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are a regular smash-pipes in that line-surgical, surgical to this community-we are at once the knife and the sarsaparilla to human ills, whether financial, political, or social.”
“Sir, the nuisance I complain of lies in the circulationin its mode and manner.”
“Bless me,” said Sockdolager, with a look of suspicion, "you are too literal in your interpretations. If your circulation is deranged, you had better try Brandreth, or the Fluid Extract of Quizembob.”
“It is not my circulation, but yours, that makes all the trouble. I never circulate—I can't without being insulted.”
"Really, mister, I can't say that this is clearly comprehensible to perception. Not circulate! Are you below par in the money article; or in what particular do you find yourself in the condition of 'no go'? Excuse my facetiæ and be brief, for thought comes tumbling, bumping, booming and Sockdolager dipped his pen in the ink.
Mr. Sappington Sapid unravelled the web of his miseries. “I wish you, sir, to control your newsboys—to dismiss the saucy, and to write an article which shall make 'em ashamed of themselves. I shall call on every editor in the city, sir, and ask the same—a combined expression for the suppression of iniquity. We must be emancipated from this new and growing evil, or our liberties become a farce, and we are squashed and crushed in a way worse than fifty tea-taxes.”
“Pardon me, Mr. Whatcheecallem ; it can't be done-it would be suicidal, with the sharpest kind of a knife. Whatcheecallem, you don't understand the grand movement of the nineteenth century—you are not up to snuff as to the vital principle of human progression—the propulsive force has not yet been demonstrated to your benighted optics. The sun is up, sir ; the hill-tops of intellect glow with its brightness, and even the level plain of the world's collective mediocrity is gilded by its beams; but you, sir, are yet in the foggy valley of exploded prejudice, poking along with a tuppenny-ha'penny candle--a mere dip. Suppress sauci- . ness! why, my dear bungletonian, sauciness is the discovery of the age—the secret of advancement ! We are saucy now, sir, not by the accident of constitution—temperament has nothing to do with it. We are saucy by calculation, by intention, by design. It is cultivated, like our whiskers, as a superadded energy to our other gifts. Without sauciness, what is a newsboy? what is an editor? what are revolutions ? what are people?
Sauce is power. Sauce is spirit, independence, victory, everything. It is, in fact, - this sauce, or sass, as the vulgar have it,-steam to the great locomotive of affairs. Suppress, indeed! No, sir; you should regard it as part of your duty as a philanthropist and as a patriot to encourage this essence of superiority in all your countrymen; and I've a great mind to write you an article on that subject instead of the other, for this conversation has warmed up my ideas so completely that justice will not be done to the community till they, like you, are enlightened on this important point."
St. Sebastian Sockdolager, now having a leading article for The National Pop-gun and Universal Valve Trumpet clearly in his mind, was not a creature to be trifled with. An editor in this paroxysm, however gentle in his less inspired moments, cannot safely be crossed, or even spoken to. It is not wise to call him to dinner, except through the keyhole; and to ask for “more copy,” in general a privileged demand, is a risk too fearful to be encountered. St. Sebastian's eye became fixed, his brow corrugated, his mouth intellectually ajar.
“But, sir, the nuisance,” said Sappington.
“Don't bother ! ” was the impatient reply, and the brow of St. Sebastian Sockdolager grew black as his own ink.
“ The boys, sir, the boys !-am I to be worried out of my life and soul ? "
The right hand of St. Sebastian Sockdolager fell heavily upon the huge pewter inkstand—the concatenation of his ideas had been broken-he half raised himself from his chair and glanced significantly from his visitor to the door. “ Mizzle !” said he, in a hoarse, suppressed whisper.
The language itself was unintelligible—the word might have been Chaldaic, for all that Sapid knew to the contrary; but there are situations in which an interpreter is not needed, and this appeared to be one of them. Sapid never before made a movement so swiftly extemporaneous.
He intends shortly to try whether the Grand Jury is a convert to the new doctrine of sauciness.
Joseph C. Neal.
THE BOYS AROUND THE HOUSE.
SURELY you must have seen a boy of eight or ten years
of age get ready for bed? His shoe-strings are in a hard knot, and after a few vain efforts to unlace them he rushes after a case-knife and saws each string in two. One shoe is thrown under the table, the other behind the stove, his jacket behind the door, and his stockings are distributed over as many chairs as they will reach.
The boy doesn't slip his pants off; he struggles out of them, holding a leg down with his foot and drawing his limbs out after many stupendous efforts. While doing this his hands are clutched into the bedclothes, and by the time he is ready to get into bed the quilts and sheets are awry and the bed is full of humps and lumps. His brother has gone through the same motions, and both finally crawl into bed. They are good boys, and they love each other, but they are hardly settled on their backs when one cries out
“Hitch along !”
“Ma, Bill's got more'n half the bed !” cries the first. “Hain't either, ma !” replies Bill.
There is a moment of silence, and then the first exclaims
Get feet off'n me!” “They hain't touching you !” is the answer. “Yes they be, and you're on my pillar, too!”
“Oh! my stars, what a whopper! You'll never go to heaven!”
The mother looks into the bed-room and kindly says
“Come, children, be good, and don't make your mother any trouble."
"Well," replies the youngest, "if Bill 'll tell me a bear story 'll go to sleep.”
The mother withdraws, and Bill starts out“Well, you know, there was an old bear who lived in a
He was a big black bear. He had eyes like coals of fire, you know, and when he looked at a feller he
“Ma, Bill's scaring me!” yells Henry, sitting on end.
“Oh, ma! that's the awfullest story you ever heard !” replies Bill.
“Hitch along, I say !” exclaims Henry.
back!” “Hain't anywhere near ye !” “ Gimme some cloze!” "You've got more'n half now!”
Come, children, do be good and go to sleep,” says the mother, entering the room and arranging the clothes.
They doze off after a few muttered words, to preserve the peace until morning, and it is popularly supposed that an angel sits on each bed-post to sentinel either curly head during the long, dark hours. “ Ho-hum !”
Bill. “Ho-hum !” yawns Henry.
It is morning, and they crawl out of bed. After four or five efforts they get into their pants, and then reach out for stockings.
"I know I put mine right down here by this bed!” exclaims Bill.
“And I put mine right there by the end of the bureau !” adds Henry.
They wander around, growling and jawing, and the mother finally finds the stockings. Then comes the jackets. They are positive that they hung them on the hooks, and boldly charge that some maliciously wicked person removed them. And so it goes until each one is finally dressed, washed, and ready for breakfast, and the mother feels such a burden off her mind that she can endure what follows their leaving the table—a good half-hour's hunt after their hats, which they "positively hung up," but which are at last found under some bed, or stowed away behind the woodbox.
C. B. Lewis (“M Quad").
MR. DOTY MAD.
R. HENRY K. DOTY, one of the most prominent
citizens, and the leading hide and pelt dealer in the North-West, has just returned from a European tour. He has been absent about four months; and in that time he has made a visit to every European country, and has become thoroughly acquainted with the customs, manners, and languages of the different people. He spent about seventy-five thousand dollars on the trip; but this could not be called an extravagant sum when one takes into consideration the superb paintings, statuary, and other works of virtue that he brought back with him. In Paris, upon the Roo de Rivoly alone, he purchased fifteen thousand dollars' worth of pictures; and in Brussels he bought several