The first is of the animal kingdom, and varyin in size from a 3 yeer old snappin’ turtle, to a lode of hay.

It has a bayonet its nose, in which is a skwirt gun charged with pizen.

It has no hesitation, whatsoever, of shovin’ it’s pitch-fork into a human bein’, and when a feller feels it, it makes him think old SOLFERINO has come for him, and no mistake.

The sirname of this sleep-distroyin’ animile, is Muskeeter.  And they like their meet raw.

Misery Number 2 is a beverige manufactured from the compound extract of chain litenin on the wing, and ile of vitril.  It is then flavored with earysipelas and 7 yeer itch, when it is ready to lay out it’s man.

I was on a visit to Jarsey, a short time ago, and if ever a man was justified in cussin’ the day he ever sot foot onto the classick red shores of New Jarsey, (which soil, by the way, is so greasy that all the red-headed New Jarsey gals use it for hair ile, while for greasin’ a pancake griddle it can’t be beat,) it was the undersined.

The first nite I was in that furrin climb, after hangin’ my close over a chair, and droppin’ my false teeth in a tumbler of water, I retired in a sober and morril condition.

“Balmy sleep, sweet nater’s hair restorer,” which sentiment I cote from Mr. DICKENS, who, I understand from the Bosting clergy, is now sizzlin’, haden’t yet folded me in her embrace.

Strains of melody, surpassin’ by severil lengths the melifflous discordant notes of the one-armed hand organist’s most sublimerest seemfunny, sircharged the atmosfear.  Ever and anon the red-hot breezes kissed the honest old man’s innocent cheek, and slobbered grate capsules of odoriferous moisture, which ran in little silvery streams from his reclinin’ form.  Yes! verily, great pearls hung pendant from his nasal protuberants.

In other words, I hadent gone to sleep, but lay their sweatin’ like an ice waggon, while the well-known battle song of famished Muskeeters fell onto my ear.  The music seized; and a regiment of Jarsey Muskeeters, all armed to the teeth and wearin’ cowhide butes, marched single-file into my open window.

The Kernal, a gray-headed old war-worn vetenary, alited from his hoss, and tide the animal to the bed-post.

The Commander then mounted ontop of the wash-stand, and helpin’ hisself to a chaw of tobacker out of my box, which lay aside him, the old scoundrel commenced firin’ his tobacker juice in my new white hat.  “See here, Kernal,” said I, somewhat riled at seein’ him make a spittoon of my best ‘stove-pipe,’ “if it’s all the same to you, spose’n you eject your vile secretion out of the winder.”

“Cork up, old man,” said the impudent raskle, “or ile spit on ye and drown you.”

All about the room the privates were sacreligously misusing my property.

One red-headed old Muskeeter, who was so full of somebody’s blood he couldn’t hardly waddle, was seated in the rockin’-chair, and with my specturcols on his nose, was readin’ a copy of PUNCHINELLO, and laffin’ as if heed bust.