committed the crime, he was not the only one who reaped a benefit therefrom. But the traditional historian tells us, he was the only one who was punished therefor; so, while we blame him, let us shed a tear of sympathy because he alone got the beating, the others the eating. The scene is graphically described thusly—

Here we see Tom, the good-for-nothing, standing idly around, listening to the witching strains of his father's bagpipe, played by the industrious musician before the doors of the well-to-do villagers, with the laudable view of obtaining the wherewith to purchase the meat that both might eat; and while the instrument that has well served its day and generation is groaning and wheezing under the pressure brought to bear upon it, TOM'S eyes, roving around from window to door, happen to light on a beautiful sucking-pig, that reposes in all the innocent beauty of baby pighood before the open door of a zealous stickler for human rights.

Alas! TOM is not acquainted with the gentlemanly owner of the fascinating pig, and he doesn't know how strong his principles are, nor how far he will go to maintain them.

He gazes enraptured upon the dainty porker, and as he looks, the desire to own just such a one grows upon him, and soon it becomes a determination to own that identical one, for never another could equal that. He looks stealthily around and finds the eyes of all are fixed upon the musician and his bagpipe. No one notices him, and hailing it as a happy omen, he pounces upon the coveted quadruped, grasps it tightly in his hands, and skedaddles.

The music is ended and the crowd disperses. The absence of piggy is unnoticed till the red-headed urchin whose playmate it is looks around for the loved companion, of his childish sports, and finds it not. Great research, amid loud outcries, is made, resulting only in the conviction that the pet of the family is gone, leaving no trace behind.

TOM, with his prize, exultingly hurries homeward, his heart swelling with joy at his luck. Like a dutiful son, he rushes to the arms of his maternal parent and deposits in her capacious lap the dainty prize. Visions of a luscious supper float through the mind of the female piperess, as she bestows her motherly benediction upon her thoughtful son, and proceeds to put into execution the well-conned lesson of cooking a sucking pig.

Having accomplished the "First get your pig" part, the rest comes easy; and at night, when the old Piper returns, his olfactories are sainted with an odor that startles him from his generally despondent mood, and awakens his curiosity as to the cause of such an unusual flavor from his usually flavorless abode. He enters and finds a smiling wife and son, with a smoking pig awaiting his coming. "What next occurred the Poet tells us in the laconic words

There was no necessity for describing the way of eating; the fact was enough. But alas! there is always a dark side to everything, and this happy family were no exception, The bones were left. They couldn't eat them, and they didn't own a dog; so they picked them clean and threw them away. But, "Murder will out," and the tiny bones told their own tale. The village detective soon coupled the feet of the missing pig with the unusual occurrence of a heap of bones before the door of the musician's abode, and by a process of reasoning unknown to the detectives of the present day, decided that those bones were a pig's bones—a stolen pig's bones, from the fact that the Piper did not earn enough to indulge in such luxuries as sucking-pigs. Now who stole the sucking-pig?

Clearly not Madame Piper, for she was too fat and heavy to have any light-fingered proclivities.

Clearly not the Piper himself, for he was playing his bagpipe and could prove an alibi.

There was no one left but TOM. Circumstances pointed him out: he loved good eating and hated work, and had been noticed gazing upon the charms of the missing family pet. It was settled, then. TOM was the thief, and the offender must be punished. But how? Law was too uncertain and expensive, TOM was too poor to pay for the pig, so it was resolved to take the worth of it out of him by beating. The poet tells us

Undoubtedly TOM was glad when they got through, and although he

it was a matter of rejoicing with him that he had saved his bacon. It was impossible to get that out through his hide, and they had no stomach pumps in those days.

Scene.—A. City Restaurant.

Waiter, (to customer, who is winding up his repast.) "Anything more, sir?"

Customer. "H'm—well—yes; bring me an omelette souffle."

Waiter. "Omelet Shoo-fly, sir? Yessir."

(Exit, humming the popular tune.)

Unintentionally Appropriate.

The Sun tells a very large story of its own circulation, and then innocently requests the "False Reporting" Tribune to copy it!

BY GEORGE!

(Continued.)

LAKE GEORGE, Sept 5.

DEAR PUNCHINELLO:—In my last I promised to finish my trip on the Lake and give you some reliable rumors about the "Rogers' Slide."

I am prepared to do this to-day, in a happy and congratulatory frame of mind.

I have had breakfast this morning.

When I say this I mean that I have had this morning's breakfast this morning.

Any one who has achieved so remarkable a success, at this place, can safely plume himself on his patience and physical endurance.

For instance, this morning, for the first time, I ordered broiled Spring Chicken.

The waiter gave me a disconsolate look and proceeded to gird up his loins with a base ball belt.

In a few moments he dashed past the window in hot pursuit of a fowl of venerable appearance, but of a style of going that would have put to shame any ostrich that Dr. LIVINGSTONE ever saw.

I asked the head waiter if he called that a Spring Chicken?

He said he guessed that chicken could out-Spring any chicken in the place.

This clears up another great hotel mystery.

The man outflanked this gentle birdling on the eighth time round, in 6.23, which is considered very good indeed, and beats the time of the late Harvard and Yale "Foul" considerably.

I say "outflanked," because it is not the intention of these sunny Amendments to put an end to these feathery Dexters immediately, but to drive them into the ten-pin alley, where they are leisurely bowled to an untimely end. As, however, pony balls are generally used, and there are always half a dozen darkies standing around ready to bet that the chicken won't be killed in forty balls, or sixty, as the case may be, this part of the process is rather tedious to the guest

Sometimes, when the chicken is not very active, there are not more than nine or ten-pin feathers left.

Well, the next place the boat stopped at is called "Sabbath Day Point," in consequence of ABERCROMBIE having landed there on a Wednesday morning.

Its name will therefore be considered a joke by such as see the Point.

A gentleman on board informed me that the water was so clear at this place that one could "see objects when thirty feet from the bottom."

I have thought and thought over this remark, but am unable to see what one's distance from the bottom has to do with his "seeing objects."

I give it up.

On the opposite side of the Lake is a hill called "Sugar Loaf Mountain"—because it is a sweet place for loafers, I suppose.

Finally we passed "Rogers' Slide," which is a rocky precipice three hundred feet high, sloping nearly perpendicularly into the water. A decidedly unpleasant-looking place for cellar-door practice.

There are a great many romantic traditions about this same ROGERS, who is regarded by the simple natives as having been an altogether high-minded and gorgeous character—the fact being that he was one of those unmitigated old scamps who owe to the accident of having lived in Revolutionary times, the distinction of being held up to the emulation of primary schools as a "Patriot Hero." Literally he was simply an "unmixed evil," fighting only to steal something, and devoting what time and talent he could spare from his legitimate profession—which was seven-up—to generally bedevilling and encroaching upon the neighboring Indians.

As an enchroachist he was immense.

The noble red-skins alluded to finally concluded that enough was enough, and appointed a Special Commission to put a permanent end to the delicate attentions of the "Marked Back."

This sobriquet they conferred upon him partly on account of the fact that he usually received his wounds while leaving their immediate vicinity, and partly because of a peculiar characteristic of the kind of cards he used.

The Commissioners caught ROGERS out hunting, and chased him until he came to this precipice, down which he slid into the Lake below, and, unfortunately, escaped unharmed.

The Indians, who were pursuing him by the imprints of his snow-shoes, soon arrived at the brink. Seeing what had occurred, they concluded to "let him slide."

Hence the name.

Evidently they thought, from the trail, that he must have gone over. Though he was by no means a missionary, the Tracks he had left produced a profound impression on their untutored minds.

They at once concluded that he was drowned, or had got "in with" some bad spirits.

It is obvious, however, to the most casual observer of the place, that the reverse must have been the case. The bad spirits were in him.

The mark worn by Mr. R's "cheviots" in his descent can still be distinctly seen.

About half way up is a shining object which is generally believed to be a suspender button.

This, however, is merely conjectural.

The clerk of the boat, of whom I have spoken before, tells me that until within a few years back, the hole in the water where ROGERS struck could be seen.

"But it is all gone now," he said, shaking his head sadly. "Nothing can escape the Vandal horde of tourists and relic hunters. Piece by piece they have carried the hole away, and there is no trace of it left now."

And he "wept at my tranquillity."

At the north end of the Lake we took stages for Fort Ticonderoga. These vehicles were run by a man who was pointed out as a "character," which means a sort of licensed nuisance.

The monomania of this individual was speech making, and much reflection inclines me to the belief that he is some unappreciated politician who has invented a way of "taking it out" on the unhappy public as follows:

He waits until his five immense stages arrive at some remote and solitary part of the road, then draws them up in a semi-circle, mounts a stump, and—on pretence of exhibiting the beauties of nature—proceeds to harangue the helpless fares to the top of his very high bent, or until one of the slumbering "outsides" creates a welcome diversion by falling off and breaking his neck.

We came to what was really a curiosity—two kinds of trees growing from one trunk, which this concentration of bores, this mitrailleuse, in fact, improved accordingly.

"Here, Ladies and Gentlemen, you per-ceive one of the re-markable and pe-culiar works of a benign Per-rovidence. On the right you see the sturdy and iron-hearted oak, while on the left you behold the modest and be-utiful ellum. What Having has joined together let no man put asunder—gerlang with yer hosses!"

It must have been a Sunday-school Superintendent who invented excursions to Fort Ty.

It is not a place to Tye to.

One old gentleman pointed to an underground hole and advised me to go and look at the magazine.

I went; but it is hardly necessary to say that I didn't find any, and, on the whole, I was glad of it If people don't know any more than to leave their Galaxys and Harper's lying around loose when travelling, why, they deserve to have them stolen, that's all.

I was sorry for the old gentleman, but if there is anything that disgusts me, it is to meet people that ain't posted about things.

As the steamer neared the Hotel, on our return, the departing sun was flinging back his last good-night smile on the lovely scene below, and the musical chime of the little church at Caldwell came stealing sweetly over the bosom of the placid Lake. As its fairy-like sounds reached our ears, a melancholy-looking man with long hair, who sat near, started, smiled, and turning to me, said:

"Did I ever tell you that story about SLUKER?"

As I had never seen the party before, I replied that if he had I had forgotten it.

"SLUKER," he repeated, gazing absently at the distant spire; "SLUKER," he reiterated, rubbing his nose abstractedly with the handle of his umbrella; "SLUKER," he continued—

—in my next, my dear PUNCHINELLO, in my next.

SAGINAW DODD.

[To be continued.]

Sauce

There can be no doubt that Grévy is in the right place, as a member of the Provisional government of France.

Old Gent. "Don't scatter water on my feet, man,—do you suppose I want 'em to grow any bigger?"

EDUCATION FOR DETECTIVES.

Although our Metropolitan Detectives have hitherto failed to solve the mystery in which certain atrocious murders remain shrouded, yet it would be simply captious to impeach them, on that account, for lack of sagacity, zeal, courage, or any of the numerous other qualities that go to the making up of an efficient "Hawkshaw."

That they are not deficient in zeal, at least, is manifest from a circumstance which took place a short time since. Counterfeiting had been carried on to a great extent in the city. The rashness of counterfeiters is proverbial, and they usually carry on their operations immediately under the nasal protuberance of the law. Nevertheless, in the case under notice, some vigilant detective, with a nose as sharp as that of a Spitz-dog, obtained a clue to the arrangements of the counterfeiters. Having informed some of his associates, a concerted descent was made by the party upon a house in one of the lower streets of the city. A portion of the house is, and has been for years past, occupied by several artists connected with the illustrated press. Few gentlemen are better known in large circles than these artists, none more highly appreciated by hosts of friends. But duty is duty—often stern, but never to be shirked; and so the faithful detectives inserted their Spitz-dog noses between the joints of the artists' doors, and, having smelt a very large rat, suddenly burst in upon these graphic malefactors, and caught them in the act, with all the tools and paraphernalia of their nefarious occupation scattered about their vile den.

Most of them were engaged in executing drawings upon blocks of wood, although it is probable that some of them were smoking pipes—tobacco being vastly conducive to that concentration of thought by which alone great mental efforts can be followed by equivalent results. Short work was made by the sagacious detectives, when they saw the graphic malefactors engaged in their diabolical toil. Some of the officers seized the implements of the gang, while others collared the delinquents, and marched them through the streets to the nearest police station, where they were thrust into