It delited me, in my old age, to see them chaps scrabble when they heard that bell.

In 10 seconds time, only one member of the pile diden’t git up, and rise, and that was the hog.

It was a cruel deception—­but I believe the mean trick justifide the end, and saved the Bord of Helth a big bill of expense.  For sure’s you’re borned, it would have been a meesely old job, cartin’ of that big pile of corrupshun.

I had seen enuff for one day.

My fisikle and intelectooal capacity was gorged.

Foldin’ my Filacteries, and pickin’ up my bloo cotton parashoot, I fled the seen, hily tickled to think I wasen’t a fat man.

Virtously of thee,

HIRAM GREEN, Esq.,

Lait Gustise of the Peece.

* * * * *

[Illustration:  WOMAN ASSERTS HER RIGHTS]

* * * * *

OUR FINANCIAL ARTICLE.

WALL STREET, August 9th, 1870.

SIR:—­It is with feelings of indignation and scorn that I proceed once more to pollute my pen with the chronicles of a mercenary rabble.  It had been thought that the remonstrances of the pure and high-minded among your readers would have sufficed to overcome the resolution of an infatuated, but not Criminal Editor.  There was a time when the claims of a Certain Contributor were wont to be considered.  But the passion for worldly greed has, alas! perverted a too simple nature, and where the Muses once found a congenial resting place, the demon Mammon now sits in GHASTLY TRIUMPH.

I will not here refer to my threat of resignation, nor to the shouts of diabolical laughter with which it was received by the conductor of a Comic Journal, whose name it would not become me to mention.  Suffice it to say that those sentiments of loyalty and affection which have ever been my glory, and a keen appreciation of the difficulty of obtaining employment on the Press, have kept me attached to the staff of PUNCHINELLO.  The anguish which Finance has cost an artistic soul no one may ever know.  The silent tear may fall, but it shall be buried in my bosom.  The spectacle of my hidden suffering shall stand as a reproach to one whom I once HONORED and now PITY.

Divesting myself of that part of my nature which is comprised in the good, the beautiful and true, I betook myself yesterday to Wall Street and the Gold Room.  At the portals of the Financial Menagerie, a gentleman placed his hand upon my shoulder.

Was I a subscriber?

No, but I was a comic writer.

He said I looked as though I had seen misfortune.  If I was not a subscriber, perhaps I had been in the Penitentiary, served out a sentence at Sing Sing, or procured a divorce from my wife?

I had done none of these things.

I was not a member of the Legislature?

No.

A brilliant idea struck him.  Perhaps I had been an editor?