[GEORGE FRANCIS TRAIN is a native of Boston, U.S.  He is one of the most celebrated men living.  He celebrates himself everywhere he goes, and he goes to a great many places.  He has an inspired confidence that in the course of a few years all the people of his native country will become idiots, and that they will then make him their ruler.  The civis Americanus sum of his existence is talk about GEORGE FRANCIS TRAIN.  The American Government does not at present propose to declare war against France for arresting him, but perhaps he will do so himself.]

VIENNA, December 14.—­Diplomatic circles are more confident, and it is believed the Black Sea question will be settled.

[The Black Sea is in Europe.  It is bounded all round and contains an immense quantity of water, which, being black, is useful for writing.  The trouble about the Black Sea is owing altogether to its location, and could be removed forever by filling up the place and laying it out in building-lots.  If it were in New Jersey this would be done, but the effete despotisms and bloated aristocracies of the Old World haven’t enough enterprise to try it.]

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[Illustration:  TOM’S CHRISTMAS JOKE.

Master Tom.  “O, GRAN’MA, GRAN’MA!  THE PONY HAS GOT A FIT!—­RUN TO THE WINDOW AND LOOK!”

AND THE OLD LADY RUSHED TO THE WINDOW, BUT THE ONLY “FIT” THE PONY HAD WAS THE NEW SIDE-SADDLE SENT AT CHRISTMAS BY UNCLE TOM, WHO, NOT KNOWING MUCH ABOUT PONIES, FANCIED THAT THIS ONE MUST HAVE GROWN TO A HORSE SINCE HE PRESENTED IT LAST YEAR.]

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POEMS OF THE CRADLE.

CANTO XV.

    Sing a song of sixpence, a pocketfull of rye,
    Four and twenty blackbirds baked in a pie. 
    When the pie was opened the birds began to sing;
    Wasn’t that a dainty dish to set before the king?

The poet had now reached that stage of parental experience where he realized to its fullest extent, what many another poor mortal has learned to his sorrow, that a baby in the house is the greatest tyrant ever invented.  A baby may be a well-spring of joy, a gleam of bright sunshine, an angel from Heaven, a compound of unalloyed blissfulness, or a mixture of “snaps and snails and puppy dogs’ tails;” but it is nevertheless the tyrant of the household, the king of the family, the royal personage to whom all must bow, and to whom everything must yield.  What father or mother is there who dares set his or her will up in opposition to the baby.  If baby wants papa’s spectacles, it must have them, no matter if papa is reading.  If it wants mamma’s thimble, it has it.  If baby wants to go to sleep, the whole family must move on tip-toe, and not speak above a whisper.  If baby gets the croup at night, the whole family must be aroused, papa must run two miles to the doctor’s, grandmother must be routed from her warm bed and brought post-haste to help take care of it, everybody from the cook upwards must stir about lively and be on the watch ready any moment to offer their devotional incense at the shrine of this potent baby monarch, the wee ruler who’s slightest wish has greater weight than the king’s command.