like the woodpecker, is much addicted to tapping the bark of Limbs and Trunks for the purpose of obtaining grub. It may be mentioned as an amiable idiosyncracy of the mosquito, that it is fond of babies. If there is a child in the house, it is sure to spot the playful innocent; and by means of an ingenious contrivance combining the principles of the gimlet and the air-pump, it soon relieves the little human bud of its superfluous juices. It is, in fact, a born surgeon, a Sangrado of the Air, and rivals that celebrated Spanish Leech in its fondness for phlebotomy. Some infidels, who do not subscribe to the doctrine that nothing was made in vain, consider it an unmitigated nuisance, but the devout and thoughtful Christian recognizes it as Nature's preventive of plethora, and as it alternately breathes a Vein and a song, it may be said (though we never heard the remark,) to combine the utile with the dulce.

All the members of the genus are slender and graceful in their shape and Gnatty in their general appearance. The common mosquito is remarkable for its strong attachments. It follows man with more than canine fidelity, and in some cases, the dog-like pertinacity of its affection can only be restrained by Muslin. It is of a roving disposition, seldom remaining settled long in one locality; and is Epicurean in its tastes—always living, if possible, on the fat of the land. As the mosquito produces no honey, mankind in general are not as sweet upon it as they are upon that bigger hum-bug, the buzzy bee; yet it is so far akin to the bee, that, wherever it forages, it produces something closely resembling Hives.

Few varieties of game are hunted more industriously than this, yet such is the fecundity of the species, that the Sportsman's Club has not as yet thought it necessary to petition the legislature for its protection.

The New Jersey Mosquito is the largest known specimen of the genus, except the Southern Gallinipper, which is only a few sizes smaller than the Virginia Nightingale, and raises large speckles similar to those of the Thrush. Ornithologists who wish to study the habits of the mosquito in its undomesticated or nomad state, may find it in angry clouds on the surface of the New Jersey salt marshes at this season, in company with its teetering long-billed Congener, the Sandsnipe.

During the last month of summer it reigns supreme in the swamps west of Hoboken, the August Emperor of all the Rushes, and persons of an apoplectic turn, who wish to have their surplus blood determined to the surface instead of to the head, will do well to seek the hygienic insect there.

An Apt Quotation.

The name "Louvre" has now been adopted by several places of entertainment in New York and its suburbs. A Boston gentleman, who visited seven of them a night or two since, under the escort of a policeman, declares that, by a slight alteration of a line of MOORE's, New York may be well described as—

"A place for Louvres, and for Louvres only."

THE WATERING PLACES.

Punchinello's Vacations.

Mr. PUNCHINELLO puts up at the Atlantic Hotel when he goes to Cape May; and if you were to ask him why, he would tell you that it was on account of the admirable water-punches which JOHN McMAKIN serves up. To be sure these mixtures do not agree with Mr. P., but he likes to see people enjoying themselves, even if he can't do it himself. It is this unselfish disposition, this love of his fellow-men, that enables him to maintain that constant good humor so requisite to his calling. In fact, though Mr. P. often says sharp things, he never gets angry. When, on Thursday of last week, he was walking down the south side of Jackson street, and a man asked him did he want to buy a bag, Mr. P. was not enraged. He knew the man took him for a greenhorn, but then the man himself was a Jerseyman. It is no shame to be a greenhorn to a Jerseyman. Quite the reverse. Mr. P. would blush if he thought there lived a "sand-Spaniard" who could not take advantage of him. So Mr. P. bought the bag, and because it was made of very durable canvas, and would last a great while, he paid a dollar for it.

He did not ask what it was for. He knew. It was to put Cape May Diamonds in! He put the bag in his pocket and walked along the beach for three miles. You can't walk more than three miles here, and if you hire a carriage you will find that you can't ride less than that distance. Which makes it bad, sometimes. However, when Mr. P. had finished his three miles, he didn't want to go any further. He stopped, and gazing carelessly around to see that no one noticed him, pulled out his canvas bag and did shuffle a little in the sand with his feet. He might find some diamonds, you know, just as likely as any of the hundreds of other people, who, in other sequestered parts of the beach, were pulling out other canvas bags, and shuffling in the sand with other feet. At length Mr. P. shuffled himself into a very sequestered nook indeed, and there he saw a man smoking. His melancholy little boy was sitting by his side. Perceiving that it was only General GRANT, Mr. P. advanced with his usual grace and suavity of manner.

"Why, Mr. President!" said he, "I thought you would be found at Long Branch this season."

"Long—thunder!" ejaculated the General, his face as black as the ace of spades, (which, by the way, is blue.) "I might go to Nova Zembla for a quiet smoke, and some sneaking politician would crawl out from the ice with a petition. I went fishing in Pennsylvania, and I found twenty of those fellows to every trout. However, I don't mind you. Take a seat and have a cigar."

Mr. P. took the seat, (which was nothing to brag of,) and a cigar, (which would have been a great deal to brag of, if he had succeeded in smoking it,) and, after a whiff or two, asked his companion how it was that he came to send such a message to Congress about Cuba.

"What message?" said GRANT, absently.

Mr. P. explained.

"Oh," said GRANT, "that one! Didn't you like it? CALEB CUSHING wrote it and brought it to me, and I signed it. If you had written one and brought it to me, I would have signed that. 'Tisn't my fault if the thing's wrong. What would you expect of a man?"

Mr. P. concluded that in this case it was ridiculous to expect anything else, and so he changed the subject.

That afternoon Mr. P. bathed.

He went to SLOAN'S and fitted himself out in a bathing suit, and very lovely he looked in it, when he emerged from the bathing house at high tide. With a red tunic; green pants; and a very yellow hat, he resembled a frog-legged Garibaldian, ready for the harvest.

When he hurried to the water's edge, he hesitated for a moment. The roaring surf was so full of heads, legs, arms, back-hair, hats and feet, that he feared there was no room for him. However, he espied a vacancy, and plunged into the briny deep.

How delicious! How cool! How fresh! How salt! How splendid!

He struck out with his legs; he struck out with his arms; he dived with his whole body. He skimmed beneath the green waters; he floated on the rolling wave-tips; he trod water; he turned heels over head in the emerald depths; and thus, gamboling like an Infant Triton, he passed out beyond the breakers. It was very pleasant there. Being a little tired, he found the change from the surging waves to the gentle chuck and flop of the deep water, most delightful. Languidly, to rest himself, he threw his arm over a rock just peeping above the water. But the rock gave a start and a yawn.

It was a sleeping shark!

The startled fish opened his eyes to their roundest, and backed water.

So did Mr. P.

For an instant they gazed at each other in utter surprise. Then the shark began slowly to sink. Mr. P. knew what that meant. The monster was striving to get beneath him for the fatal snap!

Mr. P. sank with him!

With admirable presence of mind he kept exactly even with the fish.

At last they reached the bottom.

Mr. P. was nearly suffocated, but he determined that he would strangle rather than rise first. The shark endeavored to crawl under him, but Mr. P. clung to the bottom.

The fish then made a feint of rising, but, in an instant, Mr. P. had him around the waist!

The affrighted shark darted to the surface, and Mr. P. inhaled at least a gallon of fresh air. Never before had oxygen tasted so good!

On the surface the struggle was renewed, but Mr. P. always kept undermost.

At last they rested from the contest, and lay panting on the surface of the water, glaring at each other.

The shark, who was a master of finesse, swam out a little way, to where the water was deeper, and then slowly sank, intending, if Mr. P. followed him again to the bottom, to stay there long enough to drown the unfortunate man. But Mr. P. knew a trick worth two of that.

He didn't follow him at all! He swam towards shore as fast as he could, and when the shark looked around, to see if he was coming, he was safe within the line of surf.

Need it be said that when he reached dry laud, Mr. P. became a hero with the crowds who had witnessed this heroic struggle?

That evening, as Mr. P. sat upon the portico of his hotel, there came unto him, in the moonlight, a maiden of the latest fashion.

"Sir," she softly murmured "are you the noble hero who overcame the shark?"

Mr. P. looked up at her.

Her soft eyes were dimmed with irresponsible emotion.

"I am," said he.

The maiden stood motionless. Her whole frame was agitated by a secret struggle.

At length she spoke.

"Is there a Mrs. P.?" she softly said.

Mr. P. arose. He grasped the back of his chair with trembling hand. His manly form quivered with a secret struggle.

He looked upon her!

He gazed for a moment, with glowing, passionate eyes, upon that matchless form—upon that angelic face, and then—he clasped his brows in hopeless agony. Stepping back, he gave the maiden one glance of wildest love, followed by another of bitterest despair; and sank helpless into his chair.

The maiden leaned, pale and trembling, against a pillar; but hearing the approach of intruders, she recovered herself with an effort.

"Farewell," she whispered. "I know! I know! There is a Mrs. P.!"—and she was gone.

Mr. P. arose and slipped out into the night, shaken by a secret struggle. He laid upon the sand and kicked up his heels.

There isn't any Mrs. P.!

Mr. P. does not wish to sweep his hand rudely o'er the tender chords of any heart, but he wants it known that he is neither to be snapped up by sharks in the sea, or by young women at watering places.

A DOG'S TALE.

Dogmatic.

I am only a dog, I admit; but do you suppose dogs have no feeling? I guess if you were kicked out of every door-way you ran into, and driven away from every meat stand or grocery you happened to smell around, you would think you had feelings.

When I see some dogs riding in carriages, looking so grandly out of the windows, or others walking along proudly by the side of their owners, I have a feeling of dislike for the very thought of liberty!

I sometimes go with the crowd to a lecture-room, and listen to the speeches about freedom and liberty, the hatred of bondage, and all that sort of thing. I get my tail up, and wish I could tell them what liberty really is. There is nothing worse in the world than this running around loose, with no one to look after you, and no one for you to look after; no one to notice you when you wag your tail, and to have no occasion for so doing. You go out and you come in, and nobody cares. If you never come back, no one troubles himself about you.

Every day I hear men reading in the papers about some lucky dogs having strayed, or having been stolen, a large reward being offered for their recovery: and I envy each lost dog! I wonder who would advertise for me if I got lost! Alas! no one. They would not give me a bone to bring me back, or to keep me from drowning myself. But every boy in the street thinks he has a right to throw stones at me; and tie tin-kettles to my tail; and chase me when I have had the good luck to find a bone; and to set big dogs upon me to worry me when I am faint from hunger and haven't much pluck; and worse than all, chase me and cry "Ki-yi," when I am almost dying of thirst!

If you only knew how hard it is for a poor dog to make his way in the world, with no one to help him to a mouthful of food, you would feel sorry for us.

But I think we might get along better if it wasn't for the scarcity of water. I hardly know a spot in the city where I can get a drink; and many a time I have gone all day without a drop.

If I happen to hang out my tongue and droop my tail, my ears are saluted with "Mad dog! Let's kill him!" You need not wonder I sometimes turn round, and snap at my pursuers. I think you would snap, too, if you were chased through street and lane and alley, till your blood was in a perfect fever, and you hardly knew which way you were running! I have, on many such occasions, actually run past a beautiful bone that lay handy on the side-walk, and never stopped to smell it.

Oh! I wish some one would take me prisoner, and continue to own me, and keep me in bondage as long as I lived! I should only be too happy to give up my liberty, and settle down and be a respectable dog!

A Bute-Iful Idea.

The Marquis of Bute denies that he is going to return to the Protestant fold. With reference to the rumor, the Pope stated in the Ecumenical Council that "the Bute was on the right leg at last, and that he would launch his thunder against him who should dare that Bute displace."

WHAT IS IT?

As the shades of night descend (in the neighborhood of Mecklenburg, N.C.,) and harmless domestic animals begin to compose themselves to sleep, suddenly the drowsy world is awakened by a roaring like that of a lion! It proceeds from the forest, in whose bosky recesses (as the Mecklenburgers suppose) some terrible creature proclaims his hunger and his inclination to appease it with human flesh! All night long the quaking denizens of that hamlet lie and listen to the roaring, which is an effectual preventive of drowsiness, as the moment any one begins to be seized with it he also begins to fancy he is about to be seized and deglutinated by the horrid monster! Naturalists are positive it is not the Gyascutis, but admit that a Megatherium may have lately awakened from the magnetic sleep of ages, with the pangs of a mighty hunger tearing his wasted viscera.

If our theory is correct, the good people of Mecklenburg (was it not in Mecklenburg that the agitation for Independence began?) may be assured that deliverance from this unreasonable Dragon is possible. We think it more than likely that it is simply GEORGE FRANCIS TRAIN practicing for the next invasion of Great Britain. Nothing could be more harmless. One Ku-Kluxian youth, armed with a double-barrelled shot-gun, four bowie-knives, and a number of revolvers, could rout him instantly, and even check the flow of his vociferous eloquence so suddenly as to put him in imminent danger of asphyxia.

RETRIBUTION.

THE BOYS OF SAN FRANCISCO,