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WALKING DOWN CHATHAM STREET.

Clothier. "Step in and look at our goods, Captain. Summer stuffs at a discount—nice lot o' white ducks at half price."

Sportsman. "I beat you there. I've got a nice lot o' black ducks here that ain't to be had at any price."

BRILLIANCY OF THE "SUN."

The Moon, as is generally known, shines with a borrowed light, while the Sun is popularly supposed to manufacture its own gas and to arrange its pyrotechnics on the premises. Our N.Y. Sun, however, does not always manufacture its own beams. By far the most brilliant of the "sunbeams," for instance, published in that journal of November 1st, is the quaint and charming little poem there headed "Sally Salter," and written originally for Punchinello, in the issue of which publication for Oct. 1st it made its first appearance, under the title of "The Lovers." We congratulate the Sun on having thus successfully lit its pipe with Punchinello's fire, though we think it might have been gracious enough to have acknowledged the favor.

A PEOPLE OF TASTE.

The extraordinary liberality of the generous people of Connecticut has frequently excited apprehension in the minds of their friends, that, sooner or later, as the result of their spendthrift career, they must come to beggary. But we are glad to hear that they are making an effort in New Haven to reform. The grocery men there say that their customers taste so much before they can make up their minds to buy anything, that what with gratuitous slices of cheese and specimen mouthfuls of sugar and sample spoonfuls of molasses, the shop-keeper's profits are most dolefully diminished. A particularly BLUE LAW against this economical custom will have the effect of sobering down these brilliant Cullers.

"What Answer?"

Is it likely that HORACE GREELEY, or any other man, could steer this country through its difficulties by means of the tillers of the soil?

ANY MORE CAVES?

About the dreariest magazine or other reading we know of—and we get a deal of it, too—is that which describes the visits of enthusiastic persons to big caves underground, very dark, damp, dreary, ugly, funereal—with winding ways and huge holes, water with eyeless fish, and certain drippings called stalagmites and stalactites. The enthusiasts, who always possess that priceless treasure self-satisfaction, and a boundless capacity for wonder (which is always ready to exercise itself with anything that is big, however ugly), and the "Palaces," and "Halls," and "Cascades," and "Altars," and "Bridal Wreaths" they see there are not only finer than real ones (if you would believe them!) but so grand and wonderful as to be really indescribable. So we find them, by their turgid and stupid reports, which are all alike, and all dreary and silly. We have never heard of anybody who got excited over these pictures (except the artists themselves); and positively there is no flatter reading anywhere than these gushing notes about big caves.

GEOMETRICAL.

Why is it that we hear so much of the proper "Sphere" of woman? Here is that noble exile, the Princess Editha Montez, lecturing again, and her subject, of course, is the Spherical one. So when Mesdames Stanton, Dickinson, Anthony, Howe—all the lovely lecturers—discourse, they forget the platform which is plane, and discuss the "sphere" which is mysterious. Can it possibly be that it is because these amiable gentlewomen are always going round? Or is it because they cannot help reasoning in a circle? Or is there some occult relation between spheres and hoops? Or has the wedding-ring something to do with it? It should be understood, that these are questions addressed solely to male mathematicians; for Mr. P. is unlike John Graham, and doesn't care to cross-examine ladies.

SECRETION EXTRAORDINARY.

It is done by Mollusks. We can tell you even the precise kind—it is the Gasteropod kind. Not only this, we know the very devil himself that does it. (And you will say that "devil" is not a particle too rough a term, when we come to tell what it is he "secretes.") It is the Dolium galea, good friends, and we could tell you six other kinds that are suspected of this meanness. One of 'em is the Pleurobranchidium—which, of course, you have often heard of.

Well, what do these wretched Mollusks go and secrete? We can tell you—we, who know everything. It is sulphuric acid! What! do they steal it? Oh, no; they "evolve" it—probably from the "depths of their own consciousness."

And what do they do it for? Well, they bore with it. Give 'em a chance, and they'll go through you. The acid eats its way, and then they eat their way. That way is not ours, exactly; but we have known human beings about as venomous as this creature, and with precisely the same tendency to pierce one. They do it with their tongues, it is true, but the perforation is complete.

THE WRONG PLACE.

We are unusually astonished to find the Female Reformers holding their meeting in this city in Apollo Hall. It is well known that Apollo was a god of the male persuasion; and to have everything "mix up well," these philosophical dames should have a Minerva Hall or a Diana Hall of their own. Besides, was not Apollo the God of Harmony? Precious little of that same was there at this meeting; for there was the Medical Mary Walker trying to make a speech, while the Chairwoman put her down, causing Mary de Medici to cry out with shrill indignation: "Tyrant!" Bless us! we thought all the tyrants were we Bearded Ones.

A LETTER FROM CHICAGO.

urposely or otherwise, we are all on our way to California now—men, women, and children—graybeards and babies. We did Europe two or three years ago, so that idea is obsolete, excepting as a bridal tour; then, too, the more peaceably inclined, who have not seen the European elephant, would prefer to wait until that country is again in a state of quiescence. But Chicago is constantly sending out her adventure-loving citizens upon the Pacific road, each one of