the French capital, bearing important despatches.

[The carrier-pigeon is a bird. It should not be confounded with the elephant or hippopotamus, and only the most ignorant persons would suppose any connection between them. It flies through the air, as birds generally do, and though not lazy it lays. The eggs of this bird are valuable. When properly hatched they produce young pigeons, which often grow up and go into the express business like their parents. The carrier-pigeon is not a modern invention, but was made simultaneously with other ornithological curiosities.]

TOURS, December 14.—GEORGE FRANCIS TRAIN has been arrested by the Government and committed to prison as a nuisance.

[GEORGE FRANCIS TRAIN is a native of Boston, U.S. He is one of the most celebrated men living. He celebrates himself everywhere he goes, and he goes to a great many places. He has an inspired confidence that in the course of a few years all the people of his native country will become idiots, and that they will then make him their ruler. The civis Americanus sum of his existence is talk about GEORGE FRANCIS TRAIN. The American Government does not at present propose to declare war against France for arresting him, but perhaps he will do so himself.]

VIENNA, December 14.—Diplomatic circles are more confident, and it is believed the Black Sea question will be settled.

[The Black Sea is in Europe. It is bounded all round and contains an immense quantity of water, which, being black, is useful for writing. The trouble about the Black Sea is owing altogether to its location, and could be removed forever by filling up the place and laying it out in building-lots. If it were in New Jersey this would be done, but the effete despotisms and bloated aristocracies of the Old World haven't enough enterprise to try it.]

TOM'S CHRISTMAS JOKE.

Master Tom. "O, GRAN'MA, GRAN'MA! THE PONY HAS GOT A FIT!—RUN TO THE WINDOW AND LOOK!"

AND THE OLD LADY RUSHED TO THE WINDOW, BUT THE ONLY "FIT" THE PONY HAD WAS THE NEW SIDE-SADDLE SENT AT CHRISTMAS BY UNCLE TOM, WHO, NOT KNOWING MUCH ABOUT PONIES, FANCIED THAT THIS ONE MUST HAVE GROWN TO A HORSE SINCE HE PRESENTED IT LAST YEAR.

POEMS OF THE CRADLE.

CANTO XV.

Sing a song of sixpence, a pocketfull of rye,
Four and twenty blackbirds baked in a pie.
When the pie was opened the birds began to sing;
Wasn't that a dainty dish to set before the king?

The poet had now reached that stage of parental experience where he realized to its fullest extent, what many another poor mortal has learned to his sorrow, that a baby in the house is the greatest tyrant ever invented. A baby may be a well-spring of joy, a gleam of bright sunshine, an angel from Heaven, a compound of unalloyed blissfulness, or a mixture of "snaps and snails and puppy dogs' tails;" but it is nevertheless the tyrant of the household, the king of the family, the royal personage to whom all must bow, and to whom everything must yield. What father or mother is there who dares set his or her will up in opposition to the baby. If baby wants papa's spectacles, it must have them, no matter if papa is reading. If it wants mamma's thimble, it has it. If baby wants to go to sleep, the whole family must move on tip-toe, and not speak above a whisper. If baby gets the croup at night, the whole family must be aroused, papa must run two miles to the doctor's, grandmother must be routed from her warm bed and brought post-haste to help take care of it, everybody from the cook upwards must stir about lively and be on the watch ready any moment to offer their devotional incense at the shrine of this potent baby monarch, the wee ruler who's slightest wish has greater weight than the king's command.

It is owing to this peculiarity of our humanity which always has been and always will be, that the world has received the remarkable lines placed at the heading of this article. Since the Poet's time there have been attempts by other aspirants to immortality to continue the story so well begun, and add a lengthy jingle to the already completed verse, conceiving in their futile minds the idea that it was an unfinished structure upon which they could build for themselves a temple of fame; but all such dastardly attempts met with the success they deserved, and that was speedy oblivion; and we contend and will maintain to the bitter end, that these lines are the only right and true lines written on the subject by our immortal Poet, and that the others which are falsely circulated as part and parcel of the original, are spurious, emanating, it is said, from a half-insane idiot who hung himself immediately after finishing them.

The inspiration to the above lines came about in a very natural way. The Poet was poor. That is, speaking after the manner of later days, he was occasionally hard-up. His occasions were very lengthy ones and the interregnum a period remarkably brief. It had become a sort of chronic state with him, and although he occasionally wrote a bit of verse by request, his modesty would not allow him to charge more than a sixpence or thereabouts for any article, and the consequence was that he understood to the fullest extent the meaning of the term hard times. Now it is a well-known fact that families, especially where there are wives and babies, do not take kindly to poverty and its concomitants, but emphatically insist upon having something to eat, drink, and wear.

Time has proved that even the weakest are wise in their own way, and are given knowledge for self-protection; and woman, although she may not command success by main strength, nor by force of will, has learned that when other resources fail she has only to stoop to conquer: that her weakness is her strength, her tears her weapons, and her baby her shield. So when the Poet's politic little wife found there was no money forthcoming, and consequently no dinner, she advised him to go hunting for birds, as it was very necessary for growing children to have the little bones to pick; not that she cared for a pie made from birds herself, but it was really necessary for the child just at this age.

Off sets the duped husband in a spirit of self-sacrifice, determined that no negligence of his shall prevent his child from growing properly; and if birds are necessary to the process, then birds it shall be. A weary day is spent tramping among the woods and bushes, and towards night, with two dozen of the feathered creatures in his bag, he turns his footsteps homeward. He is rewarded by a smile and a word of praise for his unusual good luck, and with a pat on the shoulder and a promise of a splendid dinner in an hour or two, he is set to work to pluck the birds.

Time passes on, the savory smell of the cooking birds occasionally saluting his nostrils and making his mouth water with anticipation, when at last comes the joyful summons, and all seat themselves around the table and engage with unbounded admiration in this wonderful issue of the day's labor.

The little lever which has moved the mighty events to this result sits in his high chair, a spoon in one hand, a fork in the other, and beats a grand tattoo ornamented with numerous little shrill sounds of baby joy, in honor of the glorious sight, the like of which his eyes have never seen before. Father and mother gaze enraptured upon the joyful sight of the crowing youngster, exchange intelligent and admiring glances at his precocity, and inwardly congratulate themselves upon possessing such a wonderful improvement on babies in general.

But the Poet himself, with his sensitive nature—who can fathom the profound depths of his soul now stirred by two such entrancing sights as the high-smoking blackbird-pie won by his own prowess, and the little monarch for whose sake all this was brought about? The delicious smell excites him like draughts of rich old wine, and all the soul within him bubbles up exultingly, and he improvises on the moment. Joyfully he sings in melodious tones, his nerves trembling with ecstasy, and his blood bubbling through his veins like sparkling champagne:—

Sing a song of sixpence, a pocket full of rye,
Four and twenty blackbirds baked in a pie.
When the pie was opened the birds began to sing;
Wasn't that a dainty dish to set before the king?

One adoring glance at the rosy little king, who sits with open mouth and spoon poised in air, staring in amazement at such unusual hilarity; one comprehensive glance at his wife, and the keen knife and fork pierce to the depth of the dainty dish, and the delicate blackbirds come forth; but they do not sing. That was poetic license. Perhaps, on the whole, it was just as well that they did not sing, for it would only have delayed the dinner, and hungry folks are rather practical, and would much prefer testing the birds for themselves to hearing from them.

The event of the day is over. Quiet has settled upon the earth and upon the Poet's household. He leans back in his chair in peaceful revery, and muses upon the scenes of the day. Slowly, like distant music, come back to his mind the diamonds of thought that dropped from his lips under the unwonted excitement, and as he strings them together he jots them down in his memorandum for future service.

The Tempter and the Tempted

Mephistopheles Butler. "MR. PRESIDENT, PUT IN ABOUT ST. DOMINGO, STRONG."

HIRAM GREEN IN PITTSBURGH.

Owing to the smokey condition of the city, the "Lait Gustise" looses his identity.

I have just got back from a pertracted jirney, of a weeks durashun, from the state of Pensilvania.

While pursooin my tower I hove up in Pittsburg, which city is serrounded by a lot of iron furnases, whose smoky chimleys is enuff to smoke a dog out of a tan yard. Chicken raisin dont ammount to shucks there.

When they have a spell of cloudy wether, fowls keep rite on roostin, and don't leave their perches ontil they tumble off, starved to deth.

This is because darkness rains, unless the sun shines.

Pittsburg is an ecommikle place for nigger minstrel shows.

15 minnits walk in the open air bare-hedded, will put a black head onto 'em, which will pars muster before a select committy of Freedman burows, or pull the wool over the eyes of such Filantropistors as WENDILL FILLIPS. Bildins are never painted in fancy cullers down there.

When a man wants to look slick, he takes an old blackin brush and rubs his domisil over with stove blackin, then goes over it with an old broom, puttin a polish onto a bildin, which makes it shine like a bran new cookstove. It is no onusual thing for the citezins of Pittsburg to carry along with them a basin of water, sope, towels, &c.; and when a person stops to shake hands with 'em, wash their faces, so as to be sure they haint associatin with a reglar descendant of HAM.

This way is confined to the upper tendoms; but it is a singler fact that it is neccessary to remove the upper crust, so as to oncover the superior man.

Never havin heerd anything about the smokey condition of Pittsburgh, I was the victim of an adventoor which come mitey nigh puttin a quietuss, for a permanent period, onto my terrestial egistance. Ide just arroven into the city, from the northern part of the State. Thinkin Ide like to look the city over a bit, I sholdered my bloo cotton umbreller and carpet bag, and started on a tower of observashun.

I walkt along gaeopin rite and left at the bildins, which I could only distingwish, as I got rite opposite of em.

Just as I stopped to rest myself a minnit, a man say's to me: "Git out of the way, Cuffee."

I turned to impale him with my impenetratin gaze, when he disappeared in the smoke.

Gropin my way along I suddenly was run into, by another man. As he struck me vilently into the stomack, he hollered out: "You black raskil! how dare you run into a respectable man?" My blood was gettin hot.

"Me, a black raskel," said I, makin a push to ceaze him by the throte, "Ile larn you that you can't call them names to me with impunerty, not by a darn site."

In the thick smoke which surronded me, I grabbed for Mister man, when to my horror! my hand came in contact with a lot of curly hair, and by the shriek which greeted my ear, I was conshus that I had made a misgo, and was clutchin a womans water-fall.

Turnin full onto me (and Ketchin my cote sleeve), she says, "Oh! you black villian, how dare you insult a lady?" Tearin myself from her grasp, I rushed madly on. I could feel pedestrians glide by me.

There I was in a strange land. From all sides it was, smoke—smoke—smoke, darkness—darkness—darkness. Ide read about the Egipshun darkness, but Pittsburgh is ahead of that, for while I couldent see in Pittsburgh, the blamed smoke was suffocatin me, and makin the teers run down my cheeks, like the prodigal son, when he was mournin for the deth of a rich unkle, who'd left him some cash, I made up my mind, that I would try and enter a bildin somewhere, and implore the ade of a pilot.

Hearin voices, I made a bee line from whence issood the voise. After tumblin over severil dry goods boxes, I went head first throo a big glass winder, and landed my voluptous form at the feet of the cerprised groceryman, who was engaged in the lofty pursoot of measurin out a peck of onions. "See here! my cullered friend," says he, takin me by the cote collar, and marchin me up to view the ruin, which I had made. "Yoove smashed a ten doller pane of glass. Come, shell out the damage, or ile call a policeman." I tride to remonstrate with him agin his callin me a cullered man, at which he agin insisted on my payin for broken glass, &c. To avoid further discussion, I planked down the required ammount, and flew into the street, with my mind vergin onto madness.

Why, oh! why? was I addressed as a "blackraskil," "scoundrel," &c.? was the thoughts which was ruunin' throo my mind.

Bringin my hands to my eyes, a terrible suspishon flashed across my brain, as I diskivered to my horror, that my usually lilly white hands had turned black.

I couldent stand such feelins as I was in, for a great while.

Feelin along the side of numerous houses, I found my way into another store.

"Mister STOREKEEPER, who am I?—and what am I?" said I, wildly interogatin a individual, who was standin by a big pile of caliker.

"I should say you was a descendant of HAM, and a pooty well died one too," says he laffin.

"Me black? impossible sir!" was my reply.

He ceazed me by the hand and led me to a lookin glass.

Yes, the terrible truth stared me in the face.

I begun to realize my situation. It suddenly occurred to me, that in the confusion of changin cars that mornin, that, likely as not, I'de got swapped off with some cullered preacher.

With my feelins workt up to a traggick pitch, and madly cussin the day that I left Skeensboro, I staggered into the street.

For a few minnits, I assumed the air and garbage of a loonytick.

I ran vilently again numerous individuals, and as the concussion generally piled me into the gutter, I quickly sprung to my feet, and waved my umbreller wildly into the air.

I was suddenly grabbed by the cote coller and moked into a large bildin, which I afterwards diskivered to be the Monongaheeler House. I found myself