them.

When she called me pet names, I dident stop to argue with her. It is no use; shee'l allers have the last word, if she sets up all nite for a week for it. You mite just as well try to make Bosting fokes think the hul United States don't resolve around Masserchussetts Bay and Bosting Common once every 24 times an hour, as to undertake to stop a womans clack when she gets on a talkin fit.

The appinted nite came, and I was standin behind the winder curten, peekin out the upper hall winder, anxiusly awaitin the arrival of the crowd.

All of a sudden a percession, hove in site, headed by a drum and fife. Their onsartin way of marchin, by gettin their legs mixed all up together, made me think that by the time they got up to my house, the painful duty would devolve on to me of goin down and getten their legs ontangled.

The fifer was continually mistakin his head for a drum stick, as he fell over and let it strike vilently agin the sheep skin head of the base drum. Whilst the drummer, hisself, was mistakin evry bodys head for his musikle instrument, as he dealt out blows rite and left, to all who come within hittin distance of his intossicated drum sticks.

Arrivin before my domisil, the leeder sung out and says:

"Now boys (hic!) let's rattle up bald head, (hic!) if old 2-and-ninepence don't (hic!) shell out with his 'freshments, we'll (hic!) smash this 'ere borrered tea sarvice over his (hic!) figger head." Sayin which he gives the door bell a yank, which was enuff to pull the roof off from over our heads.

Slippin on my red nite cap, I poked my head out of my winder, and in fained cerprise, Bays to 'em:

"My good peeple, what's the meanin of this demon-stration?"

"A lot of fellers, who you hired to come and pay you a visit, has got here. So come down and let us in, old hoss," says a voice.

I went down stairs, with doubts in my mind as to the way the thing would turn out.

Unboltin the door, the assemblige filed in. A casual glance convinced me that I was not receivin into the buzzum of my family manshon a deputashun from the Skeensboro Lodge of Good Templers, for a skalier lot of whiskey-soked human beins I never sot eyes on.

There was JOB BIGLER, who useter leed the Skeensboro brick meetin house quire, tryin to pick his teeth with the corner of a pictur-frame, while standin before the lookin glass was WILLYAM DUNBAR vainly endevorin to ascertain if he was the Siameese Twins, or else was the lookin-glass a double-plated one.

Old JIM SPENCER insisted on standin with his cow-hide butes on top the mahogony senter table, for the purpuss of presentin me with the tea sarvice, while his son-in-law had no sorter hesitation, whatsomever, of planten his muddy feet into my wife's work basket, which was settin on a stool in the sou'-west corner of the front room. Others had piled theirselfs in heeps, in various parts of the room, presentin a picter which JOHN B. GOFF could work up to sich an affectin pitch, that tears could be got out of the eyes of a perfessional grave-digger.

"SQUIRE GREEN, yer (hic!) feller sitisens, wishin to do the square thing by you, hereby (hic!) take this opportunity of presentin you with this (hic!) tea sarvice, which you hired down to GRIZ'LES jooliry (hic!) store, for this momentous occassion. Take it and be 'appy. Now trot out yer (hic!) benzeen," says SPENCER. At this pint I give the signle, and the foldin doors was throde quickly open, revealin my 3 gals in a classic tabloo. I then said:

"Feller Sitizens: When I say I'me hily pleased at this onexpected cerprise, I but reiterate the pent up feelins of an overflowin heart."—

"Oh, cork up on that ere spoutin, and sound yer supper bell," said JOE BIGLER, interuptin me. I again went on.

"As I casts my eyes about me, I see the smillen faces of my feller sitizens, who have been tride and not found wantin—"

"That's a lie! We are wantin some vittles, with a little (hic!) opedildock to wash her down. When you hired us to do this job, you (hic!) 'greed to fill up," says a voice.

I pertended as how I dident hear the raskle's insultin remarks, but I was secretly itchin to be a silent spectator to his funeral, and see his miserable carciss sunk down under about 6 foot of free sile. I continnered;

"You see before you, Faith, Hope & Charity, otherwise called the 3 graces," said I, pintin to my darters, who looked as sheepish as if they was jest let loose from a femail convenshun, or some other loonatick asylum.

"Yer cant cram that stuff down our gullets, no more'n I can stand on this sugar bole without mashin it" said a vile youth, ceasin the sugar bole from the silver tea sarvice and settin his foot onto it. "Them gals haint no more faith in hoops and charity, than I have that the french peeple can live under a Republican form of government." Said another chap: "Oh, no, old GREEN, them tow-headed maidens is your darters, JOHANNER, BETTY, and MARIAR, Jr."

"Leed us to the bankett halls," says some one else.

"Come, do as yer (hic!) 'greed, and give us some pirotecknicks," some one else yelled; at this juncture all was hollerin vociferously for vittles and whiskey.

I assure you, Mr. PUNCHINELLO, it was very affectin.

In fact, I don't believe there was a dry mouth in the crowd.

"I blush for every drunken soul of you," said I, wishing to get rid if em; "and I want you to understand this meetin is adjourned to sober off."

I noticed that the 3 graces had left the room, while the assemblage was vainly endeavorin to git hold of the silver tea sarvice.

Suddenly the back parler door was busted open, and Mrs. GREEN and my 3 gals rushed in with pans of hot water and broomsticks, and if ever I enjoyed seein a lot of people baptized, it was that ere crowd, who was a yellin "bloody murder," as the hot water made their hides curl up.

"Go It, My Sweet Dears," Said I, "Peel Off Their Skins, And You Shall All Have A Bran New Caliker Apiece To-Morrer Mornin."

Well, sir, in quicker time than I can write this, the house was cleared and the front door locked agin em; but my troubles had only just commenced, for I had, figerately speakin, jumped from the fryin pan into the fire.

"HIRAM GREEN," said MARIAR, backin me up into a corner, "you old sinner, you, look at that senter table, all scratched up with heels of a pair of drunken cow-hide butes. Look at my work basket; it looks as if a percession of hogs had been marchin into it.—See that nice rag carpet which took me over 6 months to make; what is it? eh! it's covered with old tabacker cuds, mud, segar stumps, broken whiskey bottles, and dish water. Haint you a sweet venerable head of a family? Haint you a saperb copy bound in calf, of ex-legal jewrisprudence?

"Presented you with a tea sarvice, did they? Oh! yool be the ruination of this family with your confounded efforts seekin arter fame. You—you—"

I dident wait to hear no more, but left the house with my feelins in a hily mixed up state. I have made up my mind to one thing, that if I ever get up another cerprise, I will hire good moral men, sich as editors, noosepaper men, and literary folks ginerally, whose conducts is above suspishon, to conduct the preceedins.

When this you spy,
Remember HI,

Ewers, truly,

HIRAM GREEN, Esq.,

Lait Gustise of the Peece.

BABY'S PHOTOGRAPH.

SONG OF THE OYSTER.

"PUT ME IN MY LITTLE BED."

OUR PORTFOLIO.

An Exciting Interview with King William.—"Seeing" Thiers and Going him Better.—The Influence of Monkeys In Diplomacy.

VERSAILLES, EIGHTH WEEK OF THE REPUBLIC, 1870.

"I don't believe a word of it," said the King, with an impatient stamp of the foot and a deprecatory wave of the hand—"not a word of it."

You see, dear PUNCHINELLO, the situation was thus: I had undertaken, not indeed without grave misgivings, to propitiate his Majesty, after the failure of the THIERS-BISMARCK negotiations, and, if possible, procure such terms as would save Parisians from the galling necessity of immolating the monkeys of the Jardin des Plantes to the popular demand for something to eat. I thought, as an American citizen and your correspondent, my propositions might have some chance of being favorably entertained, especially as I knew that the English Minister's presents of Stilton cheese and many dozens of BASS' bottled ale to BISMARCK had failed to prevent the current of the Chancellor's prejudice from running strongly in favor of Americans. Thus morally armed, and bearing in my pocket a passe-partout from Prussian Headquarters, I approached Versailles on the second evening after the departure of M. THIERS, and found the King occupying the apartment in the central pavilion of the palace, which had once been the sleeping-chamber of Louis XVI. and his unhappy spouse MARIE ANTOINETTE. Many alterations had taken place since I was last there and saw the wretched Queen from the balcony endeavoring to assuage the fierce mob that surged beneath. The room was not like the room in which I once helped Louis to pull off his boots, and the delicate perfume that usually pervades the apartments of French royalty had succumbed to the amalgamated odors of Schweitzer Kase and Saur Kraut.

"It is apparent, sire," said I to WILLIAM, who was sitting there "that Count BISMARCK has wholly misunderstood the situation in Paris."

"Not a bit of it," said the King; "don't I know well enough they've got down to two ounces a day for each man, and horse meat at that?

"You forget, sire, their vast supply of asses."

"Do I, indeed? when they've done nothing but develop an unlimited number of them ever since the war began."

I had an idea then that his majesty must have meant this for sarcasm though my own experience told me that it was only too true; and it also occurred to me that I was not in my true station as the representative of a government of "asses." Nothing but a stern sense of duty prevented me from clearing out at once under this last harrowing reflection. Accordingly, I returned to the charge with diminished vigor, assuring the King that if his army kept on blockading Paris in this cruel sort of way, the population would soon be dying by thousands. It was very strange why he wouldn't draw off his troops. What did he want with Paris? What had Paris done to him? Weren't there plenty of other cities in this world that didn't care a cent how much he bombarded them? (I began to think that possibly I might be growing childish in my method of stating the case, but it was only a momentary weakness that made me think so.) Where was Tyre? Let him go and bombard Tyre. Nobody cares for Tyre now. Where was Sidon? If he wanted to throw away his ammunition, let him "go" for Sidon. Where was Tuckahoo, New Jersey? Would New York care if Tuckahoo was reduced to the level of its original swamp? Moreover, there were lots of cities away off in China, yearning to have the rays of modern civilization let into them. Would it be anything out of his way to travel in that direction with a few big KRUPP guns, and give civilization a fair opening to get in at? Wasn't it cowardly to be punching all the time at one poor, miserable little town like Paris, that ain't big enough to help itself, and wouldn't have done the same by him no matter if it got ever so many high old chances? "Think of it, oh! think of it, my royal brother," I said, laying a hand on each of his royal shoulders. He took my hands off, and told BISMARCK to bring him a wisp-broom. It was a cruel insult, but I stood unmoved in the midst of it. "Perhaps at some future hour and place, Your Majesty, we may meet under different circumstances." That was a proposition he exhibited no disposition to deny. At this juncture a courier arrived from the front, breathless with excitement, and speechless too. The King seized him by the back of the neck and shook him violently, but the poor fellow couldn't articulate a word, I suggested that cold keys be put down his back, and his feet thrust into the fire. That brought him to so fast that I got behind an arm-chair for protection. In a few seconds he gathered voice enough to say:

"S-S-Sire, P-P-P-Paris is e-eatin' u-u-up the m-m-mon-monkeys."

Fatal news! It was all up with my museum.

Paris reduced to monkeys, and no treaty signed!

Horrible catastrophe!

I offered myself to Satan for a good lie—anything, I didn't care what, to clinch matters, and bring the King to terms. The Old Boy served me.

"Your Majesty, I forebore to tell you the worst; but it can be kept back no longer. You must fly from here; fly from Paris. Your worthy queen, the great, the good, the patriotic AUGUSTA, is now lying at the point of—"

"Liar!" shouted the King, as he seized a boot-jack from the hands of BISMARCK and hurled it at me with all his strength. I burst the back of my coat dodging the missile, which did not, however, interrupt the rapid utterance of my dreadful communication.

"Spare one moment more to hear what I have just received by telegraph from Berlin, which is to say that your grandmother—"

"I never had a grandmother!" roared the King, upon the verge of madness, as the Crown Prince, at the head of six Army Corps surrounded the building and captured me without firing a shot.

P.S.—It is scarcely necessary in my present exhausted state to say that my liberation is once more entirely due to the intercession of that man of all men, the defender of injured innocence, and the champion of all unfortunates, the most honorable Mr. WASHBURNE, American Minister, &c. He told them that he had known me from boyhood; that my father died in the lunatic asylum, and dying, bequeathed his intellectual characteristics to his son, which was all he had to bequeath. The King said it was more than likely, and so I got off.

DICK TINTO.

Wonderful Sagacity.

Newspapers mention that an Irish crow has lately arrived as a passenger on board the steamship Colorado. It is stated that the bird has positively declined to quit the ship, and the inference is that its unwillingness to do so arises from fear lest it might be mistaken for a Thanksgiving Turkey.

A Wintry Reflection.

The only Weather Profits that never fail are the gains of the coal dealers.

Nautical.

When does a ship display a propensity for climbing?

When she runs up her flag.

atest of Mr. BOUCICAULT'S mixtures is another Irish dramatic stew. He calls it the Rapparee, and it contains the usual proportion of fire, patriots, whiskey, traitors, pretty girls, and red-coat officers. It has a Tragic Heroine and a Cheerful Heroine, a French Officer who speaks with an Irish brogue, and a Dutch General who speaks the Fechterian dialect. It has FRANK MAYO in picturesque attitudes on the stage, and HARRY PALMER in gorgeous vestments in the lobby. But here it is—as long as the original and nearly as tedious. Read it and decide for yourselves whether this sort of thing is worthy of the clever mechanic who constructed Arrah-na-Pogue?

THE RAPPAREE. ACT I.

SCENE I.—A retired spot in the public highway. [Enter an army of fifteen
Irish patriots, armed with pikes of great scythes.]

1st PATRIOT.—"Hurroo for