He saw heed caught a Tarter, in fact, a regular Tarter emetic, and he slunk away rather sudden.

I had sent too many of such skinamelinks to the clay banks when I was Gustice of the Peece to allow ’em to fool me much.

I visited WOOD’S Museum to see the wacks figgers and things.

The statutes of the 12 Apostles attracted my attention.

“And this,” said a ministerial long-faced lookin’ man, with a white choker, “is the last supper.—­What a sagacious eye has PETER got—­How doubtful THOMAS looks—­MATTHEW is in deep thought, probly thinkin’ of the times he was a fisherman.  What a longin’ look in that astoot eye,” said he, nudgin’ me with his gold-headed cane.

“Yes,” said I, “he is probly longin’ for that ’ere dish of ham and eggs, in the middle of the table.”

“Look at SIMON,” he continered.  “See! his eye rests upon his rite hand, which is closed beside him on the table.  His lips are parted as if he was going to say—­

“SIMON says thumbs up,” I quickly replide, interruptin’ him.  I diden’t mean anything disrespectful to nobody, but that ’ere man flew into a vilent rage.

“Can it be, that a soul so devoid of poetry lives in this age?” said he.  “My venerable friend, I blush for you—­yes, I blush for you, you are devoid of sentiment.”

“Look here, Captin,” said I, “you may be a good preacher and all that sort of thing.  Excuse me for sayin’ it, you hain’t a BEECHER—­Skarcely.  H. WARD soots me—­He is chock full of sentiment—­at the same time he can relish a joak ekal to the best of us.  Mix a little sunshine with that gloomy lookin’ countenance of yours.  Don’t let people of the world think they must draw down their faces and colaps, because a man joaks about a lot of wacks figgers dressed up in 6 penny caliker.  Them’s the kind of sentiment which ales me every time.”  Sayin’ which I storked contemptously out of the wacks figger department.

I shall remain a few days in the big city, friend PUNCHINELLO, and if the citizens of New York insist on givin’ me a reception at the City Hall, I will submit to the sacrifice, especially if the vitels are well cookt.  Ewers on a scare up,

HIRAM GREEN, Esq.,

Lait Gustice of the Peece.

* * * * *

THE CENSUS ENUMERATOR’S PLAINT.

    The names that these newspapers call us
      Are hardest of all to surmount,
    They say Mayor HALL may o’erhaul us;
      He claims that our count is no ’count.

    I never had any such trouble
      In registering voters down South,
    I set every nigger down double
      And put the whites down in the mouth.

    But here they’re so very exacting
      They kick up a row, don’t you know? 
    Though under instructions we’re acting
      In playing our figures “for low.”

    I try to play Sharpe in these matters,
      I dodge all the bricks and spittoons—­
    (Curse that bull-dog! he’s torn to tatters
      The seat of my best pantaloons!)