which he has lost a broadcloth nephew and
an alpaca umbrella, the mournful Mr. BUMSTEAD is once more awaiting the
dawn in that popular retreat in Mulberry Street where he first
contracted his taste for cloves. The Assistant-Assessor and the Alderman
of the Ward are again there, tilted back against the wall in their
chairs; their shares in the Congressional Nominating Convention held in
that room earlier in the night having left them too weary for further
locomotion. The decanters and tumblers hurled by the Nominating
Convention over the question of which Irishman could drink the most to
be nominated, are still scattered about the floor; here and there a
forgotten slungshot marks the places where rival delegations have
confidently presented their claims for recognition; and a few
bullet-holes in the wall above the bar enumerate the various pauses in
the great debate upon the perils of the public peace from Negro
Suffrage.

Reclining with great ease of attitude upon an uncushioned settee, the
Ritualistic organist is aroused from dreamy slumber by the turning-over
of the pipe in his mouth, and majestically motions for the venerable
woman of the house to come and brush the ashes from his clothes.

"Wud yez have it filled again, honey?" asks the woman. "Sure, wan pipe
more would do ye no harrum."

"I'mtooshleepy," he says, dropping the pipe.

"An' are yez too shlapey, asthore, to talk a little bissiness wid an
ould woman?" she asks, insinuatingly. "Couldn't yez be afther payin' me
the bit av a schore I've got agin ye?"

Mr. BUMSTEAD opens his eyes reproachfully, and wishes to know how she
can dare talk about money matters to an organist who, at almost any
moment, may be obliged to see a Chinaman hired in his place on account
of cheapness?

"Could the haythen crayture play, thin?" she asks, wonderingly.

"Thairvairimitative," he tells her;--"Cookwashiron' n' eatbirdsnests."

"An' vote would they, honey?"

"Yesh--'f course--thairvairimitative, I tell y'," snarls he:
"do'tcheapzdirt."

"Is it vote chaper they would, the haythen naygurs, than daycint,
hardworkin' white min?" she asks, excitedly.

"Yesh. Chinesecheaplabor," he says, bitterly.

"Och, hone!" cries the woman, in anguish; "and f'hat's the poor to do
then, honey?"

"Gowest; go'nfarm!" sobs Mr. BUMSTEAD, shedding tears. "I'd go m'self if
a-hadn't lost dear-er-rerelative.--Nephew'n' umbrella."

"Saint PAYTHER! an' f'hat's that?"

"EDWINS!" cries the