I beckoned the man to step aside, in the Senate Chamber.

"Now, sir," said I, "you will please inform me, who the devil do you

take me for?"

"Oh, I knew who you were, the moment you came in, sir," said he, with a

very knowing leer out of his half-squinting eyes.

"Did you? Well then I must certainly give you credit for devilish keen

perception; but, if it's a fair question," I continued, "what do you

mean by fixing a platform for my _designs_? You don't think I'm going to

fly, jump or deliver orations from the cupola, do you?"

"No, I don't; but you're to draw a grand panorama of Boston, ain't you?"

"ME?"

"Yes, you; ain't your name Mr. Banvard?"

"Oh, yes, yes--I understand--you've found me out, but keep dark--mum's

the word--you understand?" said I, winkingly.

"Yes, sir; I'll fix it all right; you'll want the platform outside, I

guess."

"Yes; out with it, and _keep dark until I come!_"

I skeeted down them steps into the Common to let off my corked up

risibilities.--Whether the man actually did prepare a platform for my

designs, or whether Banvard ever went to take his designs there, I am

unable to say, as I went South a few days afterward, and did not return

for some time.

The Exorbitancy of Meanness.

Few _extravaganzas_ of man or woman lay such a heavy _stress_ upon the

pocket-book or purse as meanness. This may seem paradoxical, but it's

nothing of the kind. How many thousands to save a cent, walk a mile! How

many to cut down expenses, cut off a thousand of the little "filling

ins" which go to make us both happy and healthy! Jones refused to let

his little boy run an errand for Johnson, and when Jones's house was in

a blaze, Johnson forbid him touching his water to put it out. Smith by

accident ran his wagon afoul of Peppers's cart, Peppers in revenge "cut

away" at Smith's horse; horse ran away, broke the wagon, dislocated

Smith's collar-bone; a suit at law followed, and Peppers being a mighty

spunky, as well as a powerfully mean man, fought it out four years, and

finally sunk every cent he had in the world by the slight transaction.

It is a first-rate idea to be economical, but the man who sees and

feels, and smells and tastes, entirely through his pocket-book, isn't

worth cultivating an acquaintance with. Go in, marry money if you can,

save up some, but don't cultivate meanness, for it never pays.

"Taking Down" a Sheriff.

Ex-honorable John Buck, once the "representative" of a _district_ out

West, a lawyer originally, and finally a gentleman at large, and Jeremy

Diddler generally, took up his quarters in Philadelphia, years ago, and

putting himself upon his dignity, he managed for a time, _sans

l'argent_, to live like a prince. Buck was what the world would call a

devilish clever fellow; he was something of a scholar, with the

smattering of a gentleman; good at off-hand dinner table oratory, good

looking, and what never fails to take down the ladies, he wore hair

enough about his countenance to establish two Italian grand dukes. Buck

was "an awful blower," but possessed common-sense enough not to waste

his _gas_-conade--ergo, he had the merit not to falsify to ye ancient

falsifiers.

The Honorable Mr. Buck's _manner_ of living not being "seconded" by a

corresponding manner of _means_, he very frequently ran things in the

ground, got in debt, head and heels. The Honorable Mr. B. had patronized

a dealer in Spanish mantles, corduroys and opera vests, to the amount of

some two hundred dollars; and, very naturally, ye fabricator of said

cloth appurtenances for ye body, got mad towards the last, and

threatened "the Western member" with a course of legal sprouts, unless

he "showed cause," or came up and squared the yards. As Hon. John Buck

had had frequent invitations to pursue such courses, and not being

spiritually or personally inclined that way, he let the notice slide.

Shears, the tailor, determined to put the Hon. John through; so he got

out a writ of the savagest kind--arson, burglary and false

pretence--and a deputy sheriff was soon on the taps to smoke the Western

member out of his boots. Upon inquiring at the United States Hotel,

where the honorable gentleman had been wont to "put up," they found he

had vacated weeks before and gone to Yohe's Hotel. Thither, the next

day, the deputy repaired, but old Mother Yohe--rest her soul!--informed

the officer that the honorable gentleman had stepped out one morning, in

a hurry like, and forgot to pay a small bill!

John was next traced to the Marshall House, where he had left his mark

and cleared for Sanderson's, where the indefatigable tailor and his

terrier of the law, pursued the member, and learned that he had gone to

Washington!

"Done! by Jeems!" cried Shears.

"Hold on," says the deputy, "hold on; he's not off; merely a dodge to

get away from this house; we'll find him. Wait!"

Shears did wait, so did the deputy sheriff, until other bills, amounting

to a good round sum, were lodged at the Sheriff's office, and the very

Sheriff himself took it in hand to nab the _cidevant_ M. C., and cause

him to suffer a little for his country and his friends!

Now, it so chanced that Sheriff F., who was a politician of popular

renown--a good, jolly fellow--knew the Hon. Mr. Buck, having had "the

pleasure of his acquaintance" some months previous, and having been

_floored_ in a political argument with the "Western member," was

inclined to be down upon him.

"I'll snake him, I'll engage," says Sheriff F., as he thrust "the

documents" into his pocket and proceeded to hunt up the transgressor.

Accidentally, as it were, who should the Sheriff meet, turning a corner

into the grand _trottoir_, Chestnut street, but our gallant hero of ye

ballot-box in the rural districts, once upon a time!

"Ah, ha-a-a! How are ye, Sheriff?" boisterously exclaims the Ex-M. C.,

as familiarly as you please.

"Ah, ha! Mr. Buck," says the Sheriff, "glad (?) to see you."

"Fine day, Sheriff?"

"Elegant, sir, _prime_," says the Sheriff.

"What do you think of Mr. Jigger's speech on the Clam trade? Did you

read Mr. Porkapog's speech on the widening of Jenkins's ditch?"

For which general remarks on the affairs of the nation, Sheriff F. _put_

some corresponding replies, and so they proceeded along until they

approached a well-known dining saloon, then under the supervision of a

burly Englishman; and, as it was about the time people dined, and the

Sheriff being a man that liked a fat dinner and a fine bottle, about as

well as any body, when the Hon. Mr. Buck proposed--

"What say you, Sheriff, to a dinner and a bottle of old Sherry, at ----?

We don't often meet (?), so let's sit down and have a quiet talk over

things."

"Well, Mr. Buck," says the Sheriff, "I would like to, just as soon as

not, but I've got a disagreeable bit of business with you, and it would

be hardly friendly to eat your dinner before apprizing you of the fact,

sir."

"Ah! Sheriff, what is it, pray?" says the somewhat alarmed Diddler;

"nothing serious, of course?"

"Oh, no, not serious, particularly; only a _writ_, Mr. Buck; a writ,

that's all."

"For my arrest?"

"Your arrest, sir, on sight," says the Sheriff.

"The deuce! What's the charge!"

"Debt--false pretence--_swindling!_"

"Ha! ha! that is a good one!" says the slight'y cornered Ex-M. C.;

"well, hang it, Sheriff, don't let business spoil our digestion; come,

let us dine, and then I'm ready for execution!" says the "Western

member," with well affected gaiety.

Stepping into a private room, they rang the bell, and a burly waiter

appeared.

"Now, Mr. F.," says the adroit Ex-M. C., "call for just what you like; I

leave it to you, sir."

"Roast ducks; what do you say, Buck?"

"Good."

"Oyster sauce and lobster salad?"

"Good," again echoes the Ex-M. C.

"And a--Well, waiter, you bring some of the best side dishes you have,"

says the Sheriff.

"Yes, sir," says the waiter, disappearing to fill the order.

"What are you going to drink, Sheriff?" asks the honorable gent.

"Oh! ah, yes! Waiter, bring us a bottle of Sherry; you take Sherry,

Buck?"

"Yes, I'll go Sherry."

The Sherry was brought, and partly discussed by the time the dinner was

spread.

"They keep the finest Port here you ever tasted," says the Diddler.

"Do they!" he responds; "well, suppose we try it?"

A bottle of old Port was brought, and the two worthies sat back and

really enjoyed themselves in the saloon of the sumptuously kept

restaurant; they then drank and smoked, until sated nature cried enough,

and the Sheriff began to think of business.

"Suppose we top off with a fine bottle of English ale, Sheriff!"

"Well, be it so; and then, Buck, we'll have to proceed to the office."

"Waiter, bring me a couple of bottles of your English ale," says the

Hon. Mr. Buck.

"Yes, sir."

"And I'll see to the bill, Sheriff, while the waiter brings the ale,"

said the Ex-M. C., leaving the room "for a moment," to speak to the

landlord.

"Landlord," says the Diddler, "do you know that gentleman with whom I've

dined in 15?"

"No, I don't," says the landlord.

"Well," continues Diddler, "I've no _particular_ acquaintance with him;

he invited me here to dine; I suppose he intends to pay for what he

ordered, but (whispering) _you had better get your money before he gets

out of that room!_"

"Oh! oh! coming that are dodge, eh? I'll show him!" said the burly

landlord, making tracks for the room, from which the Sheriff was now

emerging, to look after his prisoner.

"There's for the ale," says the Diddler, placing half a dollar in the

waiter's hand; "I ordered that, and there's for it." So saying, he

vamosed.

"Say, but look here, Buck, I say, hold on; I've got a writ, and--"

"Hang the writ! Pay your bill like a gentleman, and come along!"

exclaimed the Ex-M. C., making himself _scarce!_

It was in vain that the Sheriff stated his "authority," and innocence in

the pecuniary affairs of the dinner, for the waiter swore roundly that

the other gentleman had paid for all he ordered, and the landlord, who

could not be convinced to the contrary, swore that the idea was to gouge

him, which couldn't be done, and before the Sheriff got off, he had his

wallet depleted of five dollars; and he not only lost his prisoner, but

lost his temper, at the trick played upon him by the Hon. Jeremy

Diddler.

Governor Mifflin's First Coal Fire.

It is truly astonishing, that the inexhaustible beds--mines of

anthracite coal, lying along the Schuylkill river and ridges, valleys

and mountains, from old Berks county to the mountains of Shamokin, were

not found out and applied to domestic uses, fully fifty years before

they were! Coal has been exhumed from the earth, and burned in forges

and grates in Europe, from time immemorial, we think, yet we distinctly

remember when a few canal boats only were engaged in transporting from

the few mines that were open and worked along the Schuylkill--the

comparatively few tons of anthracite coal consumed in Philadelphia, not

sent away. As far back as 1820, we believe, there was but little if any

coal shipped to Philadelphia, from the Schuylkill mines at all.

Our venerable friend, the still vivacious and clear-headed Col. Davis,

of Delaware, gave us, a few years ago, a rather amusing account of the

first successful attempt of a very distinguished old gentleman, Gov.

Mifflin, to ignite a pile of stone coal. The date of the transaction,

more's the pity, has escaped us, but the facts of the case are something

after this fashion.

Gov. Mifflin, of Pennsylvania, lived and owned a fine estate in Mifflin

county, and in which county was discovered from time to time, any

quantity of black rock, as the farmers commonly called the then unknown

anthracite. Of course, the old governor knew something about stone coal,

and had a slight inkling of its character. At hours of leisure, the

governor was in the habit of experimenting upon the black rocks by

subjecting them to wood fire upon his hearths; but the hard, almost

flint-like anthracite of that region resisted, with most obdurate

pertinacity, the oft-repeated attempts of the governor to set it on

fire. It finally became a joke among the neighboring Pennsylvania Dutch

farmers, and others of the vicinity, that Gov. Mifflin was studying out

a theory to set his hills and fields on fire, and burn out the obnoxious

black rock and boulders. But, despite the jibes and jokes of his

dogmatical friends, the old governor stuck to his experiments, and the

result produced, as most generally it does through perseverance and

practice, a new and useful fact, or principle.

One cold and wintry day, Gov. Mifflin was cosily perched up in his

easy-chair, before the great roaring, blazing hickory fire, overhauling

ponderous state documents, and deeply engrossed in the affairs of the

people, when his eye caught the outline of a big black rock boulder upon

the mantle-piece before him--it was a beautiful specimen of variegated

anthracite, with all the hues of the rainbow beaming from its lacquered

angles. The governor thought "a heap" of this specimen of the black

rock, but dropping all the documents and State papers pell-mell upon the

floor, he seized the piece of anthracite, and placing it carefully upon

the blazing cross-sticks of the fire, in the most absorbed manner

watched the operation. To his great delight the black rock was soon red

hot--he called for his servant man, a sable son of Africa, or some down

South Congo--

"Isaac."

"Yes, sah, I'se heah, sah."

"Isaac, run out to the carriage-house, and get a piece of that black

rock."

"Yes, sah, I'se gone."

In a twinkling the negro had obtained a huge lump of the anthracite, and

handing it over to the governor, it was placed in a favorable position

alongside of the first lump, and the governor's eyes fairly danced

polkas as he witnessed the fact of the two pieces of black rock

assuming a red hot complexion.

"Isaac!" again exclaimed the governor.

"Yes, sah."

"Run out--get another lump."

"Yes, sah."

A third lump was added to the fire; the company in the governor's

private parlor was augmented by the appearance of the governor's lady

and other portions of the family, who, seeing Isaac lugging in the

rocks, came to the conclusion that the governor was going "clean crazy"

over his experiments. It was in vain Mrs. Mifflin and the daughters

tried to suspend the functions of the "chief magistrate," over the

roaring fire.

"Go away, women; what do you know about mineralogy, igniting anthracite?

Go way; close the doors; I've got the rocks on fire--I'll make them

laugh t'other side of their mouths, at my black rock fires!"

In the midst of the excitement, as the governor was perspiring and

exulting over his fiery operation, a carriage drove up, and two

gentlemen alighted, and desired an immediate audience with Gov. Mifflin;

but so deeply engaged was the governor, that he refused the strangers an

audience, and while directing Isaac to tell the strangers that they must

"come to-morrow," and while he continued to pile on more black rocks,

brought in by Isaac, in rushed the strangers.

"Good day, governor; you must excuse us, but our business admits of no

delay."

"Can't help it, can't help you--see how it blazes, see how it burns!"

cried the abstracted or mentally and physically absorbed governor.

"But, governor, the man may be hanged, if--"

"Let him be hanged--hurra! See how it burns; call in the neighbors; let

them see my black rock fire. I knew I'd surprise them!"

"But, governor, will you please delay this--"

"Delay? No, not for the President of the United States. I've been trying

this experiment for eight years. I've now succeeded--see, see how it

burns! Run, Isaac, over to Dr. ----'s, tell him to come, stop in at Mr.

S----'s, tell Mr. H---- to come, come everybody--I've got the black

rocks in a blaze!" And clapping on his hat, out ran the governor through

the storm, down to the village, like a madman, leaving the strangers and

part of his household as spectators of his fiery experiments. Just as

the governor cleared his own door, a pedler wagon "drove up," and the

pedler, seeing the governor starting out in such double quick time,

hailed him.

"Hel-lo! Sa-a-a-y, yeou heold on--_yeou the guv'ner_?"

"Clear out!" roared the chief magistrate.

"Shain't deu nothin' of the sort, no how!" says the pedler, dismounting

from his wagon, and making his appearance at the front door, where he

encountered the two rather astonished strangers--legal gentlemen of some

eminence, from Harrisburg, with a petition for the respite of execution.

"Halloo! which o' yeou be the guv'ner?" says the pedler.

"Neither of us," replied the gentlemen; "that was the governor you spoke

to as you drove up."

"Yeou dun't say so! Wall, he was pesky mad about som'-thin'. What on

airth ails the ole feller?"

"Can't say," was the response; "but here he comes again."

"Now, now come in, come in and see for yourselves," cried the excited

Governor of the great Key Stone State; "there's a roaring fire of

burning, blazing, black rock, anthracite coal!"

But, alas! the cross sticks having given away in the interim, and the

coal being thrown down upon the ashes and stone hearth,--_was all out!_

"Wall," says our migratory Yankee, who followed the crowd into the

house, "I guess I know what yeou be at, guv'ner, but I'll tell yeou

naow, yeou can't begin to keep that darn'd hard stuff burning, 'less

yeou fix it up in a grate, like, gin it air, and an almighty draught;

yeou see, guv'ner, I've been making experiments a darn'd long while with

it!"

The laugh of the governor's friends subsided as the pedler went into a

practical theory on burning stone coal; the _respite_ was

signed--hospitalities of the mansion extended to all present, and in

course of a few days, our Yankee and the governor rigged up a grate, and

soon settled the question--will our black rocks burn?

Sure Cure.

Travel is a good invention to cure the blues and condense worldly

effects. When Cutaway went to California, "I carried," said he, "a pile

of despondency, and more baggage, boots, and boxes, than would fit out a

caravan. After an absence of just fourteen calendar months, I started

homewards, and was so boiling over with hope and fond anticipation, that

I could hardly keep in my old boots! And all the _dunnage_ I had left,

wouldn't fill a pocket-handkerchief, or sell to a paper-maker for four

cents!"

Cutaway recommends seeing the _worldy_ elephant, high, for settling

one's mind, and scattering goods, gold, and chattels.

Chasing a Fugitive Subscriber.

Printers, from time immemorial--back possibly to the days of Faust--have

suffered martyrdom, more or less, at the hands of the people who didn't

pay! Many of the long-established newspaper concerns can show a "black

list" as long as the militia law, and an unpaid _cash account_ bulky

enough to take Cuba! Country publishers suffer in this way intensely.

About one half of the "subscribers" to the _Clarion of Freedom_, or the

_Universal Democrat_, or the _Whig Shot Tower_, seem to labor under the

Utopian notion that printers were made to mourn over unpaid subscription

lists; or that they "got up" papers for their own peculiar amusement,

and carried them or sent them to the doors of the public for mere

pastime! Every publisher, of about every paper we ever examined, about

this time of year, has told his own story--requested his subscribers to

come forward--pay over--help to keep the mill going--creditors

easy--fire in the stove--meal in the barrel--children in bread, butter

and shoes--Sheriff at bay, and other tragical affairs connected with the

operations attendant upon unsettled cash accounts! But, how many heed

such "notices?" Paying subscribers do not read them--such applications

do not apply to them--_they_ regret to see them in the paper, and, like

honest, common-sensed people, don't probe or meddle with other people's

shortcomings. The delinquent subscriber don't read such _calls_ upon his

humanity--they are distasteful to him; he may squint and grin over the

_notice_ to pay up, and chuckles to himself--"Ah, umph! dun away, old

feller; I ain't one o' that kind that sends money by mail; it might be

lost, and the man that duns _me_ for two or three dollars' worth of

newspapers, _may get it if he knows how_."

Well, the good time has _come_. Printers now may wait no longer; the

jig's up--they have found out a _way_ to get their money just as easy as

other laborers in the fields of science, art, mechanism, law, physic and

religion, get theirs. Let the printer cry _Eureka_.

Doctor Pendleton St. Clair Smith, a patron of the fine arts, best

tailors, barbers, boot blacks, and the newspaper press, was a tooth

operator of some skill and great pretension. He lived and moved in

modern style, and though no man could be more desirous of indulging in

"short credit," no man believed or acted more readily upon the

principle--

----"base is the slave that _pays_."

Dr. P. St. C. Smith "slipped up" one day, leaving the _well done_

community of Boston and the environs, for fields more congenial to his

peculiar talents. He _stuck_ the printer, of course. His numerous

subscription accounts to the various local news and literary journals,

in the aggregate amounted to quite considerable; and the printers didn't

begin to like it! Now, it takes a Yankee to head off a Yankee, and about

this time a live, double-grand-action Yankee, named Peabody, possibly,

happened in at one of the offices, where two brother publishers were

"making a few remarks" over delinquent subscribers, and especially were

they wrought up against and giving jessy to Dr. Pendleton St. Clair

Smith!

"How much does the feller owe you?" quoth Peabody.

"Owe? More than he'll ever pay during the present generation."

"Perhaps not," says Peabody; "now if you'll just give me the full

particulars of the man, his manners and customs, name and size, and

sell me your accounts, at a low notch, I'll buy 'em; I'll collect 'em,

too, if the feller's alive, out of jail, and any where around between

sunrise and sunset!"

The publishers laughed at the idea, sensibly, but finding that Peabody

was up for a trade, they traced out the accounts, &c., and for a five

dollar bill, Mr. Peabody was put in possession of an account of some

twenty odd dollars and cents against Dr. P. St. C. Smith.

Now Peabody had, some time previous to this transaction, established a

peculiar kind of Telegraph, a human galvanic battery, or endless chain

of them, extending all over the country, for collecting bad debts, and

_shocking_ fugitives, or stubborn creditors! By a continuation of

faculties, causes and effects--shrewdness and forethought peculiar to a

man capable of seeing considerably deep into millstones--Peabody

couldn't be _dodged_. If he ever got his _feelers_ on to a subject, the

_equivalent_ was bound to be turning up! It struck him that the

collection of newspaper bills afforded him a great field for working his

Telegraph, and he hasn't been mistaken.

The scene now changes; early one morning in the pleasant month of June,

as the poet might say, Dr. Pendleton St. Clair Smith was to be seen

before his toilet glass in the flourishing city of Syracuse,--giving the

finishing stroke to his highly-cultivated beard. The satisfaction with

which he made this demonstration, evinced the sereneness of his mind and

the _confidence_ with which he rested, in regard to his newspaper 'bills

in Boston. But a _tap_ is heard at his door, and at his invitation the

servant comes in, announces a gentleman in the parlor, desirous of

speaking to Dr. Smith. The Doctor waits upon the visitor--

"Dr. Pendleton St. Clair Smith, I presume?"

"Ye-e-s," slowly and suspiciously responded that individual.

"I am collector, sir," continued the stranger, "for the firm of

Peabody, Grab, Catchem, and Co., Boston. I have a small (!) bill against

you, sir, to collect."

"What for?" eagerly quoth the Doctor.

"Newspaper subscriptions and advertising, sir!"

"I a--I a, you a--well, you call in this evening," says the Doctor,

tremulously fumbling in his pockets--"I'll settle with you; good

morning."

"Good morning, sir," says the collector,--"I'll call."

That afternoon, Dr. Pendleton St. Clair Smith vamosed! He had barely got

located in Syracuse, before they had traced him; if he paid the printer,

a cloud of other debts would follow, and so he up stakes and made a

fresh _dive!_

"Now," says Dr. P. St. C. Smith, as he dumped himself and baggage down

in the beautiful city of Chicago, "Now I'll be out of the range of the

duns; they won't get sight or hearing of me, for a while, I'll bet a

hat!"

But, alas! for the delusion; the very next morning, a very suspicious,

hatchet-faced individual, made himself known as the deputed collector of

certain newspaper accounts, forwarded from Boston, by Peabody, Grab,

Catchem, & Co. The Dr. uttered a very severe _anathema_; he looked quite

streaked, he faltered; he then desired the collector to call in course

of the day, and the bill would be attended to. The collector hoped it

would be attended to, and left; so did Dr. P. St. C. Smith _in the next

mail line_.

About one month after the affair in Chicago, Dr. P. St. C. Smith was

seen strutting around in Charters st., New Orleans, confident in his

security, smiling in the brightness of the scenes around him; he had

just negotiated for an office, had already concocted his advertisements,

and subscribed for the papers, when lo! the same due bill from Boston

appeared to him, in the hand of an _agent_ of Peabody, Grab, Catchem &

Co. The Dr. was almost tempted to pay the bill! But, then, perhaps the

_agent_ had a hat full of others--from the same place--for larger

amounts! The next day the Doctor _put_ for Texas! planting himself in

the pleasant town of Bexar, and cursing duns from the bottom of his

heart--he determined to keep clear of them, even if he had to bury

himself away out here in Texas. But what was his horror to find, the

first week of his hanging up in Bexar, that an agent of the firm of

Peabody, Grab, Catchem & Co., _was there!_ The Doctor _stepped_ to

Galveston; on the way he accidentally _met_ a travelling agent of

Peabody, Grab, Catchem & Co. The Doctor took the _Sabine_ slide for

Tampico; there he found the "black vomit." He up and off again, for

Mobile; his nervous system was much worked up and his pocket-book sadly

depleted! There were two alternatives--change his name, size and

profession, and live in a swamp; _or settle with the firm of Peabody,

Grab, Catchem & Co_. Dr. Pendleton St. Clair Smith chose the latter; he

sought and soon found in Mobile, a veritable _agent_, duly authorized to

receive and forward funds for Peabody, Grab, Catchem & Co., and hunt up

and down--fugitives from the printer! The Doctor paid up--felt better,

and learned the moral fact that delinquent subscribers are no longer to

be the printers' ghosts.

Ambition.

A person never thinks so meanly of ambition as when walking through a

grave-yard.--To see men who have filled the world with their glory for

half a century or more, reduced to a six foot mudhole, gives pride a

shock which requires a long stay in a city to counteract.--The gentlemen

who are now "spoken of for the Presidency," will in less than a century,

have their bones carted away to make room for a street sewer. Queer

creature that man--well, he is.

Way the Women Fixed the Tale-Bearer.

"I dunno where I heer'd it, but I know it's true. I expected it long

ago. I told Jones it'd come out so."

"Why, Uncle Josh, you don't pretend to say that Miller's wife has run

off with Bob Tape, Yardstick's clark, do you?"

"Yes, I do, too; hain't it been the talk of the neighborhood for a year

past, that Miller's wife and that feller--Bob Tape, were a leetle too

thick?"

"Well, Uncle Josh," says his neighbor Brown, "I don't recollect anybody

saying anything about it, but you, and for my part, I don't believe a

word of it."

"Why, hain't Miller's wife gone?" says Uncle Josh.

"I don't know--is she?" says Brown.

"Be sure she is; I went over to the store this morning, the fust thing,

to see if Bob Tape was about--he wasn't there--they said he'd gone to

Boston on business for old Yardstick. O, ho! says I, and then I started

for Heeltap's shop; we had allers said how things would turn out. He was

out, but seein' me go to his shop, he came a runnin', and says he:

"'Uncle Josh, theer gone, sure enough!--I've been over to old Mammy

Gabbles, and she sent her Suke over to Miller's, on purtence of

borrowin' some lard, but told Suke to look around and see ef Miller's

wife wur about; by Nebbyknezer, Miller's wife wur gone! Marm Gabbles

couldn't rest, so she sent back Suke, and told her to ax the children

whare their marm wus; Miller hearing Suke, ordered her to scoot, so Suke

left without hearing the facts in the case, as 'Squire Black says.'

"But Heeltap swears, and I know Miller's wife and Bob Tape have

_sloped_, as they say in the papers."

"Well," says Brown, "I'm sorry if it's true--I don't believe a word of

it tho', and as it's none of my business, I shall have nothing to say

about it."

Uncle Josh was one of those inordinate pests which almost every village,

town and hamlet in the country is more or less accursed with. He was a

great, tall, bony, sharp-nosed, grinning _genius_, who, being in

possession of a small farm, with plenty of boys and girls to work it,

did not do anything but eat, sleep and lounge around; a gatherer of

_scan, mag_., a news and scandal-monger, a great guesser, and a stronger

suspicioner, of everybody's motives and intentions, and, of course,

never imputed a good motive or movement to anybody.

You've seen those wretches, male and female, haven't you, reader? Such

people are great nuisances--half the discomforts of life are bred by

them; they contaminate and poison the air they breathe, with their

noisome breath, like the odor of the Upas tree.

Uncle Josh had annoyed many--he was the dread and disgust of

seven-eighths of the town he lived in. He had caused more quarrels,

smutted more characters, and created more ill-feeling between friends,

neighbors and acquaintances, than all else beside in the community of

Frogtown. Uncle Josh was voted a great bore by the men, and a sneaking,

meddling old granny by the women. So, at last, the young women of the

town did agree, that the very next time Uncle Josh carried, concocted,

or circulated any slanderous or otherwise mischievous stories, _they

would duck him in the mill-race_.

Now, Brown--old Mister Brown--was the very antipode of Uncle Josh; he

was for always taking matters and things by the smoothest handle. Mister

Brown never told tales, backbited or slandered anybody; everybody had a

good word to say about Mister Brown, and Mister Brown had a good word to

say about everybody. The gals thought it prudent to give old Mister

Brown an inkling of their plans in regard to the disposition they

intended to make of Uncle Josh; the old man laughed, and told them to go

ahead, and to duck old Josh, and perhaps they would reform him.

"Now, gals," says old Mister Brown, "Uncle Josh has just this very day

been at his dirty work; by this time he has spread the news all over the

town, that Miller's wife has gone off with Yardstick's clark. I don't

believe a word of his tale, and if Miller's wife ain't really gone off,

Uncle Josh ought to be soused in the mill-race."

Next morning Miller's wife came home; she had been down to her sister's,

a few miles off, to see a sick child; her husband had been away at a

law-suit, in a neighboring town, and so Miller nor his wife knew nothing

of the report of her elopement with Bob Tape, until their return.

Miller was in a rage, but couldn't find out the author of the report.

Miller's wife was deeply mortified that such a suspicion should arise of

her; she had been making Bob Tape some new clothes to go to Boston in,

and here was the gist of Bob and Miller's wife's intimacy! There was a

great time about it--Miller swore like a trooper, and his wife nearly

cried her eyes out.

A few evenings afterwards, it being cool, clear weather in October,

Polly Higgins and Sally Smith called in to see Miller's wife, and asked

her to join them in a little party that some of the neighboring women

had got up that evening, for a particular purpose. Miller's wife not

having much to do that evening, her husband said she might go out a

spell if she chose, and she went, and soon learned the purport of the

call--old Uncle Josh was to be ducked in the mill-race! and Miller's

wife, disguised as the rest, was to help do it. When she heard that old

Josh had circulated the report of her elopement, Miller's wife did not

require much coaxing to join the watering committee.

It was so planned that all the women, some ten or twelve in number, were

to put on men's clothes and lay in wait for Uncle Josh at his lane gate,

about a quarter of a mile from the mill-race. Old Josh always hung

around the tavern, Heeltap's shoe-shop, or the grocery, until 9 P. M.,

before he started for home, and the girls determined to rush out of a

small thicket that stood close by old Josh's lane gate, and throwing a

large, stout sheet over him, wind him up, and then seizing him head,

neck and heels, hurry him off to the mill-race, and duck him well.

Mind you, your country gals and women are not paint and powder,

corset-laced and fragile creatures, like your delicate, more ornamental

than useful young ladies of the city; no, no, the gals of Frogtown were

real flesh and blood; Venuses and Dianas of solidity and substance; and

it would have taken several better men than Uncle Josh to have got away

from them. It was a cool, moon-shiny night, but to better favor the

women, just as old Josh got near his gate, a large, black cloud obscured

the moon, and all was as dark as a stack of black cats in a coal cellar.

Miller's wife acted as captain; dressed in Bob Tape's old clothes he had

left at her house to be repaired, she gave the word, and out they

rushed.

"Seize him, boys!" said she, in a very loud whisper. Over went the

sheet, down came old Josh, co-blim! Before he could say "lor' a massy,"

he was dragged to the mill-race, tied hand and foot, blindfolded, his

coat taken off, and he was _ca-soused_ into the cold water! Fury! how

the old fellow begged for his life!

"O, lor' a massy, don't drown me boys! I--a, I--" _ca-souse_ he went

again.

"Give him another duck," says one--and in he'd go again.

"Now, we'll learn you to carry tales," says another.

"And tell lies on me and Miller's wife," says Bob Tape--ca-souse he

went.

"O, lor' a mas--mas--e, do--do--don't drown me, Bob; I'll--I'll promise

never to--" in they put him again; the water was as cold as ice.

"Will you promise never to take or carry a story again?"

"I d--d--d--_do_ promise, if--yo--yo--yo--you--don't--duc--" and in he

went again.

"Do you promise to mind your own business and let others alone, Uncle

Josh?"

"Ye--ye--yes, I d--_do_, I--I--I'll promise anything--bo--boys, only let

me go," says Uncle Josh.

"Well, boys," says Polly Higgins, rousing, jolly critter she was, too,

"I owe Uncle Josh one more dip: he lied about my gal, Polly Higgins,

and--"

"O, ho, Seth Jones, that's you, ain't it?--Well--we--well, I said

nothing about Polly; it was Heeltap said it, 'deed it was."

Then they let old Josh off, vowing they'd give Heeltap his gruel next

night, and the moment Josh got clear of his sousers, he cut for home.

Next day Heeltap cleared himself.--Uncle Josh soon found out that he had

been ducked by the women, and, for his own peace, moved to Iowa, and

Frogtown has been a happy place ever since.

Penalty of Kissing your own Wife.

Cato, when Censor of Rome, expelled from the Senate Manilius, whom the

general opinion had marked out for counsellor, because he had given his

wife a kiss in the day time, in the sight of his daughter. And this

reminds us of a local story told us by one of the "oldest inhabitants"

of the city, that occurred once upon a time in this harbor. Before the

Revolutionary war, one of the King's ships was stationed here, and

occasionally cruised down to the south'ard. It so chanced that after a

long absence the cruiser arrived in the harbor on Sunday, and as the

naval captain had left his wife in Boston, the moment she heard of his

arrival she hastened down to the water side in order to receive him. The

worthy old sea captain, on landing, embraced his lady with tenderness

and true affection. This, as there were many spectators by, gave great

offence to the puritanical landsmen, and was considered as an act of

indecency and a flagrant profanation of the Sabbath. The next day,

therefore, the captain was summoned before the magistrates and

selectmen, who, with many severe rebukes and pious exhortations, ordered

him to be publicly whipped!

The old captain stifled his indignation and resentment as much as

possible; and as the punishment, from the frequency of it, was not

attended with any degree of disgrace, he mixed as usual with the best of

company, and even with the selectmen he soon ceased to be else than

familiar as ever.

At length the vessel was ordered home, to England, and the captain,

therefore, with seeming concern to take leave of his worthy friends,

and that they might spend a more happy and convivial day together before

their final separation, invited the principal magistrates and selectmen

to dine with him the day of his departure, on board his ship. They

readily accepted the invitation, and nothing could be more glorious than

the entertainment that was given.

At length the solemn moment arrived that was to part them--the anchor

was apeak, the sails unfurled, and nothing was wanted but the signal to

get under way. The captain, after taking an affectionate and formal

leave of his worthy municipal friends, accompanied them upon deck where

the boatswain and crew were ready to receive them. He here thanked them

afresh for the civilities they had shown him, of which the captain

assured them he should bear a kind remembrance.

"One point of civility, only," he continued, "gentlemen, remains to be

adjusted between us, and as it is in my power to settle it, I shall be

most happy to do so. You infernal old rogues you, you whipped me for

evincing a due regard and love for my wife, and now, lest you perpetrate

the outrage again 'gainst all law and reason, I'll give you a lesson

that will last your lifetime. Boatswain, strip each of these rogues to

the waist, lash them fast and put on your cat-o'-nine tails forty

stripes each!"

The boatswain, mid the laugh and acclamation of the whole crew, went to

the work with a hearty good will, and after giving the magistrates and

selectmen a fine dressing all around, he cut them loose, put them in

their boat, and the ship set sail down the harbor and soon disappeared

in the dim dist cut ocean.

Mysteries and Miseries of Housekeeping.

People of experience tell awful stories about the miseries of boarding,

and boarding-houses, and it is very clearly palpable to us that keepers

of boarding-houses could a tale unfold of their own miseries, equal, if

not double that of the luckless creatures who board. That housekeeping

has its joys it would be vain to deny, but we need no ghost come from

the grave to inform us that the secrets of the kitchen are as numerous

and as harrowing, as all can attest that ever had occasion to keep house

or hire a "Betty."

When Mr. Peter Perriwinkle got married, he exclaimed against hotels, and

abominated boarding-houses; quitting both species of human habitations,

he "up" and rented a house, and to hear his glowing description of the

house--such a cosy little three-storied brick house, on a street too

broad for the neighbors opposite to see into his front parlors, and no

houses in the rear from which the prying eye of the curious and idle

could spy into back kitchen closets or dinner pots--in brief,

Perriwinkle went on with that strain of domestic eloquence, peculiar to

new beginners in the arts and mysteries of housekeeping, and after a

general detail of the quiet comfort and unalloyed happiness he and Mrs.

P. were bound to enjoy for the balance of their lives, we merely

observed--

"Ah, my dear sir, you've but the ephemeral bright side of your vision

yet. But no matter, dear Pete, as the man said of the sausages--hope for

the best, but be prepared for the worst."

"But, brother Jack, I've no reason to look for any thing but a good

time. Haven't I married one of the best women in the world? I'm too

experienced in life, my boy, to call any female women angels, doves, or

sugar plums, you know, but my wife is a real woman!"

"Yes, Pete, she is all that," said we.

"Well, ain't I square with the world? Enough laid up for a wet

day--don't care twopence ha'penny for politics, or soldier

fol-de-rols--who wins or who loses in such hums?"

"Granted, old fellow."

"I tell you I've a perfect little paradise of a house engaged, furnished

and provisioned for a twelvemonth."

"No doubt of all that."

"As to friends and acquaintances, I have plenty, and of the right

stripe, too; I'd swear to that without any reluctance."

"I hope, Peter, you have."

"Then what in faith do you imagine I have in embryo to upset or disturb

the even tenor of my way, old boy? Come, answer that."

"Does your domestic apparatus work well?"

"I haven't tried it yet."

"Are your appurtenances--your household appointments--from kitchen to

parlor, from coal cellar to top scuttle, all they are cracked up to be?"

"Well, you see, the fact is, I can't tell that, yet."

"Do your chimneys draw? Does your range or cooking stove do things up

brown? Have you got your Bettys?"

"I vow you've sort of got me this time, brother Jack; but I'll find out,

soon, and let you know."

"Do, if you please, Peter, and let us hear an account of how things are

working after the first quarter's experience."

Perriwinkle opened with a neat supper party. We attended, and every

thing looked cap-a-pie; new, tasteful and happy as any thing human

under God's providence and the art and judgment of man could promise. At

midnight the company dispersed, all wishing the Perriwinkles life, love,

and lots of the small fry.

Months passed, full three; we met our old and familiar friend, Peter

Perriwinkle, and as we had not seen him for some time, we met with

greetings most cordial.

"How is every thing, old boy--paradise regained?"

"Ah," said Peter, with an ominous shake of the head, "dear Jack,--we've

a great deal to learn in this world, and as our old friend Sam Veller

says, whether its worth while to pay so much to learn so little, at

cost--is a question."

"You begin to think so, eh?"

"Things don't work quite so smooth as I expected--I've moved!"

"What? Not so soon?"

"Yes, sir," said Perriwinkle; "that house was a nuisance!"

"A nuisance? Why, I thought you were in raptures with it?"

"Had water every wet spell, knee-deep in the cellar; full of rats, bugs,

and foul air."

"You don't say so?"

"Yes, I do," said Perriwinkle, mournfully. "Chimneys smoked, paper

peeled off the walls, Mrs. P. got the rheumatics, a turner worked all

night, next door, the fellow that had previously lived or stayed in the

house, ran off, leaving all his bills unpaid, and our door bell was

incessantly kept ringing by ugly and impudent duns, and the creditors of

the rascal, whom I did not know from a side of sole leather. I lived

there in purgatory!"

"Too bad," said we. "Well, you've moved, eh?"

"Moved--and such an infernal job as it was. You know the two vases I

received as a present from my brother, at Leghorn; I wouldn't have taken

$100 each, for them--"

"They are worth it; more too."

"The carman dropped one out of his hands, broke it into a half bushel of

flinders, and I hit the centre table upon which the other stood, with a

chair, and broke it into forty pieces. But, that wasn't any thing, sir.

My wife packed up the elegant set of china presented her by her sister,

in a large clothes basket, and set it out in the hall, and while our

Irish girl and the carman were carrying out a heavy trunk, the girl lost

her balance and fell bump into the basket. She weighed over two hundred

pounds--every article of the china was crushed into powder!"

"This was too bad," said we, condolingly.

"Our carpets were torn in getting them up, for I had them put down fast

and tight, never supposing they'd come up until thread-bare and out of

fashion; they were stained and daubed. The veneering of the piano and

other furniture is scratched and torn; a hundred small matters are

mutilated. Franklin thought a few moves was as bad as a fire; one move

convinces me that the old man was right. But, my dear fellow, I won't

bore you with my miseries. We are now moved, and look comfortable again.

Call and see us, do. Good bye."

About a fortnight after meeting Perriwinkle, one evening we went up town

to see him and his lady. Mrs. P., before marriage, was an uncommon

even-tempered and most amiable woman. She had now been married about six

months. Upon entering the parlor we found Mrs. P. laboring under much

"excitement," and poor Peter--he was doing his best to pacify and soothe

her--

"Halloo! what's the trouble?"--we were familiar enough to ask the

question--as they were alone, without intruding.

"Take a seat, John," said Perriwinkle. "Mrs. P. and the cook have had a

misunderstanding. A little muss, that's all."

"Mr. Humphries," responded the irritated wife, "you don't know how one's

temper and good nature are put out, sir, by housekeeping; by the

impudence, awkwardness, and wasteful habits of servants, sir."

"Oh! yes, we do, Mrs. P.; we've had our experience," we replied.

"Well, sir," she continued, "I have suffered so in ordering, directing,

and watching these women and girls--had my feelings so outraged by them,

time and again, since we began housekeeping, that I vow I am out of all

manner of patience and charity for them. We have had occasion to change

our help so often, that I finally concluded to submit to the awkwardness

that cost us sets of china, dozens of glasses, stained carpets, soiled

paints, smeared walls, rugs upon the top of the piano, and the piano

cloths put down for rugs; Mr. P.'s best linen used for mops, and

puddings boiled in night-caps. But, sir, when this evening I found the

dough-tray filled with the chambermaid's old clothes, she wiping the

lamps with our linen napkins, and the cook washing out her stockings in

the dinner pot--I gave way to my angry passions, and cried with

vexation!"

And she really did cry, for female blood of Mrs. P.'s pilgrim stock,

couldn't stand that, nohow.

P. S.--Perriwinkle and lady sold off, and took rooms at the Tremont

House, in order to preserve their morals and money.

Miseries of a Dandy.

That poverty is at times very unhandy--yea, humiliating, we can bear

witness; but that any persons should make their poverty an everlasting

subject of shame and annoyance to themselves, is the most contemptible

nonsense we know of. During our junior days, while officiating as "shop

boy," behind a counter in a southern city, we used to derive some fun

from the man[oe]uvres of a dandy-jack of a fellow in the same

establishment. He was of the bullet-headed, pimpled and stubby-haired

_genus_, but dressed up to the _nines_; and had as much pride as two

half-Spanish counts or a peacock in a barnyard.

Charley was mostly engaged in the ware rooms, laboratory, etc., up

stairs. He would arrive about 7 A. M., arrayed in the costume of _the

latest style_, as he flaunted down Chestnut Street--by the way, it was a

long, idle tramp, out of his road to do so,--his hair all frizzled up,

hat shining and bright as a May morn, his dickey so stiff he could

hardly expectorate over his _goatee_, while his "stunnin'" scarf and

dashing pin stuck out to the admiration of Charley's extensive eyes, and

the astonishment of half the clerks and all the shop boys along the line

of our Beau Brummell's promenade!

It was very natural to conceive that Charley was impressed with the

idea, that he was the envy of half the men, and the _beau_ ideal of all

the women he met! But your real dandy is no particular lover of women;

he very naturally so loves himself that he lavishes all his fond

affection upon his own person. So it was with our _beau_--he wouldn't

have risked dirtying his hands, soiling his "patent leathers," or

disarranging his scarf the thirteenth of an inch, to save a lady from a

mad bull, or being run down by a wheelbarrow! Charley, to be sure, would

walk with them, talk with them, beau them to the theatre, concert or

ball room, provided always--they were dressed all but to within half an

inch of their lives! The man who introduced a new and _stunnin_' hat,

scarf, or coat, Charley would swear friendship to, on sight! A shabby,

genteel person was his abomination; a patch or darn, utterly horrifying!

He lived, moved, breathed--ideally, his ideality based, of course, upon

ridiculous superfluities of life--leather and prunella, entirely.

Charley looked upon "a dirty day" as upon a villanously-dressed person,

while a bright, shining morn--giving him amplitude to make a "grand

dash," won from him the same encomiums to the producer that he would

bestow on the getter-up of an elegant pair of cassimeres--commendable

works of an artist! The _genus_ dandy, whether of savage or civilized

life, is a felicitous subject for peculiar, speculative, comparative

analogy or _analysis_; we shall pursue the shadow no farther, but come

to the substance.

After arriving at the establishment, Charley would strip off his "top

hamper," placing his finery in a closet with the care and diligence of a

maiden of thirty, and upwards. Then, donning a rude pair of over-alls

and coat, he condescended to go to work. Now, in the said establishment,

our _beau_ had few friends; the men, girls, and boys were "down" upon

him; the men, because of his dandyism; the females hated him, because

Charley stuck his long nose _up_ at "shop girls," and wouldn't no more

notice them in the streets, than if they were chimney sweepers or

decayed esculents! We boys didn't like him no how, generally, though it

was policy for him to treat us tolerably decent, because his pride made

it imperiously necessary that some of the "little breeches" should do

small chores, errands, bringing water from the street, carrying down to

_the shop_ goods, etc., which might otherwise devolve upon himself. But

men, girls and boys were always scheming and practising jokes and tricks

upon the _beau_. The boys would all rush off to dinner--first having so

dirtied the water, hid the towels and soap, that poor Charley would

necessarily be obliged to go down into the public street and bring up a

bucket of the clean element to wash his begrimed face and hands. And

mark the difficulties and _diplomacy_ of such an arrangement. Charley

would slip down into the lower entry, peep out to see if any body was

looking,--if a genteel person was visible, the _beau_ held back with his

bucket; after various reconnaissances, the coast would appear clear, and

the _beau_ would dash out to the pump, agitate "the iron-tailed cow"

with the force and speed of an infantile earthquake--snatch up the

bucket, and with one _dart_ hit the doorway, and glide up stairs,

thanking his stars that nobody "seen him do it!"

In one of these _forays_ for water, the _beau_ was decidedly cornered by

two of the "shop girls." They, sly creatures, observed poor Charley from

an upper "landing" of the stairway, in the entry below, watching his

chance to get a clear coast to fill his dirty bucket. The moment the

beau darted out, down rush the girls--slam to the door and bar it!

The _beau_, dreaming of no such diabolical inventions, gives the pump an

awful _surge_, fills the bucket, looks down the street, and--O! murder,

there come two ladies--the first _cuts_ of the city, to whom Charley had

once the honor of a personal introduction! With his face turned over his

shoulder at the _ladies_--his nether limbs desperately nerved for _tall

walking_,--he dashes at the supposed open entryway, and--nearly knocked

the panel out of the door, smashing the bucket, spilling the water, and

slightly killing himself!

It was almost "a cruel joke," in the girls, who, taking advantage of

the stunning effect of the operation, unbarred the door and vanished,

before poor Charley picked himself up and scrambled into the lower store

to recuperate.

Weeks ran on; the beau had enjoyed a respite from the wiles of his

persecutors, when one morning he was forced to come down into the store

in his working gear, well be-spattered with oleaginous substances, dust

and dirt; in this gear, Charley presented about as ugly and primitive a

looking Christian, as might not often--before California life was

dreamed of--be seen in a city. We _did_ quite an extensive retail

trade--the store was rarely free from _ton_-ish citizens, mostly "fine

ladies," in quest of fine perfumes, soaps, oils, etc., to sweeten and

decorate their own beautiful selves. But, before venturing in, our

_beau_ had an eye about the horizon, to see that no impediments offered;

things looked safe, and in comes the beau.

We were upon very fair terms with Charley, and he was wont to regale us

with many of his long stories about the company he _faced_ into, the

"conquests" he made, and the times he had with this and that, in high

life. Fanny Kemble was about that time--belle of the season! _Lioness_

of the day! setting corduroy in a high fever, and raising an awful

_furore_--generally! Alas! how soon such things--cave in!

Charley got behind the counter to stow away some articles he had brought

down, and began one of his usual harangues:

"Theatre, last night, Jack?"

"No; couldn't get off; wanted to," said we.

"O, you missed a grand opportunity to see the fashion beauty and wealthy

people of this city! Such a house! Crowded from pit to dome, met a

hundred and fifty of my friends--ladies of the first families in town,

with all the 'high boys' of my acquaintance!"

"And how did Fanny _do_ Juliet?" we asked.

"Do it? Elegant! I sat in the second stage box with the two Misses W.

(Chestnut street belles!) and Colonel S. and Sam. G., and his sister

(all _nobs_ of course!), and they were truly entranced with Miss

Kemble's Juliet! I threw for Miss G. her elegant bouquet,--Fanny kissed

her fingers to me, and with a _look_ at me, as I stood up so--(the beau

gave a tall _rear up_ and was about to spread himself, when glancing at

the door, he sees--two ladies! right in the store!) _thunder!_" he

exclaims.

If the beau had been hit by a streak of lightning, he would not have

_dropped_ sooner than he did, behind the counter.

The ladies proved to be _nobody_ else than those of the very two Misses

W. themselves; they lived close by, and frequently came to the store.

Beneath our counter were endless packages, broken glass, refuse oils,

rancid perfumes, dust, dirt, grease, charcoal, soap, and about

everything else dingy and offensive to the eye and nose. The place

afforded a wretched refuge for a hull so big and nice as our beau's, but

there he was, much in our _way_ too, with the mournful fact, for

Charley, that if those "fine ladies" stayed less than half an hour,

without overhauling about every article in the store, it would be a

white stone indeed in the fortunes of the beau! The ladies sat; they

dickered and examined--we exhibited and put away, the beau lying

crouched and crucifying at our feet, and we sniggering fit to burst at

the _contretemps_ of the poor victim. Charley stood it with the most

heroic resignation for full twenty minutes, when the two Misses W. got

up to go. Casting their eyes towards the door, who should be about to

pass but the divine Fanny!

Fanny Kemble! Seeing the two Misses W., whose recognition and

acquaintance was worth cultivating--even by the haughty queen of the

drama and belle of the hour; she rushed in, they all had a talk--and you

know how women can talk, will _talk_ for an hour or two, all about

nothing in particular, except to _talk_. Imagine our beau,--"Phancy his

phelinks," as _Yellow Plush_ says, and to heighten the effect, in comes

the boss! He comes behind the counter--he sees poor Charley

sprawling--he roars out:

"By Jupiter! Mr. Whackstack, are you sick? _dead_?"

"Dead?" utters Fanny.

"A man dead behind your counter, sir?" scream the Misses W.!

With one desperate _splurge_, up jumps the beau; rushes out, up

stairs--gets on his clothes, and we did not see him again for over two

years!

A Juvenile Joe Miller.

We observed a small transaction last Wednesday noon, on Hanover street,

that wasn't so coarse for an urchin hardly out of his swaddling clouts.

He was a cunning-looking little fellow, and poking his head into a shoe

shop, he bawls out in a very keen, fine, silvery voice--

"S-a-a-y, Mister-r-r--"

"Eh?--what?" says the shop-keeper.

"Somebody's got your boots out here!"

Supposing, of course, that somebody was pegging away with a bunch of his

_wares_ at the door, Lapstone rushes out and cries--

"Where?"

"There," says the shaver; "they're there--somebody's got 'em--hung up

'long your window there."

Lapstone seized a box lid to give the juvenile joker a flip, but he

scooted, grinning and ha! ha!-ing in the most provoking strain.

"Selling" a Landlord.

During the great gathering of people in Quakerdom, while the Whigs were

dovetailing in Old Zack, an artful dodger, a queer quizzing Boston

friend of mine, thought a little _side play_ wouldn't be out of the way,

so to work he goes to get up a muss, and I'll tell you how he managed

it, nice as wax.

Among the Boston delegates--self-constituted, _a la_ Gen. Commander--was

a certain gentleman, remarkable for his probity, decorum, and extreme

sensitiveness. Well, A., the _wag_, and B., the _victim_, landed

together, but selected, in the general overflow and hurly-burly,

different lodgings. Next morning, A. finds B. stowed away in ----'s

Hotel, fine as a fiddle, snug as a bug, in a good room, and doing about

_as_ well as could be expected. A. had had indifferent luck, and the

quarters he had lit upon were any thing but comfortable, the inmates of

the Hotel being stowed away in _tiers_, like herrings in a box. A.

thought he'd _oust_ his innocent and unsuspecting friend, and crack his

joke, if it cost a law suit, just for the sake of variety.

With the _address_, and _partly the_ dress--a white hat--of a man of the

_mace_, A. steps up to the bar of ----'s Hotel, and after carefully

scrutinizing the register, finds the autograph of the victim, then

smiles suspiciously, enough to say to the observant bar-keeper--

"Aha! I've found him!" Then leaning cautiously forward towards that

person, says A.--

"Is this man here yet? Is he in the house?"

"I b'leave he is, sur,--I know he is, sur," says the Milesian,

overlooking the register himself.

"Come here last night?" continues A., in his suspicious strain.

"He did, sur!" answers the grog-mixer.

"Has nothing but a valise and umbrella?" says A.

"Nothing else, sur, I believe," is the reply.

"That's him! that's him! I've found him!" exultantly exclaims A., while

the bar-keeper and landlord, who had now come forward, eagerly wanted to

know if any thing was wrong with the gentleman whose arrival was being

discussed.

"Step aside, sir," says A. to the proprietor; "I don't want any

disturbance made, at such a time; it might do your fine establishment

more harm than good; _but_, there is a person stopping in your house

that I have followed from Boston; I have kept my eye on his

movements(!); I know his designs, his practices, _well_; I'm on his

track--he dodged me last night, but I've found him--"

"Well, do you pretend to assert that this man (scrutinizing the

register) is a pick-pocket, a thief, or something of the kind, sir?"

earnestly inquired the proprietor.

"You keep _mum_, sir," said A., coolly tapping the lappel of the

landlord's coat--"I've got him _safe!_ Let him rest for awhile--I've got

him! Do you understand?" says the wag, winking a knowing, significant

_wink_ at the landlord.

"No, cuss me if I do understand you, sir!" sharply replies the landlord.

"If there is a dangerous or disreputable person in my house, sir, I

would thank you to tell me, sir, and I will soon put him where the dogs

won't bite him, sir!"

"There is no use of unnecessary alarm, my friend," says A., in a low

tone; "the truth is, this person whom I have followed here, has made a

heavy _draw_ on one of our Boston banks, by means of certain checks and

certificates, and--"

"Oho! That's it, eh?" interposes the landlord, beginning to see his

guest in a more _dignified_ light, that of a splendid thief; so his

rigid frown, called in play by the supposition that a petty rascal was

on his premises, subsided into a wise smile, which A. interrupts with--

"You've hit it; but keep quiet! Don't let us go too _far_ before we're

sure the bird is in our cage. He's worth attending to; I'm not sure he's

_got_ the abstracted money about him; but when he settles with you, just

notice the size of his wallet, and its contents; may have an officer

handy, if you like. If he has a large roll of notes, especially on the

Traders' Bank, nab him, and keep him until I come," said A.

"Where do you stop, sir?" inquired the landlord.

"At the ----, Chestnut street," A. replies.

"Shall be attended to, sir, I warrant you. Is there a reward out, sir,

for this person?" says the landlord.

"O! no; it has all been kept quiet. _Policy_, you see; he left in such a

hurry, he thought he'd be lost sight of in this crowd here in your city.

If he has the money, we'll make 'a spec,' you understand?"

"I see, I see," said the befogged landlord; "I'll keep a sharp look out

for him, and let you know the moment I find him fairly out."

That afternoon, as B. called for his bill at the bar of ----'s Hotel,

the landlord was _about_, all in a _twitter_, with two policemen in the

distance, and sundry especial friends hanging about, to whom the

landlord had unbosomed the affair. All were anxiously watching the

result of the business. B. hands forth his capacious wallet, stuffed

with "_documents_" of the Traders' Bank, of Boston,--from which

institution he had _drawn_ a pile of funds, to invest in coal at

Richmond,--and no sooner did B. place an X, of the Traders' Bank, upon

the bar, than the excited landlord's eyes danced like shot on a hot

shovel, and giving the constables the _cue_, poor B. found himself

_waited upon_, in a brace of shakes, by those two custodians, while the

landlord grabbed the wallet out of B.'s hand, with a suddenness that

completely mesmerized him.

"Gentlemen," says the landlord to the officers, "do your duty!"

"Why, look here!" says B., squirming about in the grasp of the officers,

and reaching over for the landlord and his wallet--"what the thunder are

you about? Come, I say, none of your darn'd nonsense now; let me go, I

tell you, and hand back that wallet, Mister ----."

But B. was "a goner." They favored him with no explanation, of course,

and were about trotting him forth to the Mayor's office, when a well

known Anthracite merchant came in, in quest of B. Some inquiry followed,

explanation ensued, and the result was, that after poor B. got a little

reconciled to the _joke_, he joined issue with a laughing chorus at the

expense of the _sold_ landlord, who, in consideration of all hands

keeping _mum_, put the party through a course of juleps.

I may as well observe, that I regret there is no particular _moral_ to

this sketch.

Scientific Labor.

"Bob, what yer doing now?"

"Aiding Nat'ral History."

"Aiding Nat'ral History--what do yer mean by that?"

"Why every time the kangaroo jumps over the monkey, I hold his tail

up."

Who was that Poor Woman?

I do not know a feminine--from the piney woods of Maine to the

Neuces--so given to popularity, newspaper philippics, and city item

bombards, as Aunt Nabby Folsom, of the town of Boston. The name and

doings of Aunt Nabby are linked with nearly all popular cabals in

Faneuil Hall, the "Temple," "Chapel," or Melodeon--from funeral orations

to political caucusses--Temperance jubilees to Abolition flare ups; for

Aunt Nabby never allows _wind_, weather or subject, time, place or

occasion, to prevent her "full attendance." The police, and over-zealous

auditors, at times _snake her down_ or crowd her old straw bonnet, but

Aunt Nabby is always sure of the polite attention of the "Reporters,"

and shines in their notes, big as the biggest toad in the puddle.

Indeed, Aunt Nabby is one of 'em!--a perfect she-male Mike Walsh. She

will have her _say_, though a legion of constables stood at the door;

her principal _stand-point_ is the freedom of speech and woman's rights,

and she goes in tooth and nail _agin law_, Marshal Tukey, and the entire

race-root and rind of the Quincys--particularly strong! Aunt Nabby is

subject to a series, too tedious to mention, of "sells" by the _quid

nuncs_ and rapscallions of the day, and one of these "sells" is the pith

of my present paper.

It so fell out, when Jenny Lind arrived here, about every fool within

five-and-fifty miles ran their heels and brazen faces after the

Nightingale and her carriage wherever she went, from her bed-chamber to

her dinner table, from her drawing-room to the Concert Hall. It took

Barnum and his whole "private secretary" force and equal number of

policemen and servants, besides Stephens himself, of the Revere, and his

bar-keeper, to keep the mob from rushing pell-mell up stairs and

surrounding Jenny as Paddy did the Hessians.

Now and then a desperate fellow got in--had an audience, grinned, backed

down and went his way, tickled as a dog with two tails. Others were

victimized by notes from Barnum (!) or Miss Lind's "private secretary,"

offering an interview, and many of these transactions were "rich and

racy" enough, in all conscience, for the pages of a modern Joe Miller.

But Aunt Nabby Folsom's time was about as rich as the raciest, and will

bear rehearsing--easy.

"Good morning, sir," said a pleasing-looking, neatly-dressed, elderly

lady, to the two scant yards of starch and dickey behind Stephens' slab

of marble at the Revere.

"Good morning, ma'am," responded the _clark_, who, not knowing exactly

who the lady was, _jerked_ down his well-oiled and brushed "wig and

whiskers" to the entire satisfaction of the matronly lady, who went on

to say--

"I wish to see Miss Lind, sir."

"Guess she's engaged, ma'am."

"Well, but I've an invitation, sir, from Miss Lind, to call at 9 A. M.

to-day. I like to be punctual, sir; my time is quite precious; I called

precisely as desired; Miss Lind appointed the time; and----"

"Oh, very well, very well, ma'am," said the _clark_, with a flourish,

"if Miss Lind has invited you----"

"Why, of course she has! Here's her--"

"O, never mind, ma'am; all correct, I presume."

The "pipes" and bells soon had the attendance of a gang of

white-jacketed, polish-faced Paddies, and the elderly lady was

marshalled, double-file, towards the apartments of the Nightingale.

Jenny had but just "turned out," and was "feeding" on the right wing and

left breast of a lark, the leg of a canary, "a dozen fried" humming

bird eggs--her customary fodder of a morning.

The servants passed the countersigns, and the elderly lady was

admitted--the Nightingale, without disturbing the ample folds of her

camel's hair dressing-gown--a present from the Sultan of all the

Turkies, cost $3,000--motioned the matron to squat, and as soon as she

got her throat in talking order, said--

"Goot mornins."

"How do you do?" responds the old lady.

"Pooty well, tank'ees. You have some breakest? No!"

"No, ma'am. I've had my breakfast three hours ago."

"Yes? indeed! you rise up early, eh?--Well, it is goot for ze hels, eh?"

"So my doctor says," responded the matron. "But I like to get up and be

stirring around."

"Ah! yes; you stir around, eh? What you stir around?"

"Well, Miss Lind, I'll tell you what I stir around. I-stir-the-monsters

(Miss Lind looks sharp)

who-try-to-trample-on-the-universal-rights-_of-woman!_ (The matron 'up'

and gesticulating like the brakes of an engine--Miss Lind drops her

eating tools--eyes of the two servants bulge out!) A-n-d

I-stir-the-demagogues-who-assemble-in-Faneuil-Hall (down with the

brakes!), to prevent-the-freedom-of-speech (rush upon the brakes!),

a-a-n-d-put-me-down!"

It was evident that the appetite of the Nightingale was getting

spoiled--she looked suspicious, and, just in time to prevent the female

orator--who was no other personage, of course, than Aunt Nabby Folsom,

from ripping into a regular caucus fanfaronade of gamboge and gas, a

knock upon the door announced a "call" for Miss Lind, to dress and

appear to a fresh lot of bores--yclept the Mayor and his suit of

Deacons, soup, pork and bean-venders.

"Ah! yes; I will be ready in one min't. Madame, you will please come

again; once more, adieu--good mornins--adieu!"

And Aunt Nabby, in spite of her ancient teeth, found herself bowed--half

way down stairs--into the hall, and clean out doors, before she caught

her breath to say another word upon the interminable subject of the

freedom of speech and woman's rights!

But Aunt Nabby "blowed"--O! didn't she _blow_ to the various tea and

toast coteries, scandal and slang express women--and the various knots

of anxious crowds who stood about Bowdoin Square during the Lind mania!

Aunt Nabby had had a genuine _tete-a-tete_ with the Nightingale--and,

ecod, an invitation to call again! But Jenny Lind, and her cordon of

sentinels, secretaries and suckers, were "fly" for the old screech owl,

when again and again she beset the _clark_ and the stairways of the

Revere. Though Aunt Nabby hung on and growled dreadfully, she finally

caved in and kept away.

When Jenny Lind gave the proceeds of one concert to charitable purposes,

among the items set down in the list was--"A poor woman--_one hundred

dollars!_"

"Why, it's you, of course," said a _quid-nunc_, to Aunt Abby, as she

held the Evening Transcript in her hands, in the store of Redding & Co.,

and observed the interesting item above alluded to.

"Well, so I think," says Aunt Nabby. "If I ain't a poor woman, and a

var-tuous woman, and a good and _true woman_ (down came her brakes on

the book piles), I'd like to know where--_where_, on this univarsal

_yearth_ (down with the brakes), you'd find one! One hundred dollars to

a poor woman," she continued, reading the item. "I must be the

person--yes, Abigail, _thou art the man!_" she concluded in her favorite

apothegm.

The _quid_ gave Abby the residence of the Agent (!) who was to disburse

the Lind charities, and away went Abby to the Agent, who happened to be

an amateur joker; knowing Aunt Abby, and smelling a "sell," he told the

old 'un that Mr. Somerby, of No. -- Cornhill, the joker of the Post, was

the Agent, and would shell out next morning, at nine o'clock. At that

hour, S. had Aunt Nabby in his sanctum. He knew the ropes, so assured

Abby that there was a mistake; Charles Davenport, of Cornhill, rear of

Joy's building, was the man. Charles D. informed Aunt Nabby, that he had

declined to disburse for Miss Lind, but that Bro. Norris, of the Yankee

Blade, had the pile, and was serving it out to an excited mob. Norris

declared that she was in error. She was not, by a jug full, the only,

poor woman in town, and didn't begin to be _the_ poor woman set forth in

Miss Lind's schedule! But Aunt Nabby wasn't to be _done!_ She besieged

Miss Lind--followed her to the cars--mounted the platform--Jenny espied

her, and to avoid a harangue on the freedom of speech and woman's

rights, hid her head in her cloak. The last exclamation the Nightingale

heard from the screech owl, was--

"Miss Jane Lind--who was that poor wom-a-n?"

Infirmities of Nature.

Some folks are easily glorified. We once knew a man who became so elated

because he was elected first sergeant in the militia, that he went home

and put a silver plate on his door. Ollapod, in speaking of this kind of

people, makes mention of one Sabin, who was so overjoyed the first time

he saw his name in the list of letters, advertised by the post-office,

that he called his friends together and put them through on woodcock.

Andrew Jackson and his Mother.

It is a most singular, or at least curious fact, connected with the

histories of most all eminent men, that they were denied--by the decrees

of stern poverty, or an all-wise Providence--those facilities and

indulgences supposed to be so essentially necessary for the future

success and prosperous career of young men, but acted as "whetstones" to

sharpen and develop their true temper! The fact is very vivid in the

early history of Andrew Jackson--a name that, like that of the great,

godlike Washington, must survive the wreck of matter, the crush of

worlds, and, passing down the vista of each successive age, brighter and

more glorious, unto those generations yet to come, when time shall have

obliterated the asperities of partisan feeling, and learned to deal most

gently with the human frailties of the illustrious dead.

Andrew Jackson, senior, emigrated from Ireland in 1765, with his wife

and two boys--Hugh and Robert, both very young; they landed at

Charleston, S. C, where Jackson found employment as a laborer, and

continued to work thus for several years, until, possessed of a few

dollars, he went to the interior of the state and bought a small place

near Waxhaw. About this time, 1767, Andrew Jackson, Jr., was born, and

during the next year--by the time the infant could lisp the name of his

parent--the father fell sick of fever and died. Mrs. Jackson, left with

three small children, in an almost wild country, where nothing but toil

of a severe and arduous kind could provide a subsistence, was indeed in

a most grievous situation. But she appears to have been a woman of no

ordinary temperament, courage, and perseverance, for she continued

cheerfully the work left her--rearing her boys, and preparing them for

the situations in life they might be destined to fill. Mrs. Jackson was

a woman of some information, and a strong advocate for the rights and

liberties of men; as, it is said, she not only gave her boys their first

rudiments of an English education, but often indulged in glowing

lectures to them of the importance of instilling in their hearts and

principles an unrelenting war against pomp, power, and circumstance of

monarchical governments and institutions! She led them to know that they

were born free and equal with the best of earth, and that that position

was to be their heritage--maintained even at the peril of life and

property! and how well he learned these chivalric lessons, the

countrymen of Andrew Jackson need not now be told, as it was exemplified

in every page of his whole history.

Hugh, Robert, and Andrew, were now the widow's hope and treasures; Hugh

and Robert were her main dependence in working their little farm, and

Andrew, never a very robust person, was early sent to the best schools

in the neighborhood, and much care taken by his mother to have him at

least educated for a profession--the ministry. This resolve was more

perhaps decided upon from the naturally stern, contemplative, and fixed

principles of young Jackson; as at the early age of fifteen, he was by

nature well prepared for the scenes being enacted around him, and in

which, even those young as himself, were called upon to take an active

part. This was in the days of the revolution, when the weak in numbers

of this continent were about to try the _experiment_ of living free and

independent, and establish the fact that royalty was an imposition and a

humbug, only maintained by arrogance and pomp at the point of the

bayonet.

The British had begun the war--already had the echoes of "Bunker Hill,"

and the smell of "villainous saltpetre," invaded and aroused the quiet

dwellers in the woods and wilds of South Carolina, and the chivalric

spirit that has ever characterized the men of the Palmetto state, at

once responded to the tocsin of _liberty_. It was with no slight degree

of sorrow and aching of the mother's heart, that she saw her two sons,

Hugh and Robert, shoulder their muskets and join the Spartan band that

assembled at Waxhaw Court-house. But she blessed her children and gave

up her holy claim of a mother's love, for the common cause of the infant

nation.

Cornwallis and his army crossed the Yadkin, Lord Rawden, with a large

force, took the town of Camden, and began a desolation of the adjacent

country. Being apprised of a "rebel force" in arms at Waxhaw, he

immediately dispatched a company of dragoons, with a company of

infantry, to capture or disperse the "rebels." About forty men,

including the two boys Jackson, were attacked by these veterans of the

British army, but aided by their true courage, a good cause, and perfect

knowledge of the country, they gave the invaders a hot reception, and

many of the enemy were killed; and not until having made the most

determinate resistance, and being overwhelmed by the great majority of

the opposing forces, did these patriots retreat, leaving many of their

friends dead upon their soil, and eleven of their number prisoners in

the hands of the British. It was during this fight that Andrew

Jackson--a mere lad--hearing the noise of the conflict, while he sat in

the log-house of his mother, besought her to allow him to take his

father's gun, and fly to join his brothers. And it was vain that the

parent restrained him, knowing the temperament of the boy, from this

dangerous determination; for with one warm embrace and parting kiss upon

the brow of his mother, Andrew Jackson buckled on his powder-horn and

bullet-pouch, and rushed to the scene of battle. But his friends were

already flying, and hotly pursued by the enemy. Andrew met his brother

Robert, who informed him of the death of their elder brother, Hugh; the

two boys now fled together and concealed themselves in the woods, where

they lay until hunger drove them forth--they sought food at a farm

house, the owner of which proved to be a _tory_, and gave information to

some soldiers in the vicinity--the Jacksons were both captured and led

to prison. In the affray--for they yielded only by force--Robert was cut

on the head by a sword in the hands of a petty officer, and he died in

great agony in prison. It was here and then that the firm and manly

bearing of the boy was exhibited; for he stood his griefs and

imprisonment like a true hero. Not a tear escaped him by which his

enemies might be led to believe he feared their power, or wavered in his

allegiance to the cause of his country.

"Here, _boy_, clean my boots!" said an officer to him. But the bright

defiant eye of the boy smote the captor with a look, and as he curled

his firm lips in scorn, he answered,

"No, sir, I will _not!_"

"You won't? I'll tie you, you young saucy rebel, to your post, and skin

your back with a horse whip, if you do not clean my boots."

"Do it," said the lion-hearted boy--"for I'll not stoop to clean the

boots of your master!"

The infuriated ruffian drew his sword, and to defend his head from the

blow, Andrew threw up his little hand and received a gash--the scar of

which went with him to the tomb at the Hermitage. A Captain Walker, of

South Carolina, with a dozen or twenty men, during the imprisonment of

Andrew Jackson, made a desperate charge upon a company of the British,

near Camden, and captured thirteen of them; these prisoners he exchanged

for seven of his countrymen, including the boy Andrew Jackson, prisoners

of the enemy. Andrew hurried home--his poor old mother was upon her

death bed, attended by an old negro nurse of the Jackson family, and

suffering not only from the great multitude of grief consequent upon the

death of her heroic sons, but for want of the common necessaries of

life, the invaders having stripped the widow of her last pound of

provisions. The life-spark rekindled in the eye of the mother, as she

beheld her darling boy safe at her bedside--she grasped his hand with

the firmness of a dying woman, and turning her eyes upon the now weeping

boy, said,

"Andrew, I leave you,--son, you will soon be alone in the world; be

faithful, be true to God and your country--that--when--the--hour of

death approaches you--will have--nothing to--dread--every thing--to hope

for."

* * * * *

Andrew was taken ill after the burial of his mother, and but for the

constant and tender care of the old black nurse--the last of the Jackson

family--would have then passed away; he recovered--he was alone--not a

relative in the world; poor, and in a land ravaged by a foreign foe,

could a boy be more desolate and lonely? With a few "effects" thrown

upon his shoulders, he went to North Carolina, Salisbury, where he

entered the office of a famed lawyer--Spruce M'Cay--was admitted to the

bar in 1778--went to Tennessee--served as a soldier in the Indian wars

of 1783--chosen a Senator 1797--Major General in 1801--whipped the

British in the most conclusive manner at New Orleans in 1815, and

triumphantly elected President of the United States for eight years in

1829. Andrew Jackson followed his mother's advice, and he not only

triumphed over his hard fortune, but died a Christian, full of hope, in

1845.

Snaking out Sturgeons.

We have roared until our ribs fairly ached, at the relation of the

following "item" on sturgeons, by a loquacious friend of ours:--

It appears our friend was located on the Kennebec river, a few years

ago, and had a number of hands employed about a dam, and the sturgeons

were very numerous and extremely docile. They would frequently come

poking their noses close up to the men standing in the water, and one of

the men bethought him how delicious a morsel of pickled sturgeon was,

and he forthwith made a preparation to "snake out" a clever-sized fish.

Getting an iron rod at the blacksmith's shop, close at hand, he bends up

one end like a fish hook, and, slipping out into the stream, he slily

places the hook under the sturgeon's nose and into its round hole of a

mouth, expecting to fasten on to the victimized, harmless fish, and

"yank" him clean and clear out of his watery element. But, "lordy,"

wasn't he mistaken and surprised! The moment the hook touched the inside

of the sturgeon's mouth, the creature backed water so sudden and

forcibly as to near jerk the holder of the hook's head from its socket.

The poor fellow was forty rods under water, and going down stream,

before he mustered presence of mind enough to induce him to let go the

hook!

However, the lookers-on of this curious man[oe]uvre took a boat and

fished out their half-drowned comrade, who concluded that he had paid

pretty dearly for his whistle.

The sturgeon-catching did not end here. After the laugh of the

above-mentioned adventure had ceased, some one offered to bet a hat that

he could hold a sturgeon and snake him clean out of the water; and as

the man who _had_ tried the experiment felt altogether dubious about it,

he at once bet that the sturgeon would be more than a match for any man

in the crowd.

The wager was duly staked, a rod crooked, the operator tucked up his

sleeves and trowsers, and wades out to where a sturgeon or two were

lying off in the shallow water. Of course the operation now became a

matter of considerable interest; and as the man was a stout, hearty

fellow, able to hold a bull by the horns, few entertained doubts of his

bringing out _his_ sturgeon.

After a long time the operator gets his hook under the sturgeon, and

leans forward to stick it close into the jaws of the victim; and no

sooner was that part of the feat accomplished, than Mr. Sturgeon "backs

out" with the velocity of chain lightning, carrying his assailant under

water and down stream! The man held on; and there they went, foaming and

pitching, until the fellow, finding his breath nearly out of his body;

his neck, arms, and legs just about dislocated, concluded to lose the

hat and let the hook and sturgeon go!

Pretty well used up, the poor fellow succeeded in getting out of the

river, a convert to the first experimental idea of the strength and

velocity of fish, especially a big sturgeon.

Beginning to imagine that fish could swim, or had some muscular power,

several of the bystanders were rife for experimenting on the sturgeons.

Another iron rod was converted into a hook, and two burly-built Paddys

volunteered to hook the fish. An opportunity was not long waited for,

ere a jolly good elastic nosed genus sturgeon came smelling up close to

where the Paddys had posted themselves upon some moss-covered, slippery

stones, and with a sudden spasmodic effort, the man with the hook

planted it firmly into the suction hole of the fish, while his companion

held on to a rope fast to the hook. Before Pat could say Jack Robinson,

of course he was jerked off his feet, and, letting go the iron, the

other Paddy and the sturgeon set sail, having all the fun to themselves!

This proved, or very nearly so, a serious _denouement_ to the

sturgeon-catching by hand, for Paddy was carried clean and clear off

soundings, and so repeatedly immersed in deep water, that his life was

within an ace of being wet out of his body. The rope parted at last

(poor Pat never thought of letting go his "hould"), and being dipped out

of the liquid element and rolled over a barrel until his insides were

emptied of the water, and heat restored through the influence of

whiskey, he recovered, and further experimenting on sturgeons, that

season, in the Kennebec, ceased.

Mixing Meanings--Mangling English.

There is an individual in Quincy Market, "doing business," who is down

on customers who don't speak proper.

"What's eggs, this morning?" says a customer.

"_Eggs_, of course," says the dealer.

"I mean--how do they _go_?"

"Go?--where?"

"Sho--!" says the customer, getting up his _fury_, "what for eggs?"

"Money, money, sir! or good endorsed credit!" says the dealer.

"Don't you understand the English language, sir?" says the customer.

"Not as you mix it and mangle it; I don't!" responded the egg merchant.

"What--is--the--price--per--dozen--for--your--eggs?"

"Ah! now you talk," says the dealer. "Sixteen cents per dozen, is the

price, sir!" They traded!

Waking up the Wrong Passenger.

In "comparing notes" with a travelled friend, I glean from his stock of

information, gathered South-west, a few incidents in the life of a

somewhat extensively famed Boston panoramic artist--one of which

incidents, at least, is worth rehearsing. Some years ago, the South-west

was beset by an organized coalition of desperadoes, whose daring

outrages kept travellers and the dwellers in the Mississippi valley in

continual fear and anxiety. "Running niggers" was one of the most

popular and profitable branches of the business pursuits of these

gentlemen freebooters, and, next to horse-stealing, was the most

practised.

At length, the citizens "measured swords" with the freebooters, or land

pirates, more properly; forming themselves into committees, the citizens

opened _Court_ and practised Judge Lynch's _code_ upon a multitude of

just occasions. At the time of which we write, Mill's Point, on the

Mississippi, was no great shakes of a _town_, but a spot where a very

considerable amount of whiskey was drank, and a corresponding quantity

of crime and desperate doings were enacted; indeed, some of the worst

scenes in Southern Kentucky's tragic dramas were performed there. It so

fell out, that some of the land pirates had been actively engaged in

levying upon the negroes and mules around Mill's Point, and the

protective committee were on the alert to capture and administer the law

upon these fellows. It was discovered, one evening, as the shades of a

black and rather tempestuous night were closing upon the mighty "father

of waters" and his ancient banks, that a mysterious _voyageur_, or sort

of piratical _vidette_, was seen in his light canoe, hugging the shore,

either for shelter or some insidious purpose.

The canoe and its navigator were diligently watched; but the coming

storm and darkness soon closed observation, and the parties noticing the

transaction hurried forward to the _Point_, and announced one or more of

the land pirates in the neighborhood! Of course, the town--of some four

houses, six "groceries," a _store_ and blacksmithery--was aroused,

indignant! Impatient for a victim, the _posse comitatus_ "fired up,"

armed to the teeth with pistol, bludgeon, blunderbuss, gun, bowie-knife,

and--whiskey, started up the river to reconnoitre and intercept the

pirate and his crew.

Each nook and corner along shore, for some three miles, was

carefully--as much so as the darkness would admit--scoured. The

Storm-King rode by, the stars again twinkled in the azure-arched

heavens, and soon, too, the bright silver moon beamed forth, and

suddenly one of the vigilant committee espies the land-pirate and his

canoe noiselessly floating down the rapid stream! No time was to be

lost; the committee man, rather pleased with the fact of his being the

first to make the discovery, apprised a comrade, and the two hurried

back to the Point, to get a canoe and start out to capture the enemy.

The canoe was obtained, three courageous men, armed to the teeth, as the

saying goes, paddled off, and indeed they had not far to paddle, for

right ahead they saw the mysterious canoe of the enemy! Where was the

pirate? Asleep! Lying down in his frail vessel; either asleep, or

"playing possum." At all events, the Mills-Pointers gave the enemy but a

brief period to sleep or act; for, dashing alongside, a brawny arm

seized the victim in the strange canoe by the breast and throat, with

such a rush and fierceness that both canoes were upon the apex of

"swamping."

"Don't move! Don't budge an inch, or you're a case for eels, you thief!"

"Make catfish bait of him at once!" yelled the second.

"Don't move," cried the third, "don't move, you possum, or you're

giblets, instanter!"

But these injunctions scarcely seemed necessary, for, even had the

captive been so inclined, he neither possessed the power nor opportunity

to move a limb.

"Haul him out," cried one.

"Yes, lug him into our boat," said another; "so now, you skunk, lay

still; don't open your trap, or I'll brain you on sight!"

Having transferred the body of the captive from his "own canoe" to

theirs, the Mills-Pointers made fast the stranger's _dug-out_, and then

paddled for the landing. The pirate was duly hauled ashore, or on to the

_wharf-boat_, and left under guard of one of the captors--a dreadful

ugly-looking customer, a _cross_ between a whiskey-cask, bowie-knife,

and a Seminole Indian or bull-dog, and armed equal to an arsenal--while

the other two went up to the nearest "grocery," reported the capture,

took a drink, and sent out word for _Court_ to meet. The poor victim was

deposited on his back across some barrels, with his hands tied behind

him. Recovering his scattered senses, the _pirate_ "waked up."

"Look here, my virtuous friend," said he to his body-guard, who sat on

an opposite barrel, with a heavy pistol in his hand, "what's all this

about?"

"Shet up!" responded the guard; "shet up your gourd. You'll know what's

up, pooty soon, you ugly cuss, you!"

"Well, that's explicit, anyhow!" coolly continued the captive. "But all

I want to know, is--am I to be robbed, killed off, or only initiated

into the mysteries of your craft?"

"Shet up, you piratin' cuss, you; shet up, or I'll give you a settler!"

was the reply.

[Illustration: "Shet up, you piratin' cuss you; shet up or I'll give you

a settler!--_Page_ 305.]

"Well, really, you are accommodating," cavalierly replied the but little

daunted captive. "One thing consoling I glean, my virtuous friend, from

your scraps of information--you are not a pirate yourself, or in favor

of that science! But I should like to know, old fellow, where I am, and

what the deuce I'm here for."

"Well, you'll soon diskiver the perticklers, for here comes the _Court_,

and they'll have you dancin' on nothin' and kickin' at the wind, pooty

soon; you kin stake your pile on that!"

And with this, a hum was heard, and soon a mob of a dozen

well-_stimulated_ citizens, and strangers about the Point, came rushing

and yelling on to the wharf-boat and were quite as immediately gathered

around the captive. The first impulse of the _posse comitatus_ appeared

to manifest itself in a desire to hang the victim--straight up! A second

(how _sober_ we know not) thought induced them to ask a question or two,

and for this purpose the presiding _judge_ drew up before the still

prostrate captive, and said--

"Who are you? What have you got to say for yourself, anyhow?"

The sunburnt, ragged, and rather romantic-looking prisoner turned his

face towards the _judge_, and replied--

"I have nothing of consequence to say, neighbor. I would like to know,

however, what all this means!"

"Where's your crew, you villain?" said the _judge_.

"Crew? I have never found it necessary to have any, neighbor; navigation

never engrossed a great deal of my attention, but I get along down here

very well--without a crew!"

"You do?" responded the _judge_; "well, we're going to hang you up."

"You are, eh?" was the cool reply; "well, I have always been opposed to

capital punishment, neighbor, and I know it would be unpleasant to me

now!"

The quiet manner of his reply rather won upon the _Court_, and says the

_judge_--

"Who are you, and where are you from?"

"My name is Banvard--John Banvard, from Boston!"

"It is, eh? What are you doing along here, alone in a canoe?"

"_Taking a panorama of the Mississippi, neighbor, that's all._"

The _Court_ adjourned _sine die_; the clever artist was untied, treated

to the best the market afforded, that night; his canoe, rifle, &c.,

restored next day, and John went on his way rejoicing in his narrow

escape--finished his sketches, and the first great panorama "got up" in

our country, and which he took to Europe, after making a fortune by it

in America.

Genius for Business.

It's a highly prized faculty in shop-keeping to sell something when a

customer comes in, if you can. A female relative of ours went into a

Hanover street fancy store 'tother day, to "look over" some ivory card

and needle cases; the slightly agricultural-looking clerk "flew around,"

and when the question "Have you any ivory card cases?" was propounded,

he responded--

"Not any, mum;" glancing into the show-case, his visual orbs _lit_ upon

a profusion of well-known matters in domestic economy, for the

abrogation of certain parasitic insects.

"Haven't any card cases, mum,--_got some elegant ivory small-tooth

combs!_"

Have You Got Any Old Boots?

No slight portion of the ills that flesh is heir to, in a city life, is

the culinary item of rent day. Washing day has had its day--machines and

_fluid_ have made washing a matter of science and ease, and we are no

longer bearded by fuming and uncouth women in the sulks and suds, as of

yore, on the day set apart for renovating soiled dimities and dickeys.

Another and more important matter, from the extent of its obnoxiousness

to our nerves and temper, has come home to our very threshold and

hearths, to disturb the even tenor of our domestic quietude and peace.

"_Have you got any ole boots?_"

Boston lost a good citizen by those bell-pulling, gate-whacking,

back-door-pounding infernal collectors of time and care-worn _boots_.

The old boot gatherers were almost as diverting as novel to me, when I

first located in Boston; but I have long since learned to hate and abhor

them, and their co-laborers in the tin-pan, tape, tea-pot, willow work,

and white pine ware trade, with a most religious enthusiasm.

"_Have you got any ole boots?_"

How often--a hundred times at least, have I gone to the door and heard

this inquiry--ten times in one day, for I kept count of it, and used

enough "strong language" at each shutting--banging to of the door, to

last a "first officer" through a gale of wind.

"_Have you got any ole boots?_"

The idea of jumping up from your beef steak and coffee, or morning

paper--just as you had got into a deeply interesting bit of information

on "breadstuff's," California, or the Queen's last baby, to open your

door, and espy a grim-visaged and begrimed son of the Emerald Isle,

just rearing his phiz above the pyramid of ancient and defiled leather,

and meekly asking--

"_Have yez got any ole boots?_"

These _collectors_ are of course prepared for any amount of explosive

_gas_ you may shower down upon their uncombed crowns, as the cool and

perfectly-at-home manner they descend your steps to mount those of your

next-door neighbor plainly indicates. The "pedlers" and--

"_Have you got any ole boots?_"

Drove my respected--middle-aged friend Mansfield--clear out of town! Mr.

Mansfield was a _retired_ flour merchant; he was not rich, but well to

do in the world. He had no children of his own, in lieu of which,

however, he had become responsible for the "bringing up" of two orphans

of a friend. One of these children was a boy, old enough to be

_devilish_ and mightily inclined that way. The boy's name was Philip,

the foster father he called Uncle Henry, and not long after arriving in

town, and opening house at the South End, Mr. Mansfield--who was given

to quiet musings, book and newspaper reading--found that he was likely

to become a victim to the aforesaid hawkers, pedlers and old boot

collectors.

Uncle Henry stood it for a few months, with the firmness of an

experienced philosopher, laying the flattering unction to his soul that,

however harrowing--

"_Got any ole boots to-day?_"

might be to him, for the present, he could grin and bear and finally get

used to it, as other people did. But Uncle Henry possessed an irritable

and excitable temperament, that not one man in ten thousand could boast

of, and hence he grew--at length sour, then savage, and, finally, quite

meat-axish, towards every outsider who dared to ring his bell, and

proffer wooden ware and tin fixins, for rags and rubbers, or make the

never-to-be-forgotten inquiry--

"_Have you got any ole boots to-day?_"

Always at home, seated in his front parlor, and his frugal wife not

permitting the expense of a servant, Uncle Henry, or Master Philip, were

obliged to wait on the door. The old gentleman finally concluded that

the pedlers and old boot collectors, more as a matter of daily amusement

than profit or concern--gave him a call. And laboring under this

impression, Uncle Henry determined to give the nuisances, as he called

them, a reception commensurate with their impertinence and his worked up

ire.

"Now, Philly," said Uncle Henry, one morning after breakfast, "we'll fix

these--

"'_Got any ole boots?_'

"We'll give the rascals a caution, they won't neglect soon, I'll warrant

them. Bring me the hammer and nails; that's a man; now get uncle the

high chair; so, that's it; now I'll fix this shelf up over the top of

the door, on a pivot--bore this hole through here--put the string

through that way, here, umph; oh, now we'll have a trap for the

scoundrels. I'll learn them how to come pulling people's bells, clean

out by the very roots, making us drop all, to come wait on them, rot

them--

"'_Got any ole boots?_'

"I'll give you old boots, by the lord Harry; I'll give you a dose of

something you won't forget, to your dying day."

And thus jabbering, fixing and pushing about the revolving shelf, over

his hall door, Mr. Mansfield worked away at his trap. Like that of most

dwellings in Boston, Uncle Henry's front door was _sunk_ some six or

eight feet into the face of the house, reached by a flight of six

granite steps--side and top lights to the door, in the ordinary way,

with brass plate and bell pull. It was in a neighborhood not _plebeian_

enough to induce butcher boys to enter the hall, with the pork and

potatoes, nor admit of the servant girl heaving "slops" out of the

front windows; yet not sufficiently parvenu to impress pedlers and

"_Got any ole boots?_"

with aristocratic or "respectable" _awe_, ere venturing to mount the

steps, pull the bell, and mention tin pots, scrap iron, rags and old

leather. Mr. Mansfield was inclined to _chuckle_ in his sleeves at the

_ruse_ he would be enabled to give his tormentors through the agency of

his revolving battery--charged with ground charcoal and brick dust, to

be worked by himself or Philly, by means of a string on the inside.

Philly was duly initiated into the _modus operandi_; when--

"_Got any ole boots?_"

made his appearance, amid his pyramid of leather, or a pedler's wagon

was seen in the neighborhood, Philly was to be on the _qui vive_, inform

Uncle Henry, and if they mounted the steps, he would give them a shower

bath upon a new and astonishing principle.

It was perfect "nuts" for Master Phil; he was tickled at the idea, and

readily agreed to Uncle Henry's propositions. Not long after arranging

the "infernal machine," Uncle Henry's attention was called to another

part of the house; a dire calamity had befallen the Canary bird; a

strange cat had pounced upon the cage--the door flew open, and puss

nabbed the little warbler. Philly, on the look out, in front, discovers

two old boot men approaching the neighborhood; desirous of showing his

own skill, he did not call Uncle Henry, but posted himself behind the

door--string in hand, awaiting the _cue_. Feet approach--quickly the

feet mount the steps.

"_Ding al ling, ding de ding, ding, ding, ding!_"

"_Sh-i-i-s-swashe!_" and down comes the avalanche of coal dust and

refined brick, the bulk of a peck, fair measurement!

Uncle Henry reached the door just in time to see the penny postman

covered from head to foot with the obnoxious composition! Philly took

occasion to make a sudden exit, the postman swore--swore like a trooper,

but Uncle Henry managed to pack the whole transaction upon the "devilish

boy"--brushed the postman's clothes, and after some effort, so mollified

him as to induce the sufferer to depart in peace. Uncle Henry _tried_ to

be very severe on Philly, but it was very evident to that hopeful that

the old gentleman was more tickled than serious. Philly cleared the

steps, and the old gentleman re-arranged the trap, admonishing Philly

not to dare to meddle with it again, but call him when--

"_Got any ole boots?_" made their appearance.

All was quiet up to noon next day; Uncle Henry had business down town,

and left the house at 9 A. M. Philly was at school, but got home before

Uncle Henry, and seeing the pedler wagon near the door--slipped in, and

learning that the old gentleman was out, he gladly took charge of the

battery again. Now, just as the pedler mounted the steps of the next

door, Mr. Mansfield sees him, and hurries up his own steps, to be on the

watch for the pedler. Philly had been peeking out the corner of the side

curtain, and seeing the pedler coming, as he thought, right up the

steps--nabbed the string, and as Uncle Henry caught the knob of the

door--down came thundering the brick dust and charcoal both, in the most

elegant profusion.

Phil was _tricked_. Uncle Henry's vociferations were equal to that of a

drunken beggar--the trap was removed, Uncle Henry got disgusted with

city life, and left--for rural retirement, without as much as giving one

single rebuke to--

"_Got any ole boots to-day?_"

The Vagaries of Nature.

Nature seems to have her fitful, frightful, and funny moods, as well as

all her children. Now she gets up a stone bridge, the gigantic

proportions and the symmetrical development of which attract great

attention from all tourists and historians who venture into or speak of

"old Virginia." The old dame goes down far into the bowels of Mother

Earth, in Kentucky, and builds herself, silently and alone, a stupendous

under-ground palace, that laughs to scorn the puny efforts of man in

that branch of business. She gets up sugar-loaf mountains, pillars of

salt, great granite breastworks, and stone towers; hews out

figure-heads, old men's noses on the beetling cliffs of New Hampshire,

and throws up rocky palisades along the Hudson, that win wonder and

delight from the floating million. Instances out of all number might be

raked up, home and abroad, to show how the old dame has cut _didoes_ in

the prosecution of her manifold duties. But in Australia, it would seem,

nature has taken most especial pains to appear slightly ridiculous or

very eccentric.

Old Captain Rocksalt informs us--and there is always wit, wisdom, and

truth in the old man's stories--that he made voyages to Australia many

times within the past thirty years, and having visited about all the

sea-ports of the Continent, lived and almost died in Australia, his

notes are worthy of attention. Capt. Cook discovered and named _Botany

Bay_, the name originating from the fact that the land was covered with

a luxurious growth of Botanical specimens. The Dutch discovered and

named _Van Diemen's Land_. The English at once concluded to make Botany

Bay a penal colony, and the first living freight of criminals and

soldiers sent out, was some 700 in number, in 1788; but Capt. Phillip,

the commander of the fleet, being dissatisfied with the looks of Botany

Bay, hunted up a better place, and sailed to it. When Capt. Cook was

cruising off there, one of his sailors, on the look out, cried, "Land

ho!"

Cook was over his wine and beef, in the cabin, and it took him some time

to "tumble up" on deck.

"Where the deuce is your land, eh?" bawls the old cruiser.

"Larboard beam, sir!" responds the "lookout;" and, sure enough, a long,

faint streak of land was visible from deck. The "lookout" announced a

harbor, head-lands, &c.; but the rum old captain, not being able to see

any such indication, with a chuckle, says he--

"You booby! harbor, eh? Ha, ha! well, we'll call it a port, you powder

monkey--_Port Jackson!_"

And faith, so the lookout, Jackson, became sponsor to the finest harbor

in all Australia; for Capt. Phillip, upon rediscovering the harbor, took

his fleet into it, and then and there began the now flourishing city of

Sydney.

Australia is an Island, lying opposite another--New Zealand. It is on

the Indian Ocean, south side, while the east opens to the Pacific.

Australia claims to contain a superficial area of over three million

square miles, part desert, rather mountainous, and all being in one of

the finest climates on the face of the earth. The air is dry, the soil

light and sandy; the high winds stir up the dust and fine sand, and make

ophthalmy the only positive ill peculiar to the country. Sheep-grazing,

wool-growing, and boiling down sheep and cattle for tallow was the great

business of the country from its earliest settlement up to 1851, when

the _gold fever_ swept the land.

Australia was inhabited by over 100,000 natives, black cannibals of the

ugliest description; but at this day not a hundred of them remain. The

natives were exceeding stupid and useless; the first settlers, who, as

Capt. Rocksalt observes, were jail-birds and scape-gallows, were not

very dainty in dealing with the obnoxious natives; so they determined to

get rid of them as fast and easy as possible. For this purpose, they

used to gather a horde of them together, and give them poisoned bread

and rum, and so kill them off by hundreds. It was a sharp sort of

_practice_, but the _ends_ seemed to justify the _means_.

Gold, "laying around loose," as it did, was, no doubt, _discovered_

years ago; but not in quantities to lead the ignorant to believe money

could be made hunting it. People may be stupid; but it requires a far

greener capacity than most of them would confess to--at least, ten years

ago--to make them believe gold could be picked up in chunks out in the

open fields.

But Australia began to be populated; by convicts first; and then by far

better people; though the very worst felons sent out often became decent

and respectable men, which is indeed a great "puff," we think, for the

healthfulness of the climate. A convict shepherd now and then used to

bring into Sydney small lumps of gold and sell them to the watch-makers,

and as he refused to say where or how he got them, it was suspicioned

that he had secreted guineas or jewelry somewhere, and occasionally

melted them for sale.

However, one day the thing broke out, nearly simultaneously, all over

Australia. Gold was lying around everywhere. The rocks, ledges, bars,

gullies, and river-banks, which were daily familiar to the eyes of

thousands, all of a sudden turned up bright and shining gold. Old Dame

Nature must have laughed in her sleeve to see the fun and uproar--the

scrabble and rush she had caused in her vast household.

"It did beat _all!_" exclaims the old Captain. "In forty-eight hours

Sydney was half-depopulated, Port Phillip nearly desolate, while the

interior villages or towns--Bathurst, &c., were run clean out!"

Stores were shut up, the clerks running to the mines, and the

proprietors after the clerks. Mechanics dropped work and put out;

servants left without winking, leaving people to wait on themselves;

doctors left what few patients they had, and bolted for the fields of

Ophir; lawyers packed up and cut stick, following their clients and

victims to the brighter fields of "causes" and effects. The newspapers

became so short-handed that dailies were knocked into weeklies, and the

weeklies into cocked hats, or something near it--mere eight-by-ten

"handbills."

These "discoveries" wrought as sudden as singular a revolution in men,

manners, and things. As we said before, Australia was the very apex of

singularities in the way of Dame Nature's fancy-work, long before the

gold mania broke out; but now she seemed bent on a general and

miscellaneous freak, making the staid, matter-of-fact Englishmen as full

of caprice as the land they were living in.

"Only look at it!" exclaims the Captain: "the day comes in the middle of

our nights! When we're turning in at home, they are turning out in

Australia. Summer begins in the middle of winter; and for snow storms

they get rain, thunder and lightning. About the time we are getting used

to our woollens and hot fires of the holidays, they are roasting with

heat, and going around in linen jackets and wilted dickeys. The land is

full of flowers of every hue, gay and beautiful, gorgeous and sublime to

look at, but as senseless to the smell and as inodorous as so many dried

chips. The swans are numerous, but jet black. The few animals in the

country are all provided with pockets in their 'overcoats,' or skin, in

which to stow their young ones, or provender. Some of the rivers really

appear," says the Captain, "to run up stream! I was completely taken

down," says the Captain, "by a bunch of the finest pears you ever saw.

Myself and a friend were up the country, and I sees a fine pear tree,

breaking down with as elegant-looking fruit as I ever saw.

"'Well, by ginger,' says I, 'them are about as fine pears as I've seen

these twenty years!'

"'Yes,' says my friend, who was a resident in the country; 'perhaps you

would like to try a few?'

"'That I shall,' says I; so I ups and knocks down a few, and it was a

job to get them down, I tell you; and when I had one between my teeth I

gave it a nip--see there, two teeth broke off," says the Captain,

showing us the fact; "the fine pears _were mere wood!_

"The country is well supplied with fine birds; but they are dumb as

beetles, sir--never heard a bird sing or whistle a note in Australia.

The trees make no shade, the leaves hang from the stems edge up, and

look just as if they had been whipped into shreds by a gale of wind; and

you rarely see a tree with a bit of bark on it.

"But what completely upset me, was the cherries, sir--fine cherries,

plenty of them, but the _stones were all on the outside!_ The bees have

no stings, the snakes no fangs, and the eagles are all white. The north

wind is hot, the south wind cold. Our longest days are in summer; but in

Australia, sir, the shortest days come in summer, and the longest in

winter; and," says the Captain, "I can't begin to tell you how many

curious didoes nature seems to cut, in that country; but, altogether,

it's one of the queerest countries I ever did see, by ginger!"

And we have come to the conclusion--it is. If the gold continues to

"turn up" in such boulders and "nuggets" as recently reported, Australia

is bound to be the richest and most densely populated, as well as

_queerest_ country known to man.