How it looms up in the Misty Horizon. See
the Indians on the hill. They are Tammany braves. The Hill belongs
to the Indians. Why are the Indians on the Hill? They are hunting
for the flower which they Fondly hope Blooms on the Hill. Not this
year--some other Year, but not this year. The Flower is Roosting
high. It has resigned. Are the Indians resigned? They are not as
Resigned as they Would be if they could Find the Flower. Alas that
there should be More Sorrows than Flowers in this World.

The Hon. Thomas B. Reed, of Maine, is to be the leader of the
Republican minority in Congress this winter. He is a smart, fat,
brilliant, lazy man, with a Shakespearian head and face and
clean-cut record. He is a great improvement on the Hon. J. Warren
Keifer, of Ohio, who was the Republican leader (so-called) last
winter. It would be hard to imagine a more imbecile leader than
Keifer was, and it would be hard to find an abler leader than Reed
will be, provided his natural physical indolence does not get the
better of his splendid intellectual vigor.

Marcus A. Hanna has just been elected a delegate to the National
Republican Convention in the Tenth Ohio district. He has also just
been appointed to a government position by President Cleveland. The
National Republican Convention ought to determine, immediately upon
assembling, whether its platform and its nominations shall be
dictated, even remotely, by a beneficiary of a Democratic
administration. Hanna was in 1884 a loudmouthed Blaine follower. He
has a happy faculty of always lighting on his feet--after the
fashion of the singed cat.

President Cleveland--Rose, are you sure the window-screens are in
repair?

Miss Cleveland--Quite sure.

President Cleveland--And are you using that flypaper according to
directions?

Miss Cleveland--Yes.

President Cleveland--And you sprinkle the furniture with insect
powder every day?

Miss Cleveland--Certainly; why do you ask? Are the mosquitoes
troubling you?

President Cleveland--No, not the mosquitoes; but that Second
District Congressman from Illinois seems to be just as thick as
ever.

We've come from Indiany, five hundred miles or more,
Supposin' we wuz goin' to git the nominashin shore;
For Colonel New assured us (in that noospaper o' his)
That we cud hev the airth, if we'd only tend to biz.
But here we've been slavin' more like hosees than