unseemly laugh of Mr. SMYTHE'S with a dreadful frown. "I often practice walking sideways, for the purpose of developing the muscles on that side. The left side is always the weaker, and the hip a trifle lower, if one does not counteract the difference by walking sideways occasionally."

A great deal of unnecessary coughing, which follows this physiological exposition, causes Mr. BUMSTEAD to breathe hard at them all for a moment, and tread with great malignity upon Mr. SMYTHE'S nearest corn.

While yet the sexton is groaning, OLD MORTARITY whispers to the Ritualistic organist that he will be ready for him at the appointed hour to-night, and shuffles away. After which Mr. BUMSTEAD, with the I hollow straw sticking out fiercely from his ear, privately offers to see Father DEAN home if he feels at all dizzy; and, being courteously refused, retires down the turnpike toward his own lodgings with military precision of step.

When night falls upon the earth like a drop of ink upon the word Sun, and the stars glitter like the points of so many poised gold pens all ready to write the softer word Moon above the blot, the organist of St. Cow's sits in his own room, where his fire keeps-up a kind of aspenish twilight, and executes upon his accordeon a series of wild and mutilated airs. The moistened towel which he often wears when at home is turbaned upon his head, causing him to present a somewhat Turkish appearance; and as, when turning a particularly complicated corner in an air, it is his artistic habit to hold his tongue between his teeth, twist his head in sympathy with the elaborate fingering, and involuntarily lift one foot higher and higher from the floor as some skittish note frantically dodges to evade him, his general musical aspect at his own hearth is that of a partially Oriental gentleman, agonizingly laboring to cast from him some furious animal full of strange sounds. Thus engaging in desperate single combat with what, for making a ferocious fight before any recognizable tune can he rescued from it, is, perhaps, the most exhausting instrument known to evening amateurs and maddened neighborhoods, Mr. BUMSTEAD passes three athletic hours. At the end of that time, after repeatedly tripping-up its exasperated organist over wrong keys in the last bar, the accordeon finally relinquishes the concluding note with a dismal whine of despair, and retires in complete collapse to its customary place of waiting. Then the conquering performer changes his towel for a hat which would look better if it had not been so often worn in bed, places an antique black bottle in one pocket of his coat and a few cloves in the other; hangs an unlighted lantern before him by a cord passing about his neck, and, with his umbrella under his arm, goes softly down stairs and out of the house.

Repairing to the marble-yard and home of OLD MORTARITY, which are on the outskirts of Bumsteadville, he wanders through mortar-heaps, monuments brought for repair, and piles of bricks, toward a whitewashed residence of small demensions with a light at the window.

"JOHN McLAUGHLIN, ahoy!"

In response, the master of the mansion promptly opens the door, and it is then perceptible that his basement, parlor, spare-bedroom and attic are all on one floor, and that a couple of pigs are spending the season with him. Showing his visitor into this ingeniously condensed establishment, he induces the pigs to retire to a corner, and then dons his hat.

"Are you ready, JOHN MCLAUGHLIN?"

"Please the pigs, I am, Mr. BUMSTEAD," answers MCLAUGHLIN, taking down from a hook a lantern, which, like his companion's, he hangs from his neck by a cord. "My spirits is equal to any number of ghosts to-night, sir, if we meet 'em."

"Spirits!" ejaculates the Ritualistic organist, shifting his umbrella for a moment while he hurriedly draws the antique bottle from his pocket. "You're nervous to-night, J. MCLAUGHLIN, and need a little of the venerable JAMES AKER'S West Indian Restorative.—I'll try it first to make sure that I haven't mistaken the phial."

He rests the elongated orifice of the diaphanous flask upon his lips for a brief interval of critical inspection, and then applies it thoughtfully to the mouth of OLD MORTARITY.

"Some more! Some more!" pleads the aged MCLAUGHLIN, when the Jamaican nervine is abruptly jerked from his lips.

"Silence! Com on," is the stern response of the other, who, as he moves from the house, and restores the crystal antiquity to its proper pocket, eats a few cloves by stealth. His manner plainly shows that he is offended at the quantity the old man has managed to swallow already.

Strange indeed is the ghastly expedition to the place of skulls, upon which these two go thus by night. Not strange, perhaps, for Mr. MCLAUGHLIN, whose very youth in New York, where he was an active politician, found him a frequent nightly familiar of the Tombs; but strange for the organist, who, although often grave in his manner, sepulchral in his tones, and occasionally addicted to coughin', must be curiously eccentric to wish to pass into concert that evening with the dead heads.

Transfixed by his umbrella, which makes him look like a walking cross between a pair of boots and a hat, Mr. BUMSTEAD leads the way athwart the turnpike and several fields, until they have arrived at a low wall skirting the foot of Gospeler's Gulch. Here they catch sight of the Reverend OCTAVIUS SIMPSON and MONTGOMERY PENDRAGON walking together, near the former's house, in the moonlight, and, instantaneously, Mr. BUMSTEAD opens his umbrella over the head of OLD MORTARITY, and drags him down beside himself under it behind the wall.

"Hallo! What's all this?" gasps Mr. MCLAUGHLIN, struggling affrightedly in his suffocating cage of whalebone and alpaca. "What's this here old lady's hoop-skirt doing on me?"

"Peace, wriggling dotard!" hisses BUMSTEAD, jamming the umbrella tighter over him. "If they see us they'll want some of the West Indian Restorative."

Mr. SIMPSON and MONTGOMERY have already heard a sound; for they pause abruptly in their conversation, and the latter asks: "Could it have been a ghost?"

"Ask it if it's a ghost," whispers the Gospeler, involuntarily crossing himself.

"Are you there, Mr. G.?" quavers the raised voice of the young Southerner, respectfully addressing the inquiry to the stone wall.

No answer.

"Well," mutters the Gospeler, "it couldn't have been a ghost, after all; but I certainly thought I saw an umbrella. To conclude what I was saying, then,—I have the confidence in you, Mr. MONTGOMERY, to believe that you will attend the dinner of Reconciliation on Christmas eve, as you have promised."

"Depend on me, sir."

"I shall; and have become surety for your punctuality to that excellent and unselfish healer of youthful wounds, Mr. BUMSTEAD."

More is said after this; but the speakers have strolled to the other side of the Gospeler's house, and their words cannot be distinguished Mr. BUMSTEAD closes his umbrella with such suddenness and violence as to nearly pull off the head of MCLAUGHLIN; drives his own hat further upon his nose with a sounding blow; takes several wild swallows from his antique flask; eats two cloves, and chuckles hoarsely to himself for some minutes. "Here, 'JOHN MCLAUGHLIN," he says, at last "try a little more West Indian Restorative, and then we'll go and do a few skeletons."

(To be Continued.)

What is Likely to be Raised some day, regarding the Pneumatic Tunnel.

TUBAL. CAIN.

ANSWERS TO CORRESPONDENTS.

In order to make this department of PUNCHINELLO as complete as possible, we have secured the services of the most competent authorities in literature, art, the sciences in general, history, biography, and the vast vague unknown. The answers furnished by us to our correspondents may therefore be relied upon as being strictly accurate.

Scales.—How old was DANIEL LAMBERT at the time of his death?

Answer.—736 lbs.

Ignoramus.—Why were the Roman Saturnalia so called?

Answer.—The proper spelling of the word is Sauternalia. They were wine feasts; and the vintage most in favor at them was Haut Sauterne.

Chasseur. Is the antelope to be classed among the goat family?

Answer.—No. MOORE calls it a "deer gazelle."

Armiger.—Is "arm's length" a recognized measure?

Answer.—Yes. It is a Standard measure, as may be seen in the way that journal is getting ahead of the Sun, which it keeps at arm's length.

Molar.—Yes; burnt Cork is an excellent dentifrice. It should not
be applied to the teeth of children, however, as it is apt to impart an
Irish accent, or, in extreme cases, even a negro dialect.

Bookworm.—Do two negatives always constitute an affirmative?

Answer.—That depends upon the price charged by the photographer.

Sunswick—Is it true that JAMES FISK, Jr., has purchased Baden and
another German Duchy?

Answer.—No: but he could have both if he wanted two.

Rockland.—Who are the suffering persons represented in DORE'S
remarkable picture of DANTE and VIRGIL visiting the frozen ward of the
Inferno?

Answer.—The Knickerbocker Ice Company.

Solitaire.—On what day did the Fourth of July fall in the year 1788?

Answer.—On the Fourth.

James Lobbs.—How long ago is it since desiccated soup first came
into use?

Answer.—At least as long ago as the days of CROMWELL, whose advice to his troops was "Put your trust in Providence, and keep your chowder dry."

Bach.—Is the practice of divorce a mark of civilization?

Answer—It is. In the Gorilla family, (the nearest approach to the human,) divorce is not practiced, but it is in Indiana, which is usually considered to be a State of Civilization.

PAT TO THE QUESTION.

Our law-makers in Congress—or rather law-cobblers, for few of them have risen to the dignity of makers—are asked to repeal the per cap. duty imposed by California on all Chinamen imported there.

The Californians have the authority of Congress itself, for this duty. By reference to "HEYL'S Rates of Duties on Imports," page 36, art. 691, under head of "Act of June 30, 1864, chap. 171," "An act to increase Duties on Imports," etc., we find "on paddy one cent and a half per pound." Now if a good-sized Irishman pays $2.25, why shouldn't a "Celestial" pay as much in proportion to the weight of his corpus?

It appears that, by a joint resolution of Congress, the use of "that first-class humbug and fraud, the whiskey meter," has been abolished. Now there are dozens of members of Congress who are not only "first-class humbugs and frauds," but whiskey meters, to whom whiskey is both meat and drink, and yet who ever heard of their proposing to abolish themselves?

STAY-AT-HOME PEOPLE

FOLKS MAY NOT BE ABLE TO GO TO NEWPORT OR LONG BRANCH, BUT THEY CAN ALWAYS CREATE A LOCAL SENSATION BY TAKING A FOOT-BATH IN THE BACK-YARD.

MURPHY THE CONQUEROR

BY CORPORAL QUINN.

Come tip us your fist, then, yer sowl you;
Since iver I come from the wars
The like wasn't heerd. Fill the bowl you
Bowld sons of MILESIUS and MARS;
And dhrink to ould Ireland the turfy
That's shmilin' out there in the say,
Wid three cheers for the conqueror MURPHY.
Whoo! America's ours from to-day.

Och! SAYZAR he walloped the Briton,
The Tarthars leap't China's big wall,
ALEXANDTHUR did half the wurld sit on,
But niver touched Ireland at all.
At Clontarf ould BOBU in the surf he
Sint tumblin' the murdtherin' Danes—
But, yer sowl, the brave conqueror MURPHY
Takes the shine out of all of their panes.

ULYSSES has made him Collecthor,
(Sich choppin' o' heads ne'er was seen;)
Sure the hayro will make me Inspecthor
Whin there's so many "wigs on the green."
And we'll be night-watchmen uproarious,
Wid big badges on our coats,
And we'll fight for TOM MURPHY the glorious,
Wid our fists, our guns, and our votes.

At the Custom House, Dutchman and Yankee
Are thryin' to talk wid a brogue,
They're all Irish, now—fat, lean, or lanky,
And green are the neckties in vogue.
They're thracin' themselves to some DURPHY,
O'NEILL, or McCANN, or O'TAAFFE,
I'll go bail the bowld conqueror MURPHY
'S too owld to be caught wid sich chaff.

Now Dutchmin may go to the divil,
And Yankees to Plymouth's ould rock,
We'll blast it, if they are not civil;
While boys of the raal ould stock
Will hurroo for ould Ireland the turfy.
Whoo! Jibralthar is taken to-day,
Our commandther's the conqueror MURPHY—
Now a tiger and nine times hoorray!

COMIC ZOOLOGY.

Genus Culex.—The American Mosquito

Few American birds are better known than the mosquito. In common with the woodcock, snipe, and other winged succubi, it breeds in wet places, yet is always dry. Like them it can sustain life on mud juleps, but prefers "cluret." It is a familiar creature, seems to regard the human family as its Blood relations, and is always ready to sucker them.

Being a bird of Nocturnal Habits, it is particularly attracted to human beings in their Night-shirts. The swallow preys upon it, but it generally eludes the Bat. Although it cannot be called Noctilucous, like the lightning bug, it has no objection to alight in the darkness, and you often knock till you cuss in your vain attempts to prevent its taking a Shine to you.

The mosquito differs in most respects from all the larger varieties of the winged tribes, and upon the whole takes after man more than any other living thing. Nevertheless, it certainly bears a noticeable resemblance to some of the feathered race. Like the Nightingale, it "sings darkling," and