MR. PUNCHINELLO: The editor of the Slunkville _Lyre_ says in his last
issue:--
"Notwithstanding the calumnies of Mr. SKINNER, our reputation is still
good, and we continue to pay our debts promptly."
This is the fifth hoax he has perpetrated within two weeks. His line of
business at present seems to be the _canard_ line.
I'll trust him out of sight if I can keep one eye on him. Not otherwise.
For a light recreation, combining a little business, I recommend his
funeral.
It is pleasant to reflect that men of his stamp are never born again.
They are born once too much as it is.
He went to the Agricultural Fair last Fall. There was a big potato
there. After gazing spell-bound upon it for one hour, he rushed home and
set the following in type:
"What is the difference between the Rev. ADAM CLARK, and the big potato
at the fair? One is a Commentator, and the other is an _Un_common
'tater."
This conundrum was so exquisitely horrible, that his friends hoped he'd
have judgment enough to hang himself, but such things die hard.
Colonel W-----'s Goat. Colonel W-----, is a great man in these parts
Like most village nabobs, he's a corpulent gentleman with a great show
of dignity, and in a white vest and gold-headed cane, looks eminently
respectable. He owns a hot-house, keeps a big dog that is very savage,
and his wife wears a silk dress at least three times a week,--either of
which will establish a man's reputation in a country town.
Everything belonging to the Colonel is held in the utmost awe by the
villagers. The paper speaks of him as "our esteemed and talented
townsman, Col. W.," and alludes to his "beautiful and accomplished
wife," who, by the way, was formerly waiter in an oyster saloon, and won
the Colonel's affection by the artless manner in which she would shout:
"Two stews, plenty o' butter."
Like others of his stamp, the Colonel amounts to something just where he
is, but take him anywhere else, he'd be a first-class, eighteen carat
fraud.
Awhile ago, the Colonel bought a goat for his little boy to drive in
harness, and the animal often grazed at the foot of a cliff, near the
house. One day, a man wandering over this cliff fell and was instantly
killed, evidently having come in contact with the goat, for the animal's
neck was broken.
But what amused me was the way the aforesaid editor spoke of the affair.
He wrote half a column on the "sad death of Col. W's. goat," but not a
word of the unfortunate dead man, till he wound up as follows:
"We omitted to state that a dead man was picked up near the unfortunate
goat. It is supposed that this person, in wandering over the cliff, lost
his foothold and fell, striking the doomed animal in his progress. Thus,
through the carelessness of this obscure individual, was Col. W's. poor
little goat hurled into eternity."
The Superintendent asked me last Sunday to take charge of a class.
"You'll find 'em rather a bad lot" said he. "They all went fishing last
Sunday but little JOHNNY RAND. _He_ is really a good boy, and I hope his
example may yet redeem the others. I wish you'd talk to 'em a little."