listen! Give me your ears! (the big ones first.) This thing must be stopped now. Let us form an association for the suppression of women, or a society for the prevention of cruelty to men. There is but one way to cure this thing. Far out on the Western prairies dwells the only sensible man on this continent. In the city ruled by him a man may come home as tired as gin can make him, and his wife opens not her mouth; he may jump over as many counters as he pleases, and none of his wives will desire to go and do likewise. There she is the weaker vessel, and it takes so many of her to equal one man, that she is kept in a proper state of subjection. That's the secret; marry her a good deal. The old maids are the ones who start the rows. Let them all be married to some one man of a peaceable, loving, quiet disposition—say WENDELL PHILLIPS. Let the President, if necessary, issue his proclamation making the United States one vast Utah, and let us all be Young.

LOT.

RAMBLINGS.

BY MOSE SKINNER.

MR. PUNCHINELLO: If I should tell you that I particularly excelled in writing verses you'd hardly believe me. But such is the fact. I've sent poem after poem to all the first-class magazines in the country, which, if they'd been published, would have enabled me to pay my debts, and start new accounts from Maine to Georgia. But they've never been published—and why? It's jealousy. A child with half an eye can see that. Those boss poets who get the big salaries, probably see my verses, and pay the publishers a big price not to print 'em.

How little the public know of the inside workings of these things!

I'm disgusted with this trickery, and am going to shut right down on the whole thing. Oh! they may howl, but not another line do they get!

I'm going into the song business. That's something that isn't overdone. I composed a perfect little gem lately. It is called "Lines on the death of a child." I chose this subject because it is comparatively new. A few have attempted it, but they betray a crudeness and lack of pathos painful to witness.

Whether I have supplied that deficiency or not is for the public, not me, to judge. But if the public, or any other man, be he male or female, thinks that by ribaldry and derision I can be induced to publish the whole of this work before it's copyrighted, they're mistaken. The salt that's going on the tail of this particular fowl ain't ripe yet.

It's going to be set to music and it'll probably hatch a song. I called on a publisher last week about it.

"Don't you think," said I, "that it'll take 'em by storm?"

"Worse than that," he replied. "It's a reg'lar line gale."

I knew he'd be enthusiastic about it.

He said he hadn't got any notes in, that would fit it just then, but be expected a lot in the next steamer, and I could have my choice. He was very polite, and I thanked him kindly.

Jealous as I am of my reputation, I am willing to stake it on this poem. A man don't collect the obituary notices of one hundred infants and boil 'em down over a slow fire without something to be proud of, you know.

Here is a sample of it:

The other verses are, if anything, better than this. If you are anxious to publish this poem entire, why not leave out the pictures and all the reading matter from PUNCHINELLO for two weeks, and show the public what genius, brains, and ability can accomplish, unaided? If you publish it in detachments, it weakens it, you see. If the verses can't lean against each other, they pine away immediately.

THE YOUNG DEMOC TRYING TO PUT THE BIG SACHEM'S PIPE OUT.

Big Sachem. "SAY, YOUNG MAN, AIN'T YOU AFRAID YOU'LL BURN YOUR BREECHES?"

SARSFIELD YOUNG HAS HIS HEAD EXAMINED.

DEAR PUNCHINELLO:—The last time I visited a barber's shop I wanted my hair trimmed. Being in somewhat of a hurry for the train, I told the proprietor to cut it short. As a matter of course, I was left. As for my hair, there was precious little of that left, though. Science was too much for it. A hand-glass, brought to bear upon a mirror, opened up a perspective of pretty much all the back country belonging to my skull, that is seldom equalled outside the State Prison or the Prize Ring.

I was indignant. I was so mad that my hair stood on end—voluntarily. The barber talked soothingly of making a discount on the bill; and I, looking at it in a strictly diplomatic light, gradually permitted myself to grow calmer. He went further, and did the handsome thing by me—as if it wasn't enough to cut under his price! A phrenologist by profession, so he said, he had resorted to barbering simply for amusement, and under the circumstances he would give me a professional sitting gratuitously.

It has always been a cherished ambition with me to have my head surveyed and staked out scientifically; SO I told him at once he might take it and look it over.

"My friend," said I, as I gracefully described an imaginary aureole about my brain factory, "you abolish the poll-tax. I grant you full leave to explore."

This was the first time I ever had my head examined. The whole of me, it is true, was once examined before a Trial Justice; but as that was years ago, and it was "the other boy" that was to blame, I refrain from incorporating the details into the history of our country.

It occurred to me that old Scissors couldn't have been much of a scholar; at all events he breathed very hard for an educated man, and he had a rough, muscular way of moving his fingers about my upper story, that made those regions ache every time he touched them. You may fancy my feelings. I certainly didn't fancy his.

For the benefit of those who come after us, (I don't refer to Sheriffs and Constables, so much as I do to posterity,) I append a few results of the gentleman's vigorous researches.

*       *       *

"There's a great deal of surface here; in fact, everybody that is acquainted with this head must be struck at once with its superficial contents."

"Thickness—obvious. Great breadth between the ears, indicating longevity. You will never die of teething, or cholera infantum; nor is it likely you will ever become a murderess.

"Forehead, large and imposing; that is, it might impose on people who don't know you.

"Your intellect may be pronounced massive, dropsical, in fact. You have brilliant talents, but your bump of cash payments is remarkably small.

"Locality, 20 to 30. You are always somewhere, or just going there. Eventuality, 18 carat fine; absorption, 99 per cent. This means you will eventually absorb a good deal of borrowed money.

"I find here acquisitiveness and secretiveness enough to stock an entire Board of Aldermen and a Congressional Committee."

"Ambition, combativeness, and destructiveness are all on a colossal scale. Happily they are balanced by gigantic caution, else you would be in imminent danger of subverting the liberties of your country.

"If I owned that sanguine temperament of yours, I should proceed at once to marry into President GRANT'S family, and take some foreign mission.

"You're a good feeder. Alimentiveness and order well developed. No man better fitted to order a waiter around. From the immature condition of your organ of benevolence, I shouldn't care, however, to be the waiter.

"Self esteem doesn't seem to have been kept back by the drought.

"Ideality, I discover from the depression in the S. W. corner, is missing. Nature beautifully compensates this loss by making language very full—more words than ideas. In profane language, I dare say, now, you are particularly gifted.

"In one respect your head resembles that of the Father of His Country. It lacks adhesiveness. So does GEORGE'S—on the postage stamps.

"Unlike most subjects, your organ of firmness is not confined to any one spot, but is spread over the entire skull. This phenomenon is due to your being what we technically call 'mule-headed'—a fine specimen which—"

"Excuse me," said I, unwilling any longer to impose on his good nature, "I feel I must make sure of that other train, so I will just trouble you for that organ of firmness and the rest of them. I never travel without them." Then, hurrying all my phrenology into my hat, I started down the street.

I wonder he didn't say something about my memory's being below par—somehow I quite forgot to pay him for shaving me.

Yours, without recourse,

SARSFIELD YOUNG.

VERY "HARD CIDER."

THE PIPPINS OF THE JOHN REAL DEMOCRACY, (MESSRS. MORRISSEY, O'BRIEN, AND FOX,) GETTING THEIR LAST SQUEEZE FROM GOVERNOR HOFFMAN.

HIRAM GREEN IN GOTHAM.

He Strays among Sharpers, and "Sees the Elephant."

There's many things in the big city which pleases me, and causes us all to feel hily tickled over our success as a Republic.

At the present writin', many furrin' nations would give all their old butes and shoes if, like us, they could throw their roolers overboard every 4 years, and have a new deel.

Our institutions are, many of 'em, sound: altho' I've diskivered to my sorrer, that some of the inhabitants of New York are about as puselanermus a set of dead-beats which ever stood up.

While sojernin' here, my distinguished looks kicked up quite a sensation wherever I put in an appearance. On one occasion, a man stepped up to me who thought I was a banker, and richer than Creosote, and wanted me to change a $100 bill. I diden't do it. Not much. No, sir-ee!—they coulden't fool the old man on that ancient dodge.

But, friend PUNCHINELLO, to my disgust and shagrin', I must acknolidge the corn, and say, I hain't quite so soon as I allers give myself credit for bein', as the sekel of this letter will show.

Last Saturday P.M. I was a sailin' down Dye Street with my bloo cotton umbreller under my arm, feelin' all so fine and so gay.

When near the corner of West Street I turned around just in time to see a ragged boy pick up a pocket-book.

As the afoursaid boy started to run off, a well dressed lookin' man ketched him by the cote coller.

"What in thunder are you about?" says the boy.

"That pocket-book belongs to this old gentleman," said the man, pintin' to me. "I saw him drop it."

"No it don't, nether," said the boy, tryin' to break away, "and I want yer to let go my cote coller."

The infatuated youth then tried his level best to jerk away, while his capturer yanked and cuffed him, ontil the boy sot up a cryin'.

I notissed as the youth turned around that he partly opened the wallet, which was chock full of greenbax.

A thought suddenly struck me. That 'ere boy looked as if he was depraved enuff to steel the shoe-strings off'n the end of a Chinaman's cue, so the Monongohalian's hair woulden't stay braided.

Thinks I, if the young raskel should keep that pocket-book, like as not he mite buy a fashinable soot of close and enter on a new career of crime, and finally fetch up as a ward polertician.

I must confess, that as I beheld that wallet full of bills, my mouth did water rather freely, and I made up my mind, if wuss come to wusser, I would not allow too much temptashun to get in that boy's way. The man turned to me and says:

"Stranger, this is your pocket-book, for I'le swear I saw you drop it."

What could a poor helpless old man like me do in euch a case, Mister PUNCHINELLO? That man was willin' to sware that I dropped it, and I larnt enuff about law, when I was Gustise of the Peece, to know I coulden't swear I diden't drop it, and any court would decide agin me; at the same time my hands itched to get holt of the well filled wallet.

I trembled all over for fear a policeman, who was standin' on the opposite corner, mite come over and stick in his lip.

But no! like the wooden injuns before cigar stores, armed with a tommyhawk and scalpin' knife, these city petroleums, bein' rather slippery chaps, hain't half so savage as they look.

When the boy heerd the man say I owned the pocket-book he caved in, and began to blubber. Said he, whimperin':

"Well—I—want—a—re—ward—for—findin' the—pocket-bo—hoo—ok."

The well dressed individual, still holdin' onto the boy, then said to me:

"My friend, I'me a merchant, doin' bizziness on Broadway, at 4-11-44. You've had a narrer escape from losin' your pocket-book. Give this rash youth $50, to encourage him in bein' honest in the futer, and a glorious reward awaits you. Look at me, sir!" said he, vehemently; "the turnin' pint of my life was similar to this depraved youth's; but, sir! a reward from a good lookin', beneverlent old gent like you, made a man of me, and to-day I'me President of a Society for the Penny-Ante corruption of good morrils,' and there hain't a judge in the city who wouldn't give me a home for the pleasure of my company."

Such a man, I knew, woulden't lie about seein' me drop that pocket-book. I took another look at the Guardian (?) of the public peace, morrils, etc., who, when he was on his Beat, haden't the least objection to anybody else bein' on their beat. He wasen't lookin' our way, but was star-gazin', seein' if the sines was rite for him to go and take another drink.

"You are sure you saw me drop this wallet?" said I, addressin' the President of the Penny-antee Society.

"I'le take my affidavy on it," said he.

I pulled out $50 and handed it to the boy, who handed me the pocket-book.

"Mrs. GREEN! Mrs. GREEN!" soliloquised I, as I walked away, feelin' as rich as if I held a good fat goverment offis, "if you could only see your old man now, methinks you'd feel sorry that you hid all of his close one mornin' last spring, so he coulden't go and attend a barn raisin'. Yes, madam, your talented husband has struck ile."

I stepped in a stairway to count my little fortin. I was very much agitated. The wallet was soon opened; when—

"Ye ministers fallen from grace, defend us!" was the first exclamation which bust 4th from my lips; for I hope to be flambusticated if I hadn't gone and paid $50 for a lot of brown paper, rapt up into patent medesin advertisements, printed like greenbax.

For a few minnits I was crazier than a loon.

I rusht madly into the street, runnin' into an old apple woman, nockin' her "gally west."

I quickly jumped to my feet and begun hollerin':

"Murder! Thieves! Robbers!"

The Policemen scattered, while a crowd of ragged urchins colected about me. "My youthful vagabones," roared I, as loud as I could scream, "bring along your stuffed wallets. The market price of brown paper is $50 an ounce on call.—If you are lookin' for a greenhorn, I'me your man."

I then broke my umbreller over a lamp-post, and button-hold a passer by, offerin him a $100 if he'd send me to a loonatic asilum.

Seein' a sine on the opposite corner which read: "Weigher's Office," I rusht wildly in, and said to a man:

"Captin, I've been litened. If you've got such a thing as a pair of