for? Isn't the house full enough to-night to satisfy anybody?"

FRIEND OF THE THEATRE—"To be sure it is. Stick to this sort of thing, and you'll find it will pay better in the end than any amount of legs. NIBLO'S is now a respectable theatre. Don't change it into an Anatomical Museum."

MATADOR.

AFTER THE BATTLE.

CARRYING OFF THE WOUNDED.

ANSWERS TO CORRESPONDENTS.

A Lover of Music. Our street musicians are growing worse and worse. There is a piper who infests the street in which I live, and sets my nerves on edge with his horrible droning. What am I to do with him?
Answer. put him in the waste-piper basket.

Aunt Carraway. The preparatory schools about which you inquire have nothing to do with the reformation of wicked parrots. If the language made use of by your parrot is so dreadful that the cats have left the house in consequence of it, we are afraid that the bird is past reform. Try him with rats, and you may yet be renowned as the "female Whittington of the period."

Rebecca Hazeldown. It was very rude of the young man to stare at you through an aquarium, as you say he did. The little fishes might have been flirting their tails at the time, however, and it is just possible that he might have taken you for one of the flirts.

A Horseman. After long observation, I am of opinion that the sudden collapse which so frequently occurs among omnibus and street-car horses, is to be attributed to the stupid but common practice of giving them water when they are overheated. Can you assist me in putting a stop to this?
Answer. We do not see why you should apply to PUNCHINELLO in the case. Have we not a Croton BERGH among us?

Valetudinarian. To furnish you with a list of all the patent medicines advertised is quite out of our power. Suppose you start out early every morning with your note-book, walk for seven or eight miles along the Bloomingdale Road, and make your list from the innumerable inscriptions on the rocks in that vicinity. Do this for a month or two, and you will not care much about the list when you have got it.

N.E. by S.W. We read that DEMOSTHENES used to put pebbles in his mouth, and spout while thus charged, to cure himself of thickness of utterance. Suffering from the same defect, I have tried the same remedy, but without success. Can you advise me in the matter?
Answer. The most learned commentators agree that the statement about DEMOSTHENES' putting pebbles in his mouth was only figurative, and really meant that, when about to speak in public, he used to put a brick in his hat. The same thing is done by many of our public speakers of the period—such as JOHN B. GOUGH, H. GREELEY, ANNA DICKINSON, and others. Try it moderately, and it may loosen your tongue.

Epicurus. Is Worcestershire sauce really the invention of an English nobleman?
Answer. Yes: he was one of the COOKS or one of the BUTLERS, we have forgotten which; but it is certain that he was degraded from the peerage for offering some of his sauce to the reigning British monarch of his time.

Complimentary Chromatics

While all France is Blue with the prospects of the siege of Paris, we have constant accounts of the growing ascendency of the Reds. We commend this to the nest scientific convention, as an evidence of the analogies which prevail in the physical and moral worlds.

A Sally for Sketchers.

When an artist visits a picturesque locality, why is the proceeding like an undecided prize-fight?

Because it results in a draw.

A RASH PROCEEDING.

WAITING FOR A LIGHT.

HIRAM GREEN AND FEMALE SUFFRAGE.

His Experience with the Advocates of the 10th Amendment.

On the last eleckshun day, I was servin as Inspecter of Eleckshun, when a passil of wimmen, drest partly in men's habiliments, walkt up to the ballit box.

They was headed by old SARY YOOMANS, who has been an old made for more'n 1/2 Sentury.

Steppin up close to the railin where votes is put in, Miss YOOMANS thus to me did say:—

"Square GREEN, wee've come to cast the soffrige of a down-trodden race: Will you receive our votes?"

"Not exzactly I wont, my hi toned Greshun benders," was my reply.

"Do you know who we air, sir?" cride a long, leen, lank, rale-fence-lookin femail, whose nose looked as if sheed been sokin it in a bladder of black snuff.

"Well! sweet wolfs in lambs clothin," said I, puttin on one of my shrewed expreshuns, "you look as if you was a lot of, so-called, strong-minded femails, who was up to snuff, but, in an endevor to scratch somebody bare-boned, you'd lost your footin, and tumbled slap-bang into a coal-hole."

"We air, sir," says another ethereal-lookin hearthstun depopulater, "members of the Skeensboro Sore-eye-siss Society. We believe wimmens has got rites, which man won't let her have. We believe the ballit is calkilated to raise woman to her proper speer. We believe hoop-skirts and side-saddles will soon be numbered among the lost arts. We believe SOOZAN B. ANTHONY, E. CADY STANTON, WENDIL FILLIPS, or Mister BLACKWELL, are just as capable of bein President of this ere old Union, as the best man which ever wore panterloons; and we air bound hensforth and forever, one and onseperable, to stand up for our rites, if we can only rope in enuff Congressmen to hold our bonnits."

Durin the a-4-said bust of elokence, about 75 wimmen was holdin ballits for me to take, while others were vilently swingin their gingham parasols over my bald head.

All seemed as if they was jest bilin over to get their clutches about my breethin apparatus. Says I:

"Go hum and be femails, and don't make sich tarnal loonatix of yourself any longer, gittin mixed up with the body polertick; for sures you're born, when woman votes sheel trail her skirts in the dust and you cant stop her; when she walks up to the ballit box, and undertakes to mix into suthin she don't know no more about, than TILTON and FULTON do about the golden rool, then when that air time comes I will exclaim:

"'Oh! woman; where is thy stinger.'
"'Oh! Sore-eye-siss! where 'bouts is thy victory?'"

"What! miserable man, woodest-ist thou deny us the ballit?" screemed another femail, as she tore a 2-bushel waterfall from her head, and, wildly swingin it in the air, dirty stockins and old clothes fell into promiscous heeps all about her.

"With all doo respect to the sects," says I, gettin madder and madder all the while, "you can jest bet your Sunday close I woodest."

"Hard-harted old man, yool rue this day," they all cride in Koruss, and the hull lot commenced snivellin, as if their harts was busted.

"Kind, noble, beautiful sir! we langwish to cast our suffrages," says a big fat woman, about the size of a lode of hay, as she shoved her ballit under my nose.

"Madam," says I, swellin up with accumulated rage, "langwish and rip and tare things as much as you mindter—you cant stuff this ere ballit box with illegal votes as long as Ime boss of it—that's what's the matter—and I want you to understand I mean bizzinezs."

At this they all started for the door, remarkin that I was an "old fool," "mouskiter," etketary &c.

"When the 16th commendment passes," said sweet ELIZER HEMPIHL, who is too pooty to be caught in sich company, "we will call for your skalp, old man."

"Which topnot," was my reply, "wouldent furnish hair enough for a false eyebrow."

I see they was goin, so I said:—

"My week-minded and misgided femails, hold your hosses a minnit, until an old statesman, who has served his country for 4 yeer as Gustise of the Peece, says a few remarks to you."

"When woman was taken out of man's ribs, it wasent calkilated she should lower herself by mixin into such dirty bizziness, as you are up to to-day. Woman in her natural element, is jest one of the soothinest institutions in this ere land, which flows with milk-punch and houey-sope, and what poor miserable critters man would be without her.

"Who would nuss our offspring, if it wasent for wimmen?

"Who would cheer our fireside, if it wasent for wimmen?

"Who would cook our vittles, if it wasent for wimmen?

"And who would haul off our butes nites, when we come home tired and demoralized, after havin a sett-to with lager-beer and sweitzer?

"Agin, I remark, if it wasent for woman in her onadulterated state, before she had been made a tarnal fool of by these ere despoilers of man's happiness, MASKALINE WIMMEN, man would be a poor shiftless koot.

"Therefore, I say, go hum and resoom your abnormal condition. Get back into your own harniss, and don't undertake to assoom the bifurkated garments. It haint your forte, no more'n it is some of our public offishals to keep from steelin."

I rattled away at 'em in this stile, ontil I beheld the last pair of femail bifurkaters skoot for home, when I subsided into a chair, and with my bandanner hankerchief wiped the perspiration from my noble brow.

After Ide partially recovered my ekanimity, I agin resoomed my offishal duties, but I couldent help thinkin that if wimmen made such a confounded hullabalo about votin, as they is now doin, tryin to vote; them air leaders, who air goin about the country like Internal Revenoo offisers, seekin that they may gobble up somebody, will have a pile to anser for, when woman becomes a component part of the body polertick.

Which is the opinion of your humbley sarvent,

HIRAM GREEN, ESQ.,

Lait Gustise of the Peece.

FRESH FROM THE FLOWERY KINGDOM.

The world is justly indignant at the accounts of the Chinese massacres of the missionaries who have perilled their lives in going so far to teach them Christianity. Recently, for example, a young lady teacher from Boston was so terribly stoned by some of the unregenerate little pig-tailed fiends in Canton, that she died the next day. It is dreadful to think how savage the instincts of the heathen are.

P.S.—Since the above was set up in type, MR. PUNCHINELLO has learned that the Canton in which this occurrence took place is not in China, but is a thriving village in Norfolk county, Massachusetts, about eighteen miles from Boston, and that the assailants were consequently not pig-tailed heathen, but genuine Christian children, who, in a few years, will belong to the cultivated voters of Massachusetts. This action, consequently, was not dictated by unregenerate barbarism, but was intended simply as a protest (rough, we confess, but effectual, we trust) against these new-fangled ideas of women's rights. What business have women to be trying to teach? Let them stay at home, and if they want to know anything, ask their husbands, there; and if they are unmarried, let them wait until they get husbands. We must not let our natural gallantry interfere with our reverence and respect for the rights of ignorance, which will eventually vote.

A THRICE BLESSED CITY.

There is a city in Illinois called St. Genevieve. By some hocus-pocus known to accomplished politicians, this city has had no Mayor since the 4th of June, 1867. In the absence of definite information upon the subject, we take it for granted that St. Genevieve must be a most delightful place to live in, and specially so, because, as we are further informed, they have no Aldermen there either. More delightful still, as there is nobody authorized to assess taxes, the fortunate inhabitants do not pay any. Of course, if this state of primitive bliss could last, Mr. PUNCHINELLO would make immediate arrangements to remove to St. Genevieve; but the courts have ordered the citizens to elect a Mayor immediately, so that this little heaven upon earth will soon have ceased to exist.

LETTING HIM DOWN EASY.

Aspiring Author. "Ah! You have read my essay? I hope the verdict is Favorable."

Editor. "O yes, all Right,—Acquitted on the ground of insanity."

OUR PORTFOLIO.

The French Republic dying of Gas.—Good Sense for Gambetta.

TOURS, SIXTH WEEK OF THE REPUBLIC, 1870.

Dear PUNCHINELLO:

There is gloom everywhere; applications to serve in the ranks have diminished, and the price of pocket-handkerchiefs has increased. JULES FAVRE writes, under cover of confidence, to the prefect here, that since the interview of which I gave you an account he has had a severe attack of gumboils, and despairs of softening the heart of BISMARCK. I stole the letter for the purpose of copying it, but it was stolen from me in turn by a nefarious emissary of the London Times, who has not however, dared to use it. The greatest activity is manifested in the making of balloons. The administration labors under the delusion that gas and oiled silk may yet prove the Palladium of French liberty. I have remonstrated unavailingiy against this singular infatuation. I held up to the Rump Council now sitting in this city the example of VICTOR HUGO as a fearful warning. He came from Guernsey under a pressure of gas; he entered Paris with the volatile essence oozing from every hair on his head; he loaded the artillery of his rhetoric with gas; he blazed, away at the Germans with gas, and yet, unable to get rid of such afflatus fast enough, he exploded in the very midst of his pyrotechnics, and now lies high and dry on "this bank and shoal of time" like a venerable rhinoceros extinguished by its own snorting. I am sorry to say it, but the great peril of France at this moment is gas. Touching GAMBETTA. Ah! yes, touching GAMBETTA. You may have heard that he has issued a proclamation or two. There are depths in the soul of a Frenchman, where the inspiration of mighty words breeds like "flies in the shambles." Such a soul has GAMBETTA. He is all language. If you were to cut him up in little bits and put each atom under a microscope, you would find in every molecule the text of some proclamation. The genii of syntax and prosody are his guardian angels, and the love of "gabble" is the be-all and the end-all of his political existence. He loves not GARIBALDI. He would have done violence to his grandmother rather than consent to the invitation of the Italian liberator. For short, he calls him "GARRY." Standing in front of the Hotel de Ville, talking to a group of eager listeners, with his arms wildly gesticulating and his nose contemptuously curling towards the empyrean, he asks:

"Who is this GARRY? What is he? Why is he—?"

"Stop," I calmly