to Mr.
P.’s earnest protestations, they agreed to throw out the “ahs,” as
being of doubtful value as information. The sum thus saved to Mr. P.
exactly paid for drinks for the party.

Mr. P. now very sensibly concluded that it was about time to
leave, if his editors, his printers, and the employés in his
pun-factory were to expect any pay that week, and so he set out for
home in the evening, taking a shortcut by the way of Montreal.

He thought that a day might be very profitably spent here,
especially if he could fall in with any of the French-Canadians, of
whose peculiarities he had heard so much. The study of human nature was
always Mr. P.’s particular forte.

On the morning of his arrival, Mr. P. met, in the dining-room
of the hotel, a gentleman who was unmistakably a Frenchman, and being
in Canada, was probably Canadian. As they were sitting together at the
table, Mr. P., having mentally rubbed up his knowledge of the French
language, addressed his companion thus:

“Avez-vous le chapeau de mon frere?“

The gentleman thus politely addressed, bowed, smiled, and
after a little hesitation answered:

“Non, Monsieur; mais jài le fromage de votre soeur.“

“Eh bien” said Mr. P., as he scratched his head for a
moment. “Otez vous vos souliers et vos bas?“

The other answered promptly, “Je n’ote ni les uns ni les
autres.“

“Votre père,” remarked Mr. P., “a-t-il la
chandelle de votre oncle?“

His companion remained silent for a minute or two, and then he
said:

“I forget the French of the answer to that, but I know the
English of it; it is ‘no, sir, but he has the
apples-of-the-ground-of-sugar of my mother-in-law.'”

When Mr. P. discovered, after a little conversation in the
vernacular, that his companion was a New York dry-goods clerk, he gave
up the study of the French-Canadian character and went on with his
breakfast.

When he went out into the streets to see the lions of the city
he was delighted to meet with some old friends. In company with them he
visited the Government House; the Cathedral; the Statue of NELSON; the
VICTORIA bridge; and everything else of interest in the place. But
nothing was so delightful to him as the faces of these old friends,
from whom he had been separated so long.

IDIOTIC ITEMS.

On Tuesday last one of the swans in Central Park laid a hen’s
egg.

A celebrated English professor of heraldry is now at Long
Branch, studying the crests of the waves.

Dr. LIVINGSTONE is no longer a white man. The large colored
princess whom he has been compelled to marry has beaten him black and
blue.

Louis NAPOLEON’S first bulletin about the war was the bullet
in the pocket of NAP Junior.

An intelligent cordwainer of this city has invented a bathing
shoe to fit the under-toe at Long Branch.

The lock of the writing-desk made with his own hands by LOUIS
NAPOLEON, at Hoboken, has been presented to the Empress EUGENIE by a
gentleman residing at Union Hill, in exchange for a lock of her
Majesty’s hair.

Yesterday, while three eminent Wall street brokers—names,
BROWN, JONES, and ROBINSON—were engaged in watering stock, they fell in
and were drowned. Loss fully covered by insurance.

CARL FORMES is oddly reported to have lost his Bass voice
through over indulgence in lager-beer. He drank a barrel of beer a day,
and his voice has now become a barrel organ.

In France the Marseillaise has become the national
Him; while, in Prussia, BISMARCK is decidedly the national Herr.

A French paper has an article respecting certain musical
fishes found in the Indian Seas, They ought to be engaged for PIKE’S
Opera House.

The annual panther, weighing 8 ft., 9 inches, from snout to
tip of tail, and measuring 213 lbs., has just been killed in the
Adirondacks by a reporter.

POLITICAL CLAPTRAP.

The sympathy exhibited by the Sun reporters and
editors for the unhappy victim of Ogre Tammany is particularly touching.

Association with the Wickedest Man in New York, the Honorable
JOHN ALLEN, protégé of the Reverend OLIVER DYER,
has evidently demoralized the pure beings who control the immaculate
sheet known as the Sun, whose putrescent light “shines for all.”

These panders to the depraved taste of a depraved portion of
the community, may exult in the spectacle presented in the City of New
York on Sunday, the 7th inst., but is it not a sorrowful thing in a
so-called Christian land to see a murderer borne with triumph to his
grave, while pseudo philanthropists deck his bier with flowers, and
deliberately charge a great political party with having hunted the
wretched man to his death?

Was there no nobler game worth the killing by Tammany? Was
there not a “stag of Ten” to be found, to be struck, if party
necessities required it? Would OAKEY HALL and PETER B. SWEENY put such
a slight upon these bastard allies of the O’BRIENS and MORRISSEYS whose
columns are open to the highest bidder, and whose lips reek venom while
their hands are ever ready to strike a victim in the back, as to pass
them by while they were on the war-path?

But hold—perhaps we have a clue to this singular conduct of
the Tammany warriors. They may have foreseen how apt the sweet people
are to confer immortality upon those whose death becomes them better
than their life, and therefore wisely forebore to disturb those
blissful with murderers and felons which seem to bind the Satellites of
the Sun and the denizens of the Tombs together.

SUMMER ON THE CATSKILLS,

BY REGALIA REYNA.

Extraordinary Ledger-demain.

The Soldiers’ Monument at Cambridge is the result of the
combined efforts of CYRUS and DARIUS COBB, whereas, SYLVANUS, alone and
unassisted, is able to raise, every week, a tall column on the surface
of the N.Y. Ledger.

Censor of the Press.

The unfortunate official who sought reliable information, the
other day, respecting the age and immense property possessions of
PUNCHINELLO, on comparing his notes subsequently, remarked to a friend
that he felt as if he had temporarily lost his Census.

Appropriate.

DANA, of the Sun, is about to open an undertaker’s
establishment for the arrangement of murderer’s obsequies.
Motto—”Pinking done here.”

The Wrong Mouth.

A LITTLE Fourth-of-Julyer in Pittsburgh, going along with his
mouth open, (after the manner of boys), caught a fire-cracker therein,
just as the cracker was going off. He had often had crackers in his
mouth, but preceding ones had proved nourishing and non-explosive;
whereas, this cracker was quite the reverse. As a consequence, the boy
has lost his voice, but (what is curious, certainly,) is otherwise all
sound.

Were we certain that heaving a fire-cracker into an open mouth
would always produce such a result, we should certainly hire some one
to shut up the noisier of our public nuisances—such as G.F. TRAIN, and
several members of Congress. This could be easily done, as their mouths
are always open, and usually are very large ones. We invite proposals
from boys, relating to next season’s operations.

Theft Extraordinary.

A weekly journal gravely informs a correspondent that “the
line, ‘A thing of beauty is a joy forever,’ occurs in TUPPER’s Proverbial
Philosophy.”

Shades of the poets! More than fifty years ago, JOHN KEATS
commenced a poem called “Endymion,” with that very line. To think that
he should have gone and borrowed it from TUPPER!

Politician’s Plant.

See WEED.

THE LATEST MELODRAMATIC DODGE OF A PLAYED-OUT POLITICIAN.

PROMPTER DANA, OF THE “SUN,” GIVES THE CUE TO A REAL
SKELETON.

Conversion of the “Sun.”

It was said of Bishop COLENSO that he “undertook to convert a
Zulu Kaffir, but the Z. K. converted him.”

Such a circumstance may be fallen upon without going so far as
Africa to seek for it. JOHN ALLEN, of Water Street, was, once upon a
time, the Zulu Kaffir of DANA of the Sun and his fascinating
Satellite, OLIVER DYER.

The ways of JOHN ALLEN were very wicked when
these pious missionaries threw themselves upon his trail, and tried to
convert him. Perhaps the reformatory effort was well meant; but, alas!
for the feebleness of all human arrangements—JOHN ALLEN remains the
reprobate he was, while he to his flock has brought DANA, the Sun
man, and DYER, the Satellite man, converts to the Allenian theory that
money made from dirt is the only healthful stimulant to virtuous toil.

And so it was that DANA the devout, and DYER the saintly, went
forth to convert the Zulu Kaffir of Water Street, and the Z. F.
converted them.

Ready for Another Heat.

The horses of PHOEBUS.

A Royal Game.

The ex-queen of Spain fears that ALFONSO will be “euchred.”
She remarked to him recently, Play you’re king.

CONTEMPORARY SENTIMENTS,

On the Great War Question.

The Aldermen to their Dinner.

Gorge us!

HIRAM GREEN AT THE FEMALE CONVENTION.

The Cardiff Giant and other Fossils at Saratoga.

The wolves in sheeps clothin’ convenshed agin for an annual
rippin’ up of things, at Saratogy.

The undersined, in custody of the undersined’s wife, who is a
Hicockalormn of the Skeensboro Sore-eye-sisses, was present at the
singin’ of the above selection from the defunct bard.

Male and femail wimmen was there dressed emblamatical of their
callin’.

SOOZAN B. ANTHENY was scrumpshusly ragged out in broad-cloth.

A turkish towellin’ vest-pattent lether butes and silk hat,
completed her Toot in cymbals.

ERNEST L. ROZE wore a nobby scotch cassimer soot. She carried
a cane and wore her hair parted in the middle.

Mrs. RUBE PHENTON—MARTHY WRITE—O’LIMPING BROWN—SARY
FILLEO—Mrs. DEXTER NOLTON—LILLY DEVERS BLAKE—SARY HALLEK—FEBEE CAREY,
and other prominent Fireside agitaters and Herthstun depopulaters, were
becominly araid, and did gustise to their tailors.

PHREDRICK DOUGLIS, a firey broonet from Rochester, looked
bewitchin’ in a more anteek silk dress.

A camels hair overskirt hung grasefully over his loins.
Peepin’ out from beneath his robes, was a delicate little foot, encased
in a flesh cullered pair of No. 11 buckskin mocasins.

His hair was done up in a 2 bushel waterfall, and was frizzled
all over, a lar Ethiope.

EDWIN A. STUDWELL, of Brooklyn, looked stunnin’ in a granny
Dean walkin’ dress and red cotton umbreller.

His back hair was tempestously arranged.

A couple of bolony sassiges, in a hily chawed up state, hung
pendent from the aft of his gorgeous waterfall, and dangled to his
heels, a lar cheapee John,

“When approached by that great captivater of susseptible
hearts (?) SOOZAN B. ANTHENY, ED blushed like a red-headed woodpecker,
and hid his modesty behind a $4.00 palm leaf fan.

STEVE GRISWOLD, DAN KETCHAM and a few other manikins, was
dressed accordin’ to the prevailin’ fashions of the feminin sects.

A good cleen shave would have completed their disgize, and
folks woulden’t have had a suspicion but what they was what they was
actin’ to be.

I was shocked to hear one audacious retch remark:

“Them chaps look like a lot of hen-peckt broken furniture.”

SOOZAN B. was elected chairman.

On takin’ her seat she said:

“My femail friends by birth, and my femail friends by brevet;”

“We have convenshed for the purpuss of having our rites
redressed—-“

A voice: “Haden’t you better go home and redress yourselves
first?”

The whole convention was onto their feet in a second, while
the chairman fell into her seet and regained her composure, by takin’ a
good helthy pinch of scotch snuff.

Quiet bein’ restored, a Mrs. GAGE riz to her feet, and,
removin’ a chew of tobacker from her mouth, read the follerin’
resolutions:

Whereas: 2 National Wimmen’s Suffrage Circus are industrously
plyin’ their vocation.

Whereas: A effort is afoot to jine ’em together under the same
tent.

Now be it resolved: We don’t perceeve it in them sunbeams. The
New York State Suffrage Circus is able to paddle her own stone bote.
Bosting to the contrary not-with-out-standin’-up.

Resolved finally: We is the original JACOBS, and if Bosting
don’t like the cut of our Jib, let her lump it.

(Grate applaws.)

A strange lookin’ woman, who wore a swaller tail cote, red the
follerin resolutions:

Whereas: Woman has a spear, it hain’t to cook vittles—darn
stockin’s—tend baby and try to make her husbin happy.

Whereas: Man is a brute—woman an angle. Man can vote—woman
can’t.

Resolved: That as long as man won’t give us the ballit, that
after Jan., 1871, every mail brat that comes squawkin’ into the world,
be smothered the minnit he is borned.

Resolved: That when the mail rase is extinguished, the
superior critter, woman, take peaceable possession of the ballit box.

These resolutions was vociferously cheered, Mrs. GREEN
becomin’ so exsited that she whacked me over the head with her parasol
in a most ongentlemanly manner.

(N.B.—I would heer state that I’me a Resistanter agin femail
suffrage.

Give woman the 16th Commendment and we can cry “peece” ontil
our wind-pipes are collored, but not a darned bit of peece will we git,
except occashunly a peece is nockt off of our snoot, for refusin’ to
get up early Monday mornin’s to do the washin’.)

At the above juncture of the proceedin’s, the Cardiff Jiant,
who is spendin’ the summer at this selebrated waterin’ place, entered
the room.

The old feller had heard of this grate Fossil Convenshun.

As the distinguished fraud entered the room, cheers filled the
air.

Members in exstasy jumped up onto the benches—stood on their
heads—threw their false teeth all about the floor, and acted like a lot
of Rocky Mountain injuns, chock full of New England rum.

Silents was restored by tossin’ a live man to the exsited
Amazons, whom they tore to peeces, partly satisfyin’ their cravin’
appetites.

Old GIPSUM then oratoricised as viz.:

“Feller Fossils: This is indeed the most momentous event I’ve
attended since I left Onondagar.

“When COTTON MATHER came over in the Grate Eastern, he sent
out a dove to see if the Pilgrims, would allow her to pick any flowers
off of Plymouth Rock.

“What was the result of that experiment?

“Why, the dove coulden’t find any rest for the soul of her
shoo; for Plymouth Rocks were thicker than Cardiff Jiants. That base
man, BARNUM, had taken plaster casts of the old rock, and there wasen’t
a town along the coast, but what had its ‘original Plymouth Rock.’

“The dove, not bein’ a good judge of genuine stuns, made her
“Shoo fly” back to the old ark, and told her tail. Therefore, I ask as
a personal favor, seein’ that BARNUM sarved me same’s he did old
Plymouth Rock, that when this august assemblage of Fossilized human
bein’s comes down onto the mail portion of the U. States, old P.T. be
turned over to us. I’le make him think he’s got straddle his wooly
hoss, and an army of mermades was after him with red hot pitchforks.

“Grant me this favor, and when the fite of the Amazons begins,
you can count on me to hold your bonnets.”

Amid tremenjus applaus old Fort Dodger squatted.

Letters were then read from the Cohoes Mastodon—ARTEMAS WARD’S
wax figgers—the wooly hoss—a miselaneous lot of Egipshun Mummies, and
THEODOR TILTIN—regrettin’ their inability to attend the Fossil
Convention.

HORRIS GREELY was then anathemized, BEN BUTLER—Senator
WILSON—and GEO. FRANCIS TRAIN Ulogized.

Resolutions were offered that Congressman MORRISEY be
pulverized, by some talented femail startin’ a opposition club house,
employin’ none but Tigers of the gentle sects.

After a few more summer complaint speeches agin that Horrible!
Bloodthirsty! 2 legged Monkster, MAN!! the annual Hen convention of
Antideluvian Fossils tide up their bonnet strings—took their husbans
under their off arm—walked down to Congress Spring.

The witches who dipp up the mineral fluid danced about the
cauldron, while the President of the company spyin’ the Femails
approachin’ remarked:

The above, Friend PUNCHINELLO, was as seen by,

Ewers faithfully,

HIRAM GREEN,

Lait Gustise of the Peece.

Birds of Passage.

The African ostrich is sometimes trained to carry passengers
on his back, but the player of “our national game” is often seen “going
out on a Foul.”

A VERY NECESSARY PRECAUTION

BLOCKS AND BLOCKHEADS.

Mr. Punchinello: As the acknowledged redresser of American
wrongs and the enemy of public nuisances, we beg your attention to a
vice which seems to be upon the increase, and which grows in strength
with what it feeds upon. As the vice in question appears to be upon the
increase, and to fascinate its victims by the allurements of the
excitement, we consider it worthy of PUNCHINELLO’S lance, or, in other
words, of being transfixed upon PUNCHINELLO’S quill.

We refer to the loafing which invariably takes place upon the
occasion of the relaying of the wooden pavement. I say wooden more
particularly, inasmuch as new fangled varieties of pavement, such as
Concrete, Nicholson, etc., although they have their day, cannot be said
to compete for a moment in public regard with the good old fashioned
kind first described.

Of all the causes that arrest public attention, surely this
laying of wooden pavement is the most enduring and effectual.

People of every grade and degree make a dead halt as they
approach this centre of interest, and at once settle down for a
prolonged inspection of the works before them. It is true that
everybody has seen the same thing one hundred and fifty times, but this
description of indulgence appears to grow by what it feeds upon, and
the fascinated victim watches the operation of the workers with a
gratification which knows no abatement. The usual formula gone through
upon these occasions is as follows:

Citizen approaches the scene of interest, and sees crowds of
spectators upon each side; he glances at the workmen, and, after taking
stock of both them and the overseer, proceeds to read the opinion of
his fellows in their faces, after which he settles down in right
earnest with his hands in his pockets for a prolonged stare. This
latter may continue for periods varying from ten minutes to an hour and
three quarters, according to inclination or opportunity.

If the spectator is a man of business, it is just possible
that he may content himself with measuring the size of the blocks with
his eye, and then pass on, content to know that he, as one out of many
taxpayers, is getting the value of what they are called on to pay for.
But with the mass of the onlookers, the pouring of the hot pitch into
the gravelled interstices is watched with a satisfaction ever new, like
that bestowed in the pantomime upon the application by the clown of the
red-hot poker.

There is also the pleasure of seeing others at hard work, and
the indulgence of everybody’s belief (which is common to all present,)
that he or she could suggest an improvement upon the work proceeding,
and the manner of doing it. Then they look at each other once more and
depart contented.

Upon a moderate calculation, the amount of time devoted by
human beings to this amusing study, in the City of New York, amounts to
2,450,000 hours per annum.

ENGLAND’S QUANDARY.

Conjecture and expectancy, O PUNCHINELLO! have been the order
of the day in this European turmoil, with regard to the position of
what are called neutral Powers. People have been looking at England
with much curiosity to see what she really does intend. With the
facilities which our special wire affords, I am enabled to
report a highly interesting soliloquy delivered by the Rt. Hon. W. E.
GLADSTONE, to his bed-post, at his home in Spring Gardens, London,
after a hot night’s debate at St. STEPHEN’S. Our reporter concealed
himself in the key-hole and took verbatim notes. As in the case
of the speeches delivered by the rival monarchs to their armies, which
you published a week in advance of the speeches themselves, the
following can be relied on:

“I’m tired of answering questions. Let me think awhile. Is war
the only alternative? They blame me for not talking out. Fools, they
don’t know where they stand. At home and abroad, difficulty. Our
workmen emigrating; the Irish irreconcilable, (curse that word!)
nothing cheerful that side.

“France can rock her irreconcilables to sleep to the
war lullaby of that man we have so trusted only to betray us; our
irreconcilables only wait for war to side with our enemy. Prussia,
grasping bull-dog as she is, makes capital out of it, and calls us to
her side, while our stupid people burn with a Prussian fever, which may
turn to a plague to-morrow.

“Is the Prussian whom we have helped to humble to be our only
ally? Then must we write ourselves down asses in Constantinople.

“If we had some other head besides weather-cock expediency.
France has an Emperor, Prussia a King to lead them; we have a Queen who
takes walks in the Isle of Wight; and her son—bah! a roué
about town. Their marriage alliances are drag-chains, not bonds of
love. Denmark does not forget our treachery in ’65. Holland is afraid
of France. We are safe from America yet. They are too much afraid of
the German vote, thank Heaven, to side with France, but “Alabama” is
her watchword, and she only waits to strangle us. LAFAYETTE and the
Hessians are only memories, they have no votes. Ah! it was a mistake to
sympathize with the South.

“Our statesmen—Heaven save the mark!—are our worst enemies.
D’ISRAELI, the Jew, doubles our difficulty by showing our weakness. He
would play the part of PITT without his brains or his chances. Then we
led, now we are dragged at the tail. We may sign treaties, but we
cannot write them. BRIGHT would be friendly with both; GRANVILLE with
neither, and thus each is offended. It is ridiculous, and the only
course left is to bluster about Belgium.

“It must be the late dinner. There are all sorts of
threatening shadows around, and but one light; that is a war flame. Let
me sleep. To-morrow the gaping thousands will ask a sign. It may come,
but it shall be hoisted on the Rhine, and, helpless tide waiters, we
cannot tell from which side it shall come. Ah! ‘Uneasy sits the man on
the ministerial bench,’ as SHAKESPEARE would say to-day, for the crown
that he spoke of is an ornament in the tower.”

REPORTER

Magnetic

Polish soldiers should choose the needle gun. The needle is
always true to the Pole.

A CAPITAL HINT FOR OUR STATIONARY STREET MUSICIANS, IF THEY
WANT TO MAKE MONEY.

THE LEAVEN OF LEAVENWORTH. The great West has long been famous
for the loose, untrammelled freedom with which its inhabitants treat
everything and everybody. Breadth, no less than length, is a striking
feature of Western settlements, and that this element is conspicuous in
the journalism of those singular abodes, no less than in the social
life of their inhabitants, generally, is evidenced in the following
advertisement cut from “The Times“—a paper published at
Leavenworth, Kansas:

“NOTICE TO DRIVERS OF FAST STOCK.—Hold your horses and do not
drive so fast. All gay and festive cusses caught driving faster than
ordinary gait in the city, will be brought before Judge Vaughan, for
instance–the fine is $20.

H. A. ROBERTSON, City Marshal.”

The City Marshal of Leavenworth is clearly a pot-companion of
the first (whiskey and) water. He declines to address his
fellow-citizens in the commonplace terms usually recognised in more
prosaic communities. To adopt his own style of phraseology, ROBERTSON
is clearly a “gay and festive cuss.” He is a specimen brick from
Kansas, and doubtless always carries one in his hat. The expression
“ordinary gait,” as applied to driving in Kansas, where everybody owns
“fast stock,” is rather equivocal in these quieter latitudes to be
sure, but we may guess that, at Leavenworth, a man who rides or drives
at a pace of twenty miles an hour, is liable, “for instance,” to a fine
of $20, or just one dollar per mile. Kansas maybe a very nice place to
live in, for some people, but we would hardly recommend Mr. ROBERT
BONNER to emigrate thither, and so risk the probability of being
advertised as a “gay and festive cuss.”

SHIP AHOY!

Of all public performers, there are none who “draw” better
than the gymnasts who risk their necks by attempting hazardous feats.
The fool who attaches himself by the heels to the car of an ascending
balloon is sure to have thousands of feeble-minded females waving
handkerchiefs at him. BLONDIN, the great French tomfool, brought more
people to Niagara Falls to see him, possibly, add a new Fall to the
prospect, than ever the Falls themselves did. And when another donkey
announces that he is going to stand upon his head on the point of a
church spire, that church is sure to be thronged—outside. These
performances, and all of their sort, should be made punishable, and
will probably be so when a hundred or two performers shall have been
killed, in addition to those who have already suffered.

Not nearly so exciting as performances of the kind referred
to, though, perhaps, quite as rash, are the ocean voyages occasionally
essayed by tiny, toy ships. One of these—the Red, White and Blue—is
announced as about to start upon a “voyage round the world.” We wish
her our best wishes, and hope she may get round in the roundest way and
time. One of her first stopping places, though, as we see, is Martha’s
Vineyard. Our advice to the skipper of the toy ship, is to go no
further than that delightful haven of rest. MARTHA. will cherish her as
a chimney ornament, or give her to her kids to play with—and nobody
will be hurt.

Two Renderings.

Finis coronat opus:—The end crowns the work.

Finis coroner opus:—There is plenty of work for the
Coroner, but the “end” does not always appear to be gained.

All of which is respectfully submitted to the investigators of
murder in this city.

The Modern Monks of La Trappe.

The Coroner, the Assistant District-Attorney, and certain
other officials who have been trying the “trap” game on the witnesses
examined in the NATHAN murder case.

Results of Silver Stock.

1. The dream is ore.

2. Never mined.

ANSWERS TO CORRESPONDENTS.

Englishman, London.—You have lost your wager. Ohio is
not the capital of Indiana.

Stranger, New York City.—When you get lost in our
streets and do not know where you are, it is a good plan to seek
information from a policeman. If he does not know where you are, come
directly to the office of PUNCHINELLO.

Antiquary.—”The Last of the Barons” was a term applied
to an implement used by the ancient shoemakers. The pedal members of
the old English barons were of a peculiar aristocratic conformation,
and lasts were made expressly for them. This is a curious fact not
generally known.

Ploughboy finds the following remark in Mr. GREELEY’S
thirtieth What, and asks explanation.

“So with regard to Carrots. I have never achieved success in
growing these nor Beets.”

We infer that the meaning is, With regard to carrots, sow
them. “These nor Beets” are probably a new variety. They may have come
from Norfolk, but more “presumably” they were found in Alaska.

Metaphysician, Cloudland.—Your article on the
“Psychical Basis of Objective Existence” is excellent. Look out for it
in the “Juvenile Department” of our Christmas number.

Grammarian.—The expression “We ain’t got none” is
manifestly incorrect. It has two negatives. “We ain’t got any” is by
far more elegant.

Wager says that A. made a bet with B. that he could cut
a dime in two at one stroke of his pen-knife, C. to hold the stakes. A.
took a ten-cent “scrip” and chopped it in two with his blade. Meantime
C. walked away with the stake money. Who won? Answer.—The bet
is off. C. is also off, but no better, and neither A. or B. is any
better off.

NOTES ON THE FERRY.

Gushington, (with the pipe.) “SHE SMILED ON ONE OF US,
I’LL SWEAR.”

Spindle. “PERHAPS; BUT WHAT’S A SMILE? A POSITIVE NOD
FOR ME, OR NOTHING!”

AERATED VERBIAGE.

An Every-day Romance.

CHAPTER I.

In a room in a palatial tenement house in Avenue D, stood
GILBERT FERNANDE FROU FROU SNOGGS. G.F.F.F.S. was rampant.

“Why?” you say.

Gentle reader, hurry me not. Let the tale wag on. She was
talking to her mamma.

“Now,” said G.F.F.F.S., “I prognosticated that my maternal
relative would become oblivions of my reiterated solicitations to
perambulate the Avenue, and make the acquisition of four yards of
cerulean hued ribbon,” and she stamped her tiny number eights on the
floor.

You will notice that, even in her anger, she did not forget
her English.

“You can purchase it on the morrow,” replied her mamma.

“I will not remain acquiescent. I will promenade upon my
profluence to Sixth Avenue, and purchase the ceruleous ribbon
immediately,” said G.F.F.F.S., putting on her waterproof and sun-bonnet.

Her mother pointed to the paternal turnip, which hung over the
mantel, and showed her that old Time was “doing stunts” at 10-1/2.

But G.F.F.F.S. was obstinate. She put on her chignon, her
curls, her breast elevator, her bustle, her high-heeled shoes, a little
rouge, a little whiting and a bit of court-plaster, and sallied forth,
down the dumb-waiter to the cellar, and thence, through the ash-hole,
to the street.

CHAPTER II.

The deed was done!!! The purchase was made find G.F.F.F.S.
walked towards her palatial paternal mansion. She felt slightly timid,
for, as she looked at the heavens, she saw that ARCTURUS, who had been
playing tag with CASTOR and POLLUX all the evening, had reached hunk,
the Great Bear. From the astronomical knowledge which she had acquired
at the Vavasour Female Academy, she knew that the paternal turnip now
pointed to the witching hour of 11-1/2.

Suddenly she found herself surrounded by a party of bandits,
(she thought she was in Greece, but she was only in the 19th Ward.)

They seized her.

“Not a word,” said the leader. “Your money or your life.”

Now G.F.F.F.S. had lots of life and very little money, so she
could hardly determine whether to give up some of her life or all of
her money.

“Illustrious banditti,” said she, “the auriferous contents of
my reticulated depository are notable for minuteness. Be conservators
of my pullulating existence.”

“I say, TOM,” said the leader, “what’s her little game?”

“It sounds like Irish,” said TOM.

“Hand over your stamps,” said the leader.

G.F.F.F.S. slowly drew out her net purse, when suddenly the
robbers fled. G.F.F.F.S. felt that her hero had come, and, like all the
ARAMINTAS in the novels, she fainted and was caught in the arms of—

CHAPTER III.

The author tried to persuade the editor to allow him to write
“to be continued” after the last thrilling chapter, but the editor was
inexorable, hence this chapter, “in the arms of”—a little red-headed
policeman.

G.F.F.F.S. smiled gently, but, as soon as she had opened her
eyes, and had cast them on the red head, freckled face, pug-nose, and
little eyes of MIKE MCFLYNN, she sprang to her feet. It was better than
forty gallons of hartshorn. She had wasted a faint.

“Perdidi animi deliquium,” said she.

“Mother of MOSES, but you was heavy!” said MCFLYNN.

But she did not wait, and a pair of number eight shoes might
have been seen by an inquisitive reporter, cutting around the corners
and stamping up seven flights of stairs.

MORAL.

When the paternal turnip solemnly points to 10-1/2, G.F.F.F.S.
puts her number eights on the mantel, looks reflectively at a sore-eyed
kitten, and falls into polysyllables.

HOMODEIFICATION.

Late advices from China convey the intelligence that the
American-Chinese General WARD, who died in the service of the Celestial
empire, has been postmortuarily brevetted to the rank of a “major god,”
and is now regularly worshipped as such by JOHN PIGTAIL.

Possibly the antithesis to this may turn up on the cards,
here. In the course of events the bronze idol to which our PHILLIPSES
and SUMNERS used to bend the knee, has been prostrated from his
pedestal by the Fifteenth Amendment. Coolie labor, with its possible
abuses, may engage the attention of the philanthropists, next, and we
may yet behold JOHN PIGTAIL on a pedestal, in the character of an
American “major god.”

“LUCUS A NON,” ETC.

In the culinary department of a newspaper we find a recipe for
making “bird’s nest pudding,” which would surely make the pigtail of a
JOHN Chinaman stick straight up on end. The component parts of the
pudding are apples, sugar, milk, five eggs, and vanilla. Perhaps the
inventor of the pudding once found a bird’s nest with five eggs in it,
and has thus essayed to immortalize the interesting fact.

Bullet Proof.

The fact of the young Prince Imperial having picked up a
bullet on the field of Saarbruck is significant It proves that, like a
true BONAPARTE, he is prompt to take the Lead.

GEO.F.NESBITT &
CO.,

General JOB PRINTERS,

BLANK BOOK Manufacturers,
STATIONERS, Wholesale and Retail,
LITHOGRAPHIC Engravers and Printers.
COPPER-PLATE Engravers and Printers,
CARD Manufacturers,
ENVELOPE Manufacturers.
FINE CUT and COLOR Printers.

163, 165, 167, and 169 PEARL ST.,

73, 75, 77, and 79 PINE ST., New
York.

ADVANTAGES. All on the same premises, and under immediate
supervision of the proprietors.

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OR
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