sauce for the Prussian goose should be Alsace for the Gallic gander. The God of battles is on the side of our just cause; Leipsic is looking at us, Waterloo is watching us. GOTT und WILHELM, sauerkraut und schnapps. Vorwarts.

NAPOLEON, EMPEREUR DES FRANCAIS.

Soldats: True to your trust in me, I am about to lead you to slaughter. L'Empire c'est la paix. Prussia would place a poor and distant relative of mine on the throne of Spain, therefore must we recover the natural frontier of France, which lies upon the Rhine. The rhino is ready, and we are ready for the Rhine. Let my red republican subjects recall Valmy and Jemappes, and their generals KELLERMANN and DUMAURIOZ. Let every Frenchman kill a Prussian, every woman too kill her man. They did much for la patrie in those days, but do more ye to-day. France wars for ideas only; Prussia for rapine. We have heard this Rhine-whine long enough; it has got into our heads at last.

The spirit of my uncle has its eye upon you. Ambition was no part of his nature. His struggles were all for the good of France, "which he loved so much," as he himself said at his country-seat at St. Helena. Marshal, then, to the notes of the Marseillaise, which I now generously permit you to sing.

The Gallic rooster shall "cackle, cackle, clap his wings and crow," Unter der Linden. Jena judges us, Auerstedt is our status. The Man of Destiny and December calls you. The God of armies (who marches with the strongest battalions) is with us.

La gloire et des Grenouilles, France and fried potatoes. L'Empire et moi et le prince Imperial. En avant marche!

A District that ought to be subject to Earthquakes.

Rockland County.

THE CELESTIAL SCARECROW IN MASSACHUSETTS.

IT CONSISTS OF A CHINESE GONG AND A LOT OF PUPPETS WORKED BY THE HANDS OF CAPITAL; AND SOME PERSONS THINK IT A GOOD JOKE.

THE VULTURE'S CALL.

Come—sisters—come!
The din of arms is rising from the vale,
Bright arms are glittering in the morning sun
And trumpet tones are ringing in the gale!
Hurrah-hurrah!
As fast and far
We hurry to behold the blithesome game of War!

Haste—sisters—haste!
The drums are booming, shrill fifes whistling clear,
The scent of human blood is in the blast,
And the load cannon stuns the startled ear.
Away—away!
To view the fray,
For us a feast is spread when Man goes forth to slay.

Rest—sisters—rest!
Here on these blasted pines; and mark beneath
How war's red whirlwind shakes earth's crazy breast
And cumbers it with agony and death.
Toil, soldiers, toil,
Through war's turmoil,
We Vultures gain the prize—we Vultures share the spoil.

Not Generally Known.

The new three cent stamp smacks of the Revolution; containing, as it does, the portraits of two military heroes of that period. General WASHINGTON will be recognized at once, while in the background can be discerned that brilliant officer—General GREEN.

Our Future Millionaires.

Once let the Celestials get our American way of doing business, and there will be plenty of China ASTORS among us.

THE POEMS OF THE CRADLE.

CANTO II.

"Hey! Diddle diddle, the cat and the fiddle
The cow jumped over the moon.
The little dog laughed to see the sport,
And the dish ran after the spoon."

These were the classic expressions of the hilarious poet of a period far back in the vista of ages. How vividly they portray the exalted state of his mind; and how impressed the public must have been at the time; for did not the words become popular immediately, and have they not so continued to the present day?

Every mother immediately seized upon the verse, and, setting it to music of her own, sang it as a cradle song to soothe the troubles of infanthood, and repeated it in great glee to the intelligent babe when in a crowing mood, as the poem most fitted for the infant's brain to comprehend.

Papa, anxious to watch the unfolding of the human mind, and its gradual development, would take the baby-prodigy in his arms, and with keen glance directed upon its face, repeat, in thrilling tones, the sublime words. With what joy would he remark and comment upon any gleam of intelligence, and again and again would he recite, in an impressive voice, those words so calculated to aid in bringing into blossom the bud of promise.

But who can meditate upon the memorable stanzas, and not see, in fancy, the enthusiastic youth—the lover of melody and of nature—as he enters his dingy room, the ordinary abiding place of poetical geniuses. He sees his beloved fiddle, and his no less beloved feline friend, in loving conjunction; he bursts out rapturously with impetuous joy:

"Hey! diddle diddle, the cat and the fiddle!"

He sees the two things dearest to his heart, and sees them both at one time! And he must be excused for his sudden night into the regions of classicism.

No wonder that he immediately imagines the world to be as full of joy as he himself, and that he thinks

"The cow jumped over the moon."

Perhaps the sight was a sufficient re-moon-eration to him for his past troubles; and the exhilaration of his spirits caused him to dance, to cut pigeon-wings, and otherwise gaily disport himself; consequently,

"The little dog laughed to see the sport,"

which every intelligent dog would have done, under the circumstances. Certainly, dear reader, you would have done so yourself.

The hilariousness of the poet increasing, and his joyfulness expanding, his manifestations did not confine themselves to simple dancing-steps and an occasional pigeon-wing, but, inadvertently perhaps, he introduced the "can-can," and that explains why

"The dish ran away with the spoon."

For the end of his excited toe came in contact with his only dish and spoon, and propelled them to the other side of the room. As he does not tell us whether the dish remained whole after its escapade, we must conclude that it was broken, and that the dreadful accident caused, immediately, a damp to descend upon his effervescent spirits.

In what better way could he give vent to his feelings than in descriptive verse? He could not shed his tears upon the paper and hand them around for inspection, or write a melancholy sonnet on the frailty of crockery, as a relief to his mind. No! he chose the course best fitted to command public attention, as the result proved. He told his tale—its cause and effect—in as few words as possible. Fortunate if other poets would only do the same!

An Ornithological Con.

What bird does General PRIM most resemble?
A Kingfisher.

NOTES ON THE FERRY.

MR. CARAMEL, WHO IS OBSERVANT, CONTEMPLATIVE, AND GIVEN TO COMPARISON, ARRIVES AT THE CONCLUSION THAT SOME WOMEN ARE NICER THAN OTHERS.

THE MISERIES OF A HANDSOME MAN.

Ever since my earliest recollections I have been a victim to circumstances.

Beauty, which others desire and try every means to obtain, to me has been a source of untold misery. From my infancy, when ugly women with horrid breaths would stop my nurse in the streets and insist upon kissing me—through my school-days, when the girls would pet me and offer me a share of their nuts and candies, and the boys laugh at me in consequence, and call me "gal-boy," squirt ink upon my face for beauty-spots, and present me with curl-papers and flowers for my hair—until the present, when I am denied introductions to young ladies and am put off on old women—I have suffered for my looks.

In my boarding-house I am shunned as if I had the plague. When I enter the parlor or dining-room, I see the ladies look at each other with a knowing air, as much as to say, "Look at him!" And the answer is telegraphed back, "Ain't he handsome? but he knows it," as if I could help knowing it with every one telling me so fifty times a day; and husbands pay unusual attention to their wives when I am around, as if I were an ogre.

I am naturally a modest man, made more so by my extreme sensitiveness to personal criticism; and to be obliged to stand apparently unconscious, when I know I am being looked at and commented upon, is harrowing to my feelings. I feel sometimes as if I should drop down on the floor, but then folks would never stop laughing if I did, at what they would be pleased to term my extreme ladylikeness! I have actually prayed that I might get the small-pox, and once walked through the small-pox hospital for that purpose, but escaped unharmed.

I suppose I must have been vaccinated. In fact, I know I have been, for how often have I looked at the scar on my arm, and wished it had been on my cheek, or at the end of my nose, or, in fact, on any place where it might be considered a blemish.

When I was a child I came near killing myself one night by going to bed with two large bottle-corks thrust into my nostrils, to make them large, like other boys'; and have made my mouth sore by stretching it with my fingers, or forcing melon-rinds into it, to enlarge it. But it was useless; perhaps the mouth might be sore for a couple of days, but its shape remained unaltered.

Now that I am a man, I am as unfortunate as ever. My hair will curl, even when shaved within half-an-inch of the scalp; my moustache will stay jet-black, although I sometimes wax the ends of it with soap, and walk on the sunny side of Broadway; my teeth are perfect, and I never need a dentist; and my hands are shameful for a man,—so all my old-maid-aunts and bachelor-uncles say.

My affections have been trifled with several times, "because," as they said, "when they had drawn me to the proposing point, I was too handsome to be good for anything as a husband—I did very well for a beau." Goodness! is it only ugly men that can marry? I want to marry and settle down; for I am so slighted in society that I look with envy upon homely or mis-shapen men.

But who will have me? I put it to you, my friend, if it isn't a hard case. I want an intelligent and agreeable wife, and one that comes of a respectable family. I don't think I am asking too much, but it seems fate has determined such a one I can never have! I have either to remain single, or take one that is "ignorant and vulgar." That, of course, would be as much remarked upon as my appearance, so it cannot be thought of.

I want to escape observation and criticism. I think strongly of emigrating to the Rocky Mountains, donning a rough garb, and digging for gold, in the hope of getting round-shouldered; or hiring myself out as a wood-chopper, in anticipation of a chip flying up and taking off part of my obnoxious nose.

If there were no women around, I might escape notice out there. But if one happened to come along, I should be obliged to leave, for her eyes would ferret out my unfortunate peculiarities, and all my wounds would be opened afresh. Sometimes I think there is no spot on the globe where I would be welcomed; and I feel inclined to commit some desperate deed, that I may be arrested and confined out of the sight of man and woman-kind, until I am aged and bent enough to be presentable.

OUR PORTFOLIO.

Passing down Chatham street the other day, PUNCHINELLO stopped in front of a window where hung a highly-colored engraving of an Austrian sovereign engaged in the Easter ceremony of washing the feet of twelve old men and women.

An Irishman at our side, who had been puzzling some time to comprehend the problem thus submitted to him, finally broke out:

"An' may I ax ye, misther, to be koind enough to exshplain phat in the wurruld that owld roosther's doin'?" pointing to the figure of the kneeling monarch.

"He is washing the feet of the ladies and gentlemen," mildly put in PUNCHINELLO.

"Bedad," says PAT, "don't I see that for meself; but phatis he doin' it for?"

"It is a ceremony of the Catholic Church," PUNCHINELLO explained, "typical of the washing of the feet of the Twelve Apostles."

PAT eyed PUNCHINELLO askance with an expression which plainly enough said that he did not believe we had been reared to tell the truth strictly upon all occasions, and then added:

"Bad cess to your manners, then, don't I know betther nor that; for haven't I been in the church these forty years, and sorrow a sowl ever washed me feet!"

THE SITUATION IN EUROPE.

INTO "BIZ" LOUIS NAP HE IS GOING,
TO PAY OFF THE DEBTS THAT HE'S OWING;
DETERMINED THAT HE WILL MAKE his MARK,
BY TAKING THE CHANGE OUT OF BISMARCK.

FROM AN ANXIOUS MOTHER TO HER DAUGHTER.

[Who is at a Watering Place.]

NEW YORK, July 12, 1870.

MY DEAR DAUGHTER: How are you getting on, dear? Well, I hope, for you know I do want to get you off, desperately. Thirty-seven, and still on my hands! Mr. GUSHER, of the Four-hundred-and-thirty-ninth Avenue, goes down next Saturday. He will hunt you up. Mr. GUSHER is a nice man—so sympathetic and kind; and has such a lovely moustache. Besides, my dear SOPHY, he has oceans of stamps. Quite true, my child, he hasn't much of anything else, but girls at thirty-seven must not have too sharp eyes, nor see too much. Do, dear, try and fix him if you can. Put all your little artifices into effect. Walk, if possible, by moonlight, and alone; that is, with him. Talk, as you know you can, of the sweets of love and the delights of home. Dwell on the felicities of love in a cottage, and if he doesn't see it, dilate on the article in a brown-stone front, with marble steps. Picture to him in the most glowing terms the joys of the fireside, with fond you by his side. If he hints that a fireside in July is slightly tepid, thoughtfully suggest that it is merely a figure of speech, and introduce an episode of cream to cool it. Quote vehemently from TENNYSON, and LONGFELLOW, and Mrs. BROWNING. Bring the artillery of your eyes to bear squarely on the mark. Remember that thirty-seven years and an anxious mother are steadily looking down upon you.

Cut SMIRCH. SMIRCH is a worthless fellow. Would you believe it? his father makes boot-pegs for a living. The house of WIGGINS cannot consort with the son of one who pegs along in life in this manner! Never. Banish SMIRCH. Don't let SMIRCH even look at your footprints on the beach.

Then there is Mr. BLUSTER. What is he? Who? Impertinent puppy! Pretended to own a