“The soldier was thunder-struck.—­’Twenty-nine days is it?—­you’re sartin of that same!  Oh, mother, mother!—­the devil fly away wid yere ould almanack—­a base cratur of a book, to be deceaven one, afther living so long in the family of us!’

“His first impulse was to cut a caper on the roof of the coach, and throw up his cap with a loud hurrah!  His second was to throw himself into the arms of his Kathleen; and the third was to wring my hand off in acknowledgment.

“’It’s a happy man I am, your honour, for my word’s saved, and all by your honour’s manes.  Long life to your honour for the same!  May ye live a long hundred—­and lape-years every one of them.’”

What will Mr. Gurney’s helpers say to the following

SONNET ON STEAM.

BY AN UNDER-OSTLER.

  I wish I livd a Thowsen year Ago
  Wurking for Sober six and Seven milers
  And dubble Stages runnen safe and slo! 
  The Orsis cum in Them days to the Bilers
  But Now by meens of Powers of Steem forces
  A-turning Coches into Smoakey Kettels
  The Bilers seam a Cumming to the Orses
  And Helps and naggs Will sune be out of Vittels
  Poor Bruits I wander How we bee to Liv
  When sutch a change of Orses is our Faits
  No nothink need Be sifted in a Siv
  May them Blowd ingins all Blow up their Grates
  And Theaves of Oslers crib the Coles and Giv
  Their blackgard Hannimuls a Feed of Slaits!

Space we have not for the whole of “A Letter from a Market Gardener to the Secretary of the Horticultural Society,” but here is the concluding paragraph:—­

“My Wif had a Tomb Cat that dyd.  Being a torture Shell and a Grate faverit, we had Him berrid in the Guardian, and for the sake of inrichment of the Mould, I had the carks deposeted under the roots of a Gosberry Bush.  The Frute being up till then of a smooth kind.  But the nex Seson’s Frute after the Cat was berrid, the Gosberris was al hairy—­and more Remarkable, the Capilers of the same bush was All of the same hairy description.

“I am, Sir, your humble servant,

“THOMAS FROST.”

We have lately paid much attention to the subject of Emigration, but quite in a different vein to the following, which will introduce one of the cuts:—­

“Squampash Flatts, 9th Nov. 1827.

“Dear Brother—­Here we are, thank Providence, safe and well, and in the finest country you ever saw.  At this moment I have before me the sublime expanse of Squampash Flatts—­the majestic Mudiboo winding through the midst—­with the magnificent range of the Squab mountains in the distance.  But the prospect is impossible to describe in a letter!  I might as well attempt a panorama in a pill-box!  We have fixed our settlement on the left bank of the river.  In crossing the rapids we lost most of our heavy baggage, and all our iron work; but, by great good fortune, we saved Mrs. Paisley’s