(Readers of this paper are requested to skip the above, as those are Mr. MURRAY’S private opinions, and not the statements he makes in public, and his desire to keep them dark should be respected.)

It may be of interest to his patrons to know that Mr. P. arrived home safely and with whole bones.

* * * * *

RAMBLINGS.

BY MOSE SKINNER.

MR. PUNCHINELLO:  The editor of the Slunkville Lyre says in his last issue:—­

“Notwithstanding the calumnies of Mr. SKINNER, our reputation is still good, and we continue to pay our debts promptly.”

This is the fifth hoax he has perpetrated within two weeks.  His line of business at present seems to be the canard line.

I’ll trust him out of sight if I can keep one eye on him.  Not otherwise.

For a light recreation, combining a little business, I recommend his funeral.

It is pleasant to reflect that men of his stamp are never born again.  They are born once too much as it is.

He went to the Agricultural Fair last Fall.  There was a big potato there.  After gazing spell-bound upon it for one hour, he rushed home and set the following in type: 

“What is the difference between the Rev. ADAM CLARK, and the big potato at the fair?  One is a Commentator, and the other is an Uncommon ’tater.”

This conundrum was so exquisitely horrible, that his friends hoped he’d have judgment enough to hang himself, but such things die hard.

Colonel W-----’s Goat.  Colonel W-----, is a great man in these parts
Like most village nabobs, he’s a corpulent gentleman with a great show
of dignity, and in a white vest and gold-headed cane, looks eminently
respectable.  He owns a hot-house, keeps a big dog that is very savage,
and his wife wears a silk dress at least three times a week,—­either of
which will establish a man’s reputation in a country town.

Everything belonging to the Colonel is held in the utmost awe by the villagers.  The paper speaks of him as “our esteemed and talented townsman, Col.  W.,” and alludes to his “beautiful and accomplished wife,” who, by the way, was formerly waiter in an oyster saloon, and won the Colonel’s affection by the artless manner in which she would shout:  “Two stews, plenty o’ butter.”

Like others of his stamp, the Colonel amounts to something just where he is, but take him anywhere else, he’d be a first-class, eighteen carat fraud.

Awhile ago, the Colonel bought a goat for his little boy to drive in harness, and the animal often grazed at the foot of a cliff, near the house.  One day, a man wandering over this cliff fell and was instantly killed, evidently having come in contact with the goat, for the animal’s neck was broken.

But what amused me was the way the aforesaid editor spoke of the affair.  He wrote half a column on the “sad death of Col.  W’s. goat,” but not a word of the unfortunate dead man, till he wound up as follows: