Stephen L. Fostir got up and said: 

“He woulden’t go to the poles on eleckshun without his wife as his ekal a hangin’ on his arm.”

Mrs. LIVERMORE sprung quickly to her feet and said:  “She’d bet $4.00 if she was Steve’s wife, he’d go to the poles under diffikilties, then, for she wasen’t the woman who thought the man lived that was the ekal of any woman; and that hain’t all,” said she.  “When we get hold of the ballit, man has got to get up early in the mornin’ to fool us much.  All the koketting with the Democrats, Republicans, Prohibitionists, and Labor Reformers in the offis of the Woman’s Journal, last summer, don’t amount to shucks.  Prominent politicians had entreeted her to go slow and not mash things.  I can only say,” said Mrs. L., “as John Bunyan once said: 

    ’When woman will, she will. 
      And you can jest bet on’t;
    When she won’t, she won’t,
      And there’s an end on’t.’”

An aged individual named Jenking, from Andover, said:  “When he was in his first childhood, he was drest in peticotes.  He was now over 75 years old, and believed an old man would feel better in caliker than satinett.  Hereafter they could count on him to wear out their old dresses.”

A few left-handed compliments were paid to Wendil Fillips, and altho’ Wendil had allers went heavy on Wimmen’s Rites, his bein’ endossed by his own sex was a squelcher on him.  He wasen’t endossed, but, like Jonah, went overboard, to be hove up agin onto dry land in a few days, for a whale has got to have a pretty good stomack to keep Mister Fillips down a great while.  That’s so.

A few more resolutions were then voted, but as the Mayor of Bosting had sent lots of perlicemen there, I didn’t heer of any men gettin’ killed outrite, altho’ a few innercent husbands got slitely bruised by bein’ whacked over their heads with their wive’s umbrellers.  Then they adjerned.

    The critters then got in their vests
      And then got in their cotes,
    Then got in a dredful pes-
      Piration about their votes.

(Let ’em sweat.)

Ewers, a Non-Resistanter,

HIRAM GREEN, Esq.,

Lait Gustise of the Peece.

* * * * *

FALLEN ON THE MARCH.

    You see that hoss, don’t you, there, sir, ahead? 
      Well, that’s JAKE.  An hour ago,
    The last trip up, he fell—­stone dead: 
      Drop’t right flat in his harness, you know. 
          He’d fell down, too, pooty often before,
          And—­I guess he won’t do it, though, any more.

    I allas pitied the poor old cuss;
      He was mighty hard driv and terrible thin,
    And many a time when he quit the ’bus
      I’ve led the mis’rable creetur in
          And giv him a reg’lar bang-up feed
          That the Company thought he didn’t need.