"And GILL came tumbling after."

The catastrophe was witnessed by the assembled family, who hastened to the bleeding victims of parental injustice, and endeavored to do all that was possible to restore life to the mangled forms of the two who loved when living, and in death were not divided.

But all in vain. They were dead, and not till then did the family appreciate the beautiful, self-denying, heroic disposition of the little martyr, JACK.

The two innocent forms were buried side by side, and the whole country round mourned the fate of the infant lovers.

Painters preserved their pictures on canvas, and poets sung them at eventide. The beauties of their life, and their tragic death, were given by the poet-laureate of the day in the words I have just transcribed; and such an impression did these make on the minds of the inhabitants, that the whole population took them to heart, and, with tears in their eyes, taught them to their children, even unto the third and fourth generations.

Alas! it was reserved for our day and generation to gabble them over unthinking, carelessly unmindful of the fearful fate the words describe.

Repentant ones, drop to their memory a tear, even now! It is not too late!

[2]

Original, by some other fellow.

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LETTER FROM A CROAKER.

MR. PUNCHINELLO: You have not, I believe, informed your readers, one of whom I have the honor to be, as to whether you have yet united yourself to any Designing Female. As this is a matter peculiarly interesting to many of your readers, all of whom, I have not the least doubt, are interested in your welfare, I would advise some statement on your part, respecting it.

I trust, my dear sir, that, if you are as yet free, you will take the well-intended advice of a sufferer, and steer entirely clear of the shoals and quicksands peculiar to the life of a married man, by never embarking in the matrimonial ship.

Do not misunderstand me. I lived happily, very happily, with my sainted BELINDA—it must be confessed that she had a striking partiality for sardines, which caused considerable of a decrease in the profits of my wholesale and retail grocery establishment. I cherish no resentment on that account, but, as you probably well know, one of the discomforts of matrimonial existence is children.

Sir, I have a daughter, who is considered passably good-looking by certain appreciative individuals. Since the unfortunate demise of my lamented wife, the profits of the mercantile establishment of which I am proprietor have largely increased, and as REBECCA is my only child, there is a considerable prospect of her bringing to the man who espouses her, a comfortable dowry, and probably a share in my business.

I keep no man-servant, and after my daughter retires—generally at the witching hour of two in the morning,—I am obliged to hobble down stairs, extinguish the lights, cover the fire, lock up the house, and ascertain whether it is perfectly fire and burglar-proof for the time being.

Were this, sir, the only annoyance to which I am subjected, my wrath would probably expend itself in a little growling, but hardly have I reposed myself upon my couch, ere my ear catches an infernal tooting and twanging and whispering, and a broken-winded German band, engaged by an admirer of my REBECCA, strikes up some outrageous pot pourri, or something of that sort, and sleep, disgusted, flees my pillow.

Last night—or rather this morning—they came again. Their discordant symphonies roused me to desperation. I seized a bucket of slops, and; opening the window, dashed the contents in the direction of the music; the full force of the deluge striking a fat, froggy-looking little Dutchman, who was puffing and blowing at a bassoon infinitely larger than himself. He was just launching out into a prodigious strain, but it expired while yet in the bloom of youth. He remained for a short time in the famous posture of the Colossus of Rhodes, vainly endeavoring to shake off the cigar-stumps and other little et ceteras which were clinging to him like cerements, uttering the while unintelligible oaths. Then he struck for his domus et placens uxor at as rapid a rate as his little dumpy legs could carry him.

If they come to-night—if they dare to come—I will give them a dose which they will remember.

My dear sir, what can I do to rid myself of these annoyances? The girl has been to boarding-school, and so can't be sent there again. She has no friends or relations whom it would be advisable to put her off upon. Assist me then, in this, the hour of my tribulation, and you, my dear Mr. PUNCHINELLO, will merit the lasting gratitude of an

UNHAPPY FATHER.

[The best thing an "Unhappy Father" can do, under the circumstances, is to learn to play upon the bass horn, and then, should the brazen serenaders again make their appearance, he can give them blow for blow.—ED. PUNCHINELLO.]

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That Iron "Dog."

The latest bit of intelligence given by the police regarding the "dog" so much spoken of in connection with the Twenty-third street murder, is that it is not, as at first stated, the kind of instrument used by shipwrights. In other words, the police have discovered that it is not a Water-dog, though, up to the present date, they have not been able to prove it a Bloodhound.

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Severe Penalty.

A newspaper gravely informs us that "the Supreme Court of Pennsylvania has refused the Writ of Error in the case of Dr. SHOEPPE, convicted of the murder of Mr. STEINNEKE, and will be hanged."

Can nothing be done to save this Court? One may say they had no business to refuse the Writ. But, at any rate, we are of opinion that the punishment is excessive.

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HIRAM GREEN ON JERSEY MUSQUITOES.

A Hard-fought Battle—Musquitoes have no Sting that Jersey Lightning cannot Cure.

New Jarsey is noted among her sister countries, as bein' responsible for 2 of the most destructive things ever got up.

The first is of the animal kingdom, and varyin in size from a 3 yeer old snappin' turtle, to a lode of hay.

It has a bayonet its nose, in which is a skwirt gun charged with pizen.

It has no hesitation, whatsoever, of shovin' it's pitch-fork into a human bein', and when a feller feels it, it makes him think old SOLFERINO has come for him, and no mistake.

The sirname of this sleep-distroyin' animile, is Muskeeter. And they like their meet raw.

Misery Number 2 is a beverige manufactured from the compound extract of chain litenin on the wing, and ile of vitril. It is then flavored with earysipelas and 7 yeer itch, when it is ready to lay out it's man.

I was on a visit to Jarsey, a short time ago, and if ever a man was justified in cussin' the day he ever sot foot onto the classick red shores of New Jarsey, (which soil, by the way, is so greasy that all the red-headed New Jarsey gals use it for hair ile, while for greasin' a pancake griddle it can't be beat,) it was the undersined.

The first nite I was in that furrin climb, after hangin' my close over a chair, and droppin' my false teeth in a tumbler of water, I retired in a sober and morril condition.

"Balmy sleep, sweet nater's hair restorer," which sentiment I cote from Mr. DICKENS, who, I understand from the Bosting clergy, is now sizzlin', haden't yet folded me in her embrace.

Strains of melody, surpassin' by severil lengths the melifflous discordant notes of the one-armed hand organist's most sublimerest seemfunny, sircharged the atmosfear. Ever and anon the red-hot breezes kissed the honest old man's innocent cheek, and slobbered grate capsules of odoriferous moisture, which ran in little silvery streams from his reclinin' form. Yes! verily, great pearls hung pendant from his nasal protuberants.

In other words, I hadent gone to sleep, but lay their sweatin' like an ice waggon, while the well-known battle song of famished Muskeeters fell onto my ear. The music seized; and a regiment of Jarsey Muskeeters, all armed to the teeth and wearin' cowhide butes, marched single-file into my open window.

The Kernal, a gray-headed old war-worn vetenary, alited from his hoss, and tide the animal to the bed-post.

The Commander then mounted ontop of the wash-stand, and helpin' hisself to a chaw of tobacker out of my box, which lay aside him, the old scoundrel commenced firin' his tobacker juice in my new white hat. "See here, Kernal," said I, somewhat riled at seein' him make a spittoon of my best 'stove-pipe,' "if it's all the same to you, spose'n you eject your vile secretion out of the winder."

"Cork up, old man," said the impudent raskle, "or ile spit on ye and drown you."

All about the room the privates were sacreligously misusing my property.

One red-headed old Muskeeter, who was so full of somebody's blood he couldn't hardly waddle, was seated in the rockin'-chair, and with my specturcols on his nose, was readin' a copy of PUNCHINELLO, and laffin' as if heed bust.

Another chap had got my jack-nife, and was amusin' hisself by slashin' holes in my bloo cotton umbreller, which two other Muskeeters had shoved up, and was a settin' under, engaged in tyin' my panterloon legs into hard nots.

Another scallawag had jammed my coat part way into my butes, and was pourin' water into 'em out from the wash-pitcher, and I am sorry to say it, evry darned Muskeeter was up to some mean trick, which would put to blush, even a member of the New Jarsey legislater.

Suddenly the Kernal hollered:

"To arms!"

And every Muskeeter fell into line about my bedside.

"Charge bagonets!" said the Kernal. At which the hul lot went for me. Their pizened wepins entered my flesh.

They charged onto my bald head. Rammed their bayonets into my arms—my back—my side—and there wasen't a place bigger'n a cent, which they diden't fill with pizen.

There I lay, groanin' for mercy.

But Jersey Muskeeters, not dealin' in that article, don't know what it is.

Like the new collecter MURFY, when choppin' off the heads of FENTON offis holders, mercy hain't their lay, about these times.

At this juncture a company of draggoons clinchin' their pesky bills into me, dragged me off onto the floor.

And then such a horrible laff they would give, when I would strike for them and miss hittin'.

There I lay on the floor, puffin' and blowin' like a steem ingine, while the hull army was dancin' a war dance around my prostrate figger, and the old Kernal was cuttin' down a double shuffle on the wash-stand, which made the crockery rattle.

I kicked at 'em as they would charge on my feet and l—limbs. I grabbed at 'em, as they charged on my face—arms—and shoulders.

Slap! bang! kick! sware!

I couldn't stand it much longer.

As a big corpulent feller, who, I should judge, was gittin' readdy to jine a Fat mans club, went over me, I catched him by the heel.

I hung on to him with my best holt

He dragged me all over the floor.

My head struck the bedposts, and other furniture.

3 other Muskeeters got straddle of me, and as if I was a hoss, spurred me up purty lively.

All of a sudden the Muskeeter I was hangin' to give a yank, and drew out his foot, left his bute in my hand.

Brandishin' the bute about my head, I cleared at lot of Muskeeters.

Jumpin' to my feet I made things fly for a minuit, pilin' up the killed and wounded in a promiscous heap.

Seein' the Kernal settin' up there enjoyin' the fun, I let fly the bute at him.

Smash! went the lookin-glass.

The venerable commanding Muskeeter had dodged, and was settin' on the burow, with his thumb on his nose, wrigglin' his fingers at me in a very ongentlemanly manner.

There I was again unarmed, dancin' about, swelled up like a base ball player on match day.

"Blood IARGO!" was the cry.

I tride to make a masked battery with a piller. It was no protection again Jarsey Muskeeters.

As RACHEL mourned for her step-mother, I sighed for me home.

"Why, oh why," I cride, "did I leave old Skeensboro?"

A widder wearin' a borrowed suit of mornin'—eleven children cryin' because the governor had been chawed up by Muskeeters crowded into my thoughts.

The army was gettin' reddy to charge onto me agin, and avenge their fallen comrags.

Suddenly a brite thought struck me.

I ceased a sheet and waved it for a flag of truce.

The order wasen't given.

"Kernal," said I, "before we continue this fite, let's take a drink all around, and I'll stand treat."

"Done," said he, "trot out your benzine."

I opened the burow drawer, and took out a black bottle.

I pulled the cork and filled all the glasses, then poured a lot into the wash-bowl, when I handed the bottle to the Kernal.

"Make ready! Take aim! Drink!" Down went the licker.

I laffed a revengeful laff, as every condemned Muskeeter turned up their heels and cride:

"Water—send my bones back to Chiny—mother dear, I'm comein', 300,000 strong—we die—by the hand—of Jarsey—lite—"

And Jarsey litenin', more powerful than the chassepo gun of France or the needle-gun of Prushy, had done its work, and the old man was saved to the world!

It was 3 days before any close would again fit me.

I looked more like a big balloon than a human bein', I was swelled up so with the pizen.

My blessin's on the head of the individual who invented Jarsey litenin'. Nothin else would have saved the Lait Gustise's valuable life.

Ever of thow,

HIRAM GREEN, Esq.,

Lait Gustise of the Peece.

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From our own Correspondent.

Rumors of war from Europe must always be expected, for how can we get Pacific news by Atlantic Telegraph?

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REFORM IN JUVENILE LITERATURE.

Since the thrilling moment when GUTTENBURG made his celebrated discovery, numbers of persons have tried their hands—and undoubtedly their heads also—at Books for the Young. Hitherto, many of them have evinced a sad lack of judgment in respect of matter.

Would you believe it, in this highly moral and virtuous age? they have actually written stories!—stories that were not true! They haven't seemed to care a button whether they told the truth or not! Where can they have contracted the deadly heresy that imagination, feeling, and affection, are good things, deserving encouragement? Mark the effect of these pernicious teachings! Hundreds and thousands—nay, fellow mortal, millions of