stery. Seek not to penetrate it. That way
madness lies."

Here a conundrum obtrudes itself upon me, and I ask, "Suppose Gen. TERRY
had a daughter, why would she necessarily be a delightful puzzle?
Obviously because she would be a Miss TERRY."

But the horsey person turns round and says, "If you want a head put on
you, just keep on talking; so that folks can't hear the brothers turn a
somersault. You'll be accommodated; do you understand?"

I accept his general hint, and watch the somersaulting pair. What an
editor the elder brother would make! He could turn as sudden and perfect
a somersault as did Mr. DANA, when he transformed the _Sun_ in a single
night from a decent daily to what it now is. Or what a politician the
younger brother might become, were he to exhibit in the arena of public
life the agility in turning flip-flaps, and reversing himself by
unexpectedly standing on his head, which he displays in the CIRCUS ring.
Then the famous equestrienne--or rideress, as WEBSTER would probably
call her--careers around the circle on her thoroughbred Alaskian steed:
she is evidently a great favorite, and the small boy behind me exclaims,
with an ecstatic kick at the back of my neck: "Isn't this bully?"

I venture to correct him by remarking: "My son, you should say 'horsey.'
You would thereby avoid confounding the noble animals before you with
the no less useful, but undeniably less attractive--in an aesthetic
point of view--animals which belong to the bovine race."

He is evidently overcome by my flow of language, and he asks, with a
feeble show of independence: "You ain't hungry, are you?"

I say to myself: "Kind-hearted little fellow. He is grateful for my
reproof, and proposes to reward me with peanuts." So I kindly reply:
"No, my child, I am not hungry; why do you ask?"

"Because," answers the young villain, "I thought you couldn't be, after
having histed in a whole big dictionary."

I turn abruptly to MARGARET and say: "Come, my dear"--(she is my maiden
aunt, and I use the language of affection and respect to her)--"let us
go. This thing is only fit for children. We'll go over to WALLACK'S and
see an old comedy."

She rises reluctantly; but as we emerge into Fourteenth street, she
says: "The CIRCUS is one of the nicest places in town, and I like it a
million times better than I do your stupid old comedies."

The curious circumstance in connection with this remark is, that
MARGARET is nearly always right.