class="c3">WHAT SIGERSON SAYS.

SIGERSON (Dr.) of the Royal Irish Academy, has gone and said some mighty unpleasant things about the Atmosphere. How he found them out, we can't say, (and we hope he can't:) but nevertheless, he declares, with the most dreadful calmness, that if you go to visit the Iron Works, you will inevitably breathe a great many hollow Balls of Iron, say about one two thousandth of an inch in diameter! What these rather diminutive ferruginous globules will do for you, we do not know; but you can see for yourself, that with your lungs full of little iron balls you must certainly be in a "parlous" state. We should say that we had quite as lief have the air full of those iron spheres, termed Cannon Balls, as it is now in France. It is true, one couldn't get many of these inside one with impunity; and equally true, that foundry men do manage to live, with all that iron in their lungs; but we can't say we desire to "build up an Iron Constitution," as the P-r-n S-r-p folks say, by the inhaling process.

But SIGERSON is not content to render the neighborhood of Iron Works questionable to the delicate and apprehensive; in "shirt-factory air" he declares, upon honor, "there are little filaments of linen and cotton, with minute eggs" (goodness gracious!) "Threshing machines," he more than insinuates, "fill the air with fibres, starch-grains and spores," (spores! think of that;) and (what is truly ha(i)rrowing,) in "stables and barber's shops" you cannot but breathe "scales and hairs." Good Heavens!

What he says of printers and smokers is simply horrible; in short, this dreadful SIGERSON has gone and made life a wretched and lingering (to quote the sensitive Mrs. GAMP,) "progiss through this mortial wale."

THE WATERING PLACES.

Punchinello's Vacation.

When we visit ordinary places of summer resort, we require no particular outfit, (it being remembered that the "we" alluded to comprehends only males,) excepting a suitable supply of summer clothes. But when we go to the Adirondacks,—certainly a most extraordinary place of summer resort,—we require an outfit which is as remarkable as the region itself. Thoroughly understanding this necessity, Mr. PUNCHINELLO made himself entirely ready for a life in the woods before he set out for the Adirondack Mountains. Witness the completeness of his preparations.

The railroad to the heart of this delightful resort is not yet finished, and when Mr. P. had completed his long journey, in which the excellence and abominabitity,—so to speak,—of every American form of conveyance was exhibited, he was glad enough to see before him those charming wilds which are gradually being tamed down by the well-to-do citizens of New York and Boston. He found that it was necessary, in order to enter the district, to pass through a gate in a high pale-fence, and, to his surprise, he was informed that he must buy a ticket before being allowed to proceed. On inquiry, he discovered that the Reverend Mr. MURRAY, of Boston, claiming the whole Adirondack region by right of discovery, had fenced it entirely in, and demanded entrance money of all visitors.

This was bad, to be sure, but there was no help for it, and Mr. P. bought his ticket and passed in.

The Adirondack scenery is peculiar. In the first place, there are no pavements or gravel walks.

This is a grievous evil, and should be remedied by Mr. MURRAY as soon as possible. The majority of the paths are laid out in the following manner.

The scenery, however, would be very fine if the bugs were transparent.

The multitudes of insectivorous carnivora, which arose to greet Mr. P., effectually prevented him from seeing anything more than a yard distant.

But if this had been all, Mr. P. would not have uttered a word of complaint. It was not all, by any means.

These hungry creatures, these black-flies; midges; mosquitoes; yellow bloodsuckers; poison-bills; corkscrew-stingers; hook-tailed hornets; and all the rest of them settled down upon him until they covered him like a suit of clothes. A warmer welcome was never extended to a traveller in a strange land.

In case his readers should not be familiar with the animal, the accompanying drawing will give an admirable idea of the celebrated black-fly of the Adirondacks, which, with the grizzly bear and the rattlesnake, occupies the front rank among American ferocious animals.

After travelling on foot for a day and a night; drenched by rain; scorched by the sun; crippled by rocks and roots; frightened by rattle-snakes and panthers; blistered and swollen by poisonous insects; nearly starved; tired to death; and presenting the most pitiable appearance in the world, Mr. P. reached the encampment of Mr. MURRAY, proprietor and exhibitor of the Adirondacks.

Knowing that there was quite a large company in the camp, Mr. P. was almost ashamed to show himself in such a doleful plight, but he soon found that there was no need for any scruples on that account, as they were all as wretched looking as himself.

Mr. MURRAY welcomed him cordially, and after building a "smudge" around him to keep off the flies, he gave Mr. P. some Boston brown-bread and a glass of pure water from a rill.

This, with a sip from Mr. P.'s little flask, revived him considerably, and after a night's rest on the lee side of a tree, where the rain did not wet him nearly so much as if he had been on the other side, Mr. P. felt himself equal to the task of enjoying the Adirondacks.

That morning, Mr. MURRAY conducted a melancholy party of disconsolate pleasure-seekers to a neighboring stream, where he instructed them to fish for trout.. He told them they must revel in the delights of the scene, and should tremble with the wild rapture of drawing from the rushing waters the bounding trout.

Mr. P. tried very hard to do this. He put his prettiest fly and his sharpest hook on his longest line, and, for hours, gently whipped the ripples. At last a speckled representative of the American National Game-fish took compassion on the patient fisherman and entered into a contest of skill with him. (A friendly match, and no bets on either side.) The game lasted some time. The fish made some splendid "fly-catches;" and Mr. P., slipping on a wet stone at the edge of the brook, got in once on his base. On this occasion, the line and a black-berry bush arranged a decided "foul" between them. At last, just at the most interesting point of the game, the sudden sting of a steel-bee caused Mr. P. to give a quick bawl, when the fish took a home-run and came back no more. Time of game, 3h., 50m.

That afternoon Mr. MURRAY took the party to Crystal Brook, Shanty Brook, Mainspring Brook, Tenement Brook, and more little mountain gutters of the kind than you could count on your fingers and toes. As an aristocratic residence, this region is certainly superior to New York, for the Murray Hills are as plenty as blackberries. The next day they all went up Mount Marcy. When the ascent was completed, everybody lay down and went to sleep. They were too tired to bother themselves about the view. At length, after a good nap, Mr. MURRAY got up and wakened the party, and they all came down.

They came by the way of the "grand slide," but Mr. P. didn't like it. His tailor, however, will no doubt think very highly of it.

When all was quiet, that evening, on Dangle-worm Creek, near which they were encamped, Mr. P. found the Reverend MURRAY sitting in the smoke of his private smudge, enjoying his fragrant pipe. Seating himself by the veteran pioneer, Mr. P. addressed him thus:

"Tell me, Mr. MURRAY, in confidence, your opinion of the Adirondacks."

"Sir," said Mr. MURRAY, "I have no objection to give a person of your respectability and knowledge of the world my opinion of this region, but I do not wish it made public."

"Of course, sir!" said Mr. P. "A man of your station and antecedents would not wish his private opinions to be made too public. You may rely upon my discretion."

"Well, then," said the reverend mountaineer, "I think the Adirondacks an unmitigated humbug, and I wish I had never let the world know that there was such a place."

"Why then do you come here every season, sir?"

"After all I have written and said about it," said Mr. MURRAY, "I have to come to keep up appearances. Don't you see? But I hate these mountains from the bottom of my heart. For every word I have written in praise of the region I have a black-fly-bite on my legs. For every word I have said in favor of it I have a scratch or a bruise in some other part of my corpus. I wish that there was no such a season as summer-time, or else no such a place as the Adirondacks."

(Readers of this paper are requested to skip the above, as those are Mr. MURRAY'S private opinions, and not the statements he makes in public, and his desire to keep them dark should be respected.)

It may be of interest to his patrons to know that Mr. P. arrived home safely and with whole bones.

RAMBLINGS.

BY MOSE SKINNER.

MR. PUNCHINELLO: The editor of the Slunkville Lyre says in his last issue:—

"Notwithstanding the calumnies of Mr. SKINNER, our reputation is still good, and we continue to pay our debts promptly."

This is the fifth hoax he has perpetrated within two weeks. His line of business at present seems to be the canard line.

I'll trust him out of sight if I can keep one eye on him. Not otherwise.

For a light recreation, combining a little business, I recommend his funeral.

It is pleasant to reflect that men of his stamp are never born again. They are born once too much as it is.

He went to the Agricultural Fair last Fall. There was a big potato there. After gazing spell-bound upon it for one hour, he rushed home and set the following in type:

"What is the difference between the Rev. ADAM CLARK, and the big potato at the fair? One is a Commentator, and the other is an Uncommon 'tater."

This conundrum was so exquisitely horrible, that his friends hoped he'd have judgment enough to hang himself, but such things die hard.

Colonel W-----'s Goat. Colonel W-----, is a great man in these parts Like most village nabobs, he's a corpulent gentleman with a great show of dignity, and in a white vest and gold-headed cane, looks eminently respectable. He owns a hot-house, keeps a big dog that is very savage, and his wife wears a silk dress at least three times a week,—either of which will establish a man's reputation in a country town.

Everything belonging to the Colonel is held in the utmost awe by the villagers. The paper speaks of him as "our esteemed and talented townsman, Col. W.," and alludes to his "beautiful and accomplished wife," who, by the way, was formerly waiter in an oyster saloon, and won the Colonel's affection by the artless manner in which she would shout: "Two stews, plenty o' butter."

Like others of his stamp, the Colonel amounts to something just where he is, but take him anywhere else, he'd be a first-class, eighteen carat fraud.

Awhile ago, the Colonel bought a goat for his little boy to drive in harness, and the animal often grazed at the foot of a cliff, near the house. One day, a man wandering over this cliff fell and was instantly killed, evidently having come in contact with the goat, for the animal's neck was broken.

But what amused me was the way the aforesaid editor spoke of the affair. He wrote half a column on the "sad death of Col. W's. goat," but not a word of the unfortunate dead man, till he wound up as follows:

"We omitted to state that a dead man was picked up near the unfortunate goat. It is supposed that this person, in wandering over the cliff, lost his foothold and fell, striking the doomed animal in his progress. Thus, through the carelessness of this obscure individual, was Col. W's. poor little goat hurled into eternity."

The Superintendent asked me last Sunday to take charge of a class. "You'll find 'em rather a bad lot" said he. "They all went fishing last Sunday but little JOHNNY RAND. He is really a good boy, and I hope his example may yet redeem the others. I wish you'd talk to 'em a little."

I told him I would.

They were rather a hard looking set. I don't think I ever witnessed a more elegant assortment of black eyes in my life. Little JOHNNY RAND, the good boy, was in his place, and I smiled on him approvingly. As soon as the lessons were over, I said:

"Boys, your Superintendent tells me you went fishing last Sunday. All but little JOHNNY, here."

"You didn't go, did you, JOHNNY?" I said.

"No, sir."

"That was right. Though this boy is the youngest among you," I continued, "you will now learn from his lips words of good counsel, which I hope you will profit by."

I lifted him up on the seat beside me, and smoothed his auburn ringlets.

"Now, JOHNNY, I want you to tell your teacher, and these wicked boys, why you didn't go fishing with them last Sunday. Speak up loud, now. It was because it was very wicked, and you had rather come to the Sunday School. Wasn't it?"

"No, sir, it was 'cos I couldn't find no worms for bait."

Somehow or other these good boys always turn out humbugs.

It is hardly good taste to introduce anything of a pathetic nature in an article intended to be humorous, but the following displays such infinite depth of tenderness, fortified by strength of mind, that I cannot forbear. Although it occurred when I was quite young, it is firmly impressed on my memory:

The autumn winds sighed drearily through the leafless trees, as the solemn procession passed slowly into the quiet church-yard, and paused before the open grave, where all that was mortal of LUCY C----- was to be laid away forever, and when the white-haired old pastor, with trembling voice, recounted her last moments, sobs broke out afresh, for she was beloved by all.

The bereaved husband stood a little apart, and, though no tear escaped him, yet we all instinctively felt that his heart was wrung with agony, and his burden greater than he could bear. With folded arms, and eyes bent upon the coffin, he seemed buried in a deep and painful reverie. None dared intrude upon a grief so sacred. At last, turning to his brother, and pointing to the coffin, he said:

"JOHN, don't you call that rather a neat looking box for four dollars?"

Financial.

Our French editor thinks that the Imperial revenues ought to be doubled at once, on the ground of the too evident Income-pittance of the Emperor.

AN EXCURSION.

Fanny. "ISN'T IT TOO BAD, FRANK; WE SHALL GET BACK TO TOWN LONG BEFORE DARK."

(Fact is, Fanny has a thick shawl, and it would be so nice to share it with Frank.)

OUR PORTFOLIO.

DEAR PUNCHINELLO: I see you have been at the White Sulphur Springs; but you forgot to tell us what we were all dying to hear about the waters. Several friends had suggested that I should go to some watering place where I could get nothing else but