Before that table, his head resting on his hands, his eyes glaring on the paper, sits the immortal Bard whose lightest words were to be remembered long after his name was forgotten.

The first in order of events in the journey to the Market Town. The arrangements have all been made. He and TOM are to ride the horse, while his mother and DICK ride the mare. There is no use telling the world all the particulars, so he simply writes:—

He doesn't care to mention that two intend to ride the cock horse. If the world chooses to think only one rides him, let them think so. He will write ambiguously if he wants to; there is no law to prevent him from doing so.

"Now what is to be seen after getting there? His mother said a beautiful lady on horseback, and splendid music. But that cannot be. What! a beautiful young lady ride in public on horseback? She wouldn't do such a thing. He knows too much for that. It must be some old woman; and he writes accordingly:—

She is to be gayly dressed, he has heard, and loaded with diamond rings; but how about the music? Probably she has bells on her toes; at least he will put it so, and then adds;—

He thinks awhile longer. He sees in imagination the venerable old dame riding around on the white horse, gayly dressed and bespangled, the rings glistening, the bells ringing, and his sensitive soul fancies it hears the wonderful music, and he knows that ever and ever, so long as she rides,

He has become enraptured with the glowing vision, and now, as he lays down his pen his eyes flash and his cheeks burn with poetic fire. How happy his mother will be to hear the result of his afternoon's labor! Rejoicing he descends, taking with him the precious verse, and proudly begins to read it to his appreciative audience. Falteringly he commences, but, warming with the subject, his spirits rise, till at the last line he triumphantly waves the paper over his head, looks around for applause, and sees----his mother lying on the floor in a dead faint.

Pen and Sword.

"War to the knife!" is the cry of the Paris Siècle. This is merely a cry from a Pen-knife, of course; but then it is sure to be heard by the Butcher-knife.

Nurse Wanted.

We understand that there will shortly be a "Birth" at WALLACK'S.

A BAD LOOK OUT.

Paterfamilias (reading). "IT APPEARS FROM THIS PAPER THAT TURKEY IS LIKELY TO BE ENTIRELY GOBBLED UP BY RUSSIA."

Alitmentive Youth. "THEN WHAT ARE WE GOING TO DO ABOUT THANKSGIVING DAY?"

ONCE UPON A TIME THERE WAS A MAN.

A THRILLING TALE.

WITH EXPLANATORY NOTES.

CHAPTER I.

Once.—In serious literature you cannot be too exact. You will notice that I say once, not twice or thrice, and you will find that that is a very important point at once. Thus, you might put your hand under a trip-hammer once, but not twice. You might take a trip on a Mississippi steamer, or an Erie train, once. You might go to the Legislature or Congress and be honest once. You might get a seat in a horse-car once. You might be civilly treated by a public official once. You might lend an umbrella, or indulge in the luxury of a lawsuit, or persuade your better half that you are only tired when you are really beery, once; but, I assure you, that your chance of doing any of those things twice is decidedly slim. If you do any of them once and don't find yourself in Greenwood, the alms-house, or matrimonial hot water, retire on your laurels and let out the job.

CHAPTER II.

Upon a time.—This is not a fairy tale, though it opens in a very suspicious manner. It is a sad recital of facts. Upon a time does not mean that any one sat down on a watch, or made himself familiar with the town clock. It is not very specific, I admit. It may refer to any time, but, I think, the design was to call attention to Benedict's time. You know how it is yourself. You remember how often you have stood on a dock, and seen the steamboat ten feet out in the stream, or have struck a depot just as the train was rolling around a curve in the distance, simply because you were not upon a time. Then, as you walked on the dock or platform, you would strew your pathway with—curses. But I do not mean anything of that sort. No, I refer to something grander, nobler, more magnificent.

CHAPTER III.

There was.—Here's explicitness! Here's directness! Here's explanatoryness! In my pap days I learned that without a verb there could not be a sentence, not even a judge's sentence. I know "was" ain't much of a word all alone by itself, but then chuck it in among a lot of other fellows, and how it does make them stand around. And then it's so deliciously incomprehensible—there was. Mind you, it don't say that the same thing isn't now. And, mind you, it don't say whether it refers to the day before yesterday, or the commencement of the Franco-Prussian opera bouffe, or our late unpleasantness, or the beginning of the world, or before that. No, it can't go back of the beginning, for before that there wasn't. Anyhow, it leaves you in such a pleasant state of uncertainty that you very willingly pass on to.

CHAPTER IV.

A man.—Here we arrive at something specific. "A two-legged animal, who laughs." That definition excludes women, because they giggle, or chuckle, or cachinnate. This expression is a very general one; it includes a vast number of individuals. It even takes in tailors, for, by a wise provision of Providence, the number of tailors in this world at any one time is always a multiple of nine; so that you can point to any nine of them and boldly say, a man. I am not sure that this term does not include gorillas, for, by a wise provision of Congress, they can at any time be made men and brethren. One advantage about the subject of this chapter is this: it is never necessary to put a head on it, as it is generally furnished with that appendage by nature.

So endeth this thrilling tale. A sequel to it will be published in the early part of the next century, entitled,

"THERE WAS ONCE A TIME UPON A MAN."

HORSE-CAR HUMBUGS.

The Horse-Car is an omnivorous animal, though its chief diet is garbage, as our sense of smell has often proved to us.

The "people's coach" it has been called, but in misery's name, I ask, must the whole public crowd into one coach? Yesterday, after I had waited for a car the best part of the forenoon, it came crawling along at snail-like pace, the horses fast asleep, and the driver gazing vacantly into space, thoroughly exhausted in endeavors to wake them up.

I entered, and was thrust into one of two congealed rows of mortality, which faced each other from opposite benches.

Then the people filled the passage; they crowded it to suffocation; they piled on to the platforms in battalions; six wretches depended from the hind brake; others were suspended from the top of the car, with hands and feet thrust through the leathers, and two actually balanced themselves around the driver's neck.

Fearful moans arose from the enormous mass of condensed humanity; people panted for breath; they gasped, and rolled their eyes in horrible frenzy, and still the conductor yelled fiercely, and with demoniac leer:—

It was raining; parasols leaked into my shoes, soaking water-proofs embraced me, and monstrous brogans crushed my feet to chaos; then, umbrellas punched my eyes, out, jabbed holes in my hat, and wrote hieroglyphics all over my shirt bosom, while baskets of meat were deposited in my lap, and the intruding tail of a codfish roughly slapped my face a dozen times.

In short, I emerged from that car ruined, wilted, and utterly demoralized.

When I got home my wife didn't know me, and I could only prove my identity by carefully scraping my feet, hanging up my hat, and otherwise exhibiting the results of her superior disciplinary powers. My hardest work, however, was to establish the fact that I hadn't been rolled in the gutter, my rheumatic hobble, dilapidated aspect, and blood-shot eyes telling fearfully against me.

The next time I ride in a horse-car, I shall take a private hack.

S.R. DEEN.

A Con of the Period.

When this cruel war is over, and crowds of tourists rush to see the place where LOUIS NAPOLEON surrendered, why will that place be like BRYANT'S Minstrels?

Because such a lot of people will go to See DAN.

Con from Our Correspondent in benighted Africa.

Why would CÆSAR have made a fine novelist?

Because he was a great Roman—Sir.

HAD HIM THERE.

Brown. "BET YOU FIFTY DOLLARS THE WAR IS OVER IN FRANCE IN FIVE DAYS."

Smith. "BET YOU A HUNDRED IT ISN'T."

Brown. "SHELL OUT YOUR HUNDRED—THE WAR IS OVER THERE NOW, ISN'T IT?—HA! HA! HA!"

LETTER FROM A SCHOOLMASTER.

MR. PUNCHINELLO: Respected Sir:—I am a schoolmaster, and in investigating, for the benefit of my pupils (number limited; English and classical courses; French and guitar extra; scholars bring their own slippers and tooth-brushes; privileges of a home, etc., etc.), the vast arena of Science, applied and unapplied, I have found that there are many things that the world does not yet know. This may surprise you, but it is nevertheless true. Through the medium of your valuable journal I propose to give to the world, to which we all owe so much, a few hints in regard to the deficiencies of Science, and thus place these, my carefully nurtured ideas, at the service of my race.

It is to be presumed that there are but few persons who have not observed the great benefits of pruning in the vegetable kingdom. He who sits under the shade of his own vine and fig-tree (or even those which are leased or rented) will find the shade and the fruit of his vine and his tree greatly increased by judicious and seasonable pruning. The theories of Science and the practice of horticulturists have made this fact so potent that it is needless to enlarge upon it now. But Science stops here. What she has given the world, in respect to this important subject, is of far less value than that of which she has deprived it, by her failure to carry her investigations into the animal kingdom. With the exception of the docking of horses' tails and the clipping of the ears of dogs, she has done little or nothing in this respect, and it is much to be feared that the great benefits of pruning, as applied to the human race, are denied to the present generation; for we all know how difficult it is, in the face of the dogged opposition of the masses, to inaugurate a truly valuable reform. But it is my belief, and I have carefully studied the subject in all its bearings, that the crowning gift of Science to Man will be the system of PRUNING FOR CONSUMPTION.

When we consider how the strength of a weak and spindling tree is augmented by the excision of some of its useless branches, we can well understand that weak and spindling man may be strengthened and invigorated by the amputation of one or more of his limbs. The sap, or blood, which was before applied to the support and nourishment of this excised limb, will now assist in the nourishment of the whole body, and the man, like the tree, will become vigorous, stout, and healthy. In proof of this, it is only necessary to consider the condition of those soldiers, sailors, or civilians who have suffered the amputation of a leg or arm. How plump and rosy they all appear! Is it not certain, then, that instead of wasting their time and substance in Cod-liver oil and trips to Minnesota and Florida, it would be far better for those persons who may fancy themselves consumptive to repair to their physician's abode, and request him to trim off an arm, a foot, or a leg, according to the urgency of their symptoms? And if this first pruning were found to be insufficient, the individual might be further trimmed until his form was of a size and extent no greater than his natural forces were capable of nourishing. When this result was attained, the patient might expect to grow as vigorous and wholesome as a properly pruned grape-vine or a dwarf pear-tree. Hoping, respected Sir, that I have made myself intelligible to yourself and readers, and that Science may take the valuable hints I have given her, I am

Yours truly,

ANDREW SCOGGIN.

INCREDIBLE CREDULITY.

A CABLE despatch from Paris to PUNCHINELLO (cost $8.62) announces that the editor of La Verité has been sent to a cold and gloomy dungeon for publishing false news,—a warning to the Sunny CHARLES, our well-beloved neighbor! But the most mysterious part of the matter is, that this editorial Frenchman actually published this false news upon the doubly dubious authority of the Chevalier WICKOFF! Why, this gallant adventurer is so well known in New York that if he should come into our sanctum and tell us that we had fallen heirs to a neat fortune of $500,000, we shouldn't believe him for a moment.

A POSITIVE ANALOGY.

The Positivists of New York, at a recent meeting, passed unanimously a set of resolutions, in one of which they spoke of King WILLIAM of Prussia as the modern ATTILA. As an admirer of that fine old barbarian, Mr. PUNCHINELLO protests against such a slanderous attack upon his historic reputation. ATTILA and the hordes he led were honest thieves, who made no hypocritical pretences to virtue in order to hide their real motives. They were plunderers by profession, and were not ashamed to openly proclaim it. ATTILA himself, like any high-minded savage of his crew, would have quickly avenged, as an insult, any attempt to ascribe to him another motive for his action than the pure and simple desire for plunder: nor did he and his men pretend to lead the Europe of their day in any of the branches of thought which go towards making the culture of any country. The Positivists have great faith in the historic method of analogy, and they are right in so doing. But in using analogies it is just as well, if not better, to have them analogies.

The Peace In Preparation.

The new piece which, for the last few weeks, has been announced as in preparation and shortly to appear in the Puppet Show of the European Political Theatre has not yet been produced, and the expecting spectators are asking why! The reason, however, is plain. The wire pullers have been hard at work, but have been constantly thwarted by finding that the wires which were effective with the imperial dolls will have no effect upon the republican figures.