with his gold-headed cane.

"Yes," said I, "he is probly _longin'_ for that 'ere dish of ham and
eggs, in the middle of the table."

"Look at SIMON," he continered. "See! his eye rests upon his rite hand,
which is closed beside him on the table. His lips are parted as if he
was going to say--

"SIMON says thumbs up," I quickly replide, interruptin' him. I diden't
mean anything disrespectful to nobody, but that 'ere man flew into a
vilent rage.

"Can it be, that a soul so devoid of poetry lives in this age?" said he.
"My venerable friend, I blush for you--yes, I blush for you, you are
devoid of sentiment."

"Look here, Captin," said I, "you may be a good preacher and all that
sort of thing. Excuse me for sayin' it, you hain't a BEECHER--Skarcely.
H. WARD soots me--He is chock full of sentiment--at the same time he can
relish a joak ekal to the best of us. Mix a little sunshine with that
gloomy lookin' countenance of yours. Don't let people of the world think
they must draw down their faces and colaps, because a man joaks about a
lot of wacks figgers dressed up in 6 penny caliker. Them's the kind of
sentiment which ales me every time." Sayin' which I storked
contemptously out of the wacks figger department.

I shall remain a few days in the big city, friend PUNCHINELLO, and if
the citizens of New York insist on givin' me a reception at the City
Hall, I will submit to the sacrifice, especially if the vitels are well
cookt. Ewers on a scare up,

HIRAM GREEN, Esq.,

_Lait Gustice of the Peece._

* * * * *

THE CENSUS ENUMERATOR'S PLAINT.

The names that these newspapers call us
Are hardest of all to surmount,
They say Mayor HALL may o'erhaul us;
He claims that our count is no 'count.

I never had any such trouble
In registering voters down South,
I set every nigger down double
And put the whites down in the mouth.

But here they're so very exacting
They kick up a row, don't you know?
Though under instructions we're acting
In playing our figures "for low."

I try to play Sharpe in these matters,
I dodge all the bricks and spittoons--
(Curse that bull-dog! he's torn to tatters
The seat of my best pantaloons!)

A tailor refused me admission,
And said he "vould shoot mit his gun,"
So I, out of Shear opposition,
Counted him and eight others for one.

While not in the ha