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

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

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

I was shocked to hear one audacious retch remark: 

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

    “Come, sisters, cheer we up his sprites
    And show the best of femail spites,
    So teach that horrid critter, man,
    We’ll swaller him hul, when ere we can.” 1ST WITCH.

SOOZAN B. was elected chairman.

On takin’ her seat she said: 

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

(Grate applaws.)

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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