nices anteloupes in Washington until it swims in an unfortunate location. All the McCarty's are sure to be veneered unlest they hest, and I suffered fearful undeniable cross-cut saws. Who bought all the nuts and lozenges of the Ecumenical Council? The babe of the federal parentage is the bearer of its own two-horse lumberwagon. It squalled when surrounded by a dose of Widow Cliquot. Experimented on by the population of repeated voters in myriads to the defeat of nautical anchovies and tomatoes, is swelled to a forest of artichokes, and amid the solicitude of rosinbarrels thus inviting the Bois de Boulogne, and accommodating the formation of cheese factories throughout the civilized world."

INSIDE THE POST OFFICE.

From the New York Times.

If you were to approach the general delivery window of the New York Post office, and inquire of the clerk the rates of postage, he would say: "For all domestic letters, three cents per half ounce; for samples of merchandise, two cents for every four ounces; pamphlets and newspapers the same; circulars two cents each."

This is the information we received one rainy day, when we were favored with a few moments' conversation with a clerk who, happening to know us, invited us in.

"Take a chair," said he. "It is a little against the rules, but then I don't think there can be any objection in your case.

"Yes sir, we have all sorts of people to deal with, and all kinds of questions to answer. We are presumed to be the servants of the people, and there are some who never fail to make us aware of the relation they think should exist between them as masters and us as servants. Everybody who comes to our window expects a letter, whether there is one for them or not, and if we don't satisfy his demands immediately, we are looked upon as having, in some way, neglected our duty, and are treated accordingly. Some of our customers are contented with one letter a day, while others demand two or three. Of course the more foolish of the disappointed ones, imagine that we have entered into some sort of conspiracy to cheat them out of their correspondence.

"We have got a class of people that we call 'old timers.' I have been in the office several years, and am familiar with most of

our regular customers. I have got at least a hundred callers, whose faces I have seen, when on duty, at least three times a day, for nearly five years. No, sir; their correspondence is not large; in fact, some of them never get any letters. I have got one man, who, I think, is not in his right senses, who has called to see me at least twenty times a day, Sundays excepted, for the past six months. He seems a perfect maniac on the subject of letters, and I have never found one for him yet. The way he manœuvres is quite amusing. When he first approaches the window in the morning, he comes up in a business-like way. In all his calls afterward he seeks to disguise himself. Somtimes he pulls his coat collar up and draws his hat down over his eyes. Sometimes he squints terribly to deceive me, and, if that won't work, he ties a handkerchief partly over his face, and all because he wants to assure himself that I have not made some mistake in looking for his letters.

"To be sure we make mistakes sometimes, but are generally very careful. It is for our interest to be so. We would much rather people would get their letters the first time they call. It saves us trouble. A mistake occurred a few weeks since, that gave me much pain. It was more an accident than a mistake, as you will see. A young lady called to inquire for a letter for Miss O. Sullivan-O'Sullivan, with the apostrophe, as I supposed. I looked in the O'Sullivan box, but found no letters for her. She called many days, when, one day, she fell fainting at the window, and I found out, by seeing a report of the case in the morning papers, that her name was Olive Sullivan. There were letters for her from her brother, who was in the army. The letters contained money, for the want of which, being a stranger, in the city, she had nearly starved to death.

"Certainly, sir, we sometimes find addresses very difficult to decipher, and there are many attempts at wit which serve only to puzzle us. I have copied a few addresses which may amuse you. ""To John O Rourke, who has gone

To Ireland, Waterford, town and county.
He got his money to go home

By nimbly jumping the bounty.'

"This soliloquy is not bad:

"To reach, or not to reach its destination-
That's the question concerning this letter,
Whether 'tis nobler in the mind to bear
The outrageous robberies of post office clerks,
Or to arrest them-to 'nip,' to 'pull,'

And by pulling' to say we bring to grief
The aforesaid clerks, and 'shut pan'

On the thousand and one natural ways
They have of stealing,

'Tis a consummation devoutly to be wished."

"Here are some impromptu lines that probably reached their destination. In fact, odd or badly written addresses seldom fail, as more careful attention is given them:

"Heavens and earth, who knows but what

This letter may not reach her!
If it should fail, I may bewail

My love for that fair creature.

Dear clerk, I know that this will go,
If I am at all lucky,

To Mary Sheen, of Bowling Green,
In the State of old Kentucky.'

"Here is a note written in pencil on an envelope:

SIR:

"TO THE WORTHY POST MASTER OF NEW YORK. If you have clustering in your mind any happy memories of youth, you cannot fail to recollect the delight the receipt your first letter gave you. This is to a maiden, who, I have every reason to believe, if she gets it, will enjoy the sensation of receiving her first epistle. Please appreciate the circumstance and see that it is delivered.'

"Some of the poetical addresses are a little blind; still they can usually be understood. Here is one on a newspaper which was sent to Philadelphia:

"Speed to Johnnie Hill,
In the Quaker city Phil.;
Such is the writer's will,
Kind sir, his trust fulfill.'

"Here is an address written for the information of clerks:

"Do not stop this. 'Tis to my brother.

He lives in Portland, State of Maine.
His name is John, his surname Marther,
No money does this note contain.'

"These lines, written at the corner of an envelope, contain a pretty broad insinuation:

"Tell me not, in mournful numbers,
That life is but an empty show,
And that thieves the post encumbers,
And monied letters ne'er can go.'

"This note, over the address of a letter, was evidently penned by some wicked young lady:

"Will the clerk look the man who inquires for this, square in the face, and see if he don't blush? It is an answer to a matrimonial advertisement.'

"But odd addresses are nothing compared with the odd things that are sometimes sent through the mails. Not long ago we received a box containing a live rattlesnake, caught somewhere in the Rocky Mountains. The reptile was forwarded through our office to Boston. Last winter, a cat, that had journeyed all the way from Nevada, stopped a few hours with us, and was finally sent on to Buffalo. Naturalists think nothing of sending lizards, juvenile alligators and other specimens by post. All live animals are treated well by the clerks, out of sympathy for their friendless condition.

"The office is never closed, except to the public. There are night and day tours, so that the work of receiving and assorting the mails is going on at all times. During the day, about eighty tons of mail matter are sent out, and about thirty tons received. We deliver between seventy-five and eighty thousand letters daily, and receive in the same time, for mailing to all parts of the world, about two hundred thousand. Our paper distribution, it would be hard to estimate, except by weight."

Not willing to delay the clerk any longer, we thanked him for the information we had received and bade him good day.

G. W. J.

THE CANE-BOTTOMED CHAIR.

BY WILLIAM MAKEPEACE THACKERAY,

In tottered old slippers that toast at the bars,
And a rugged old jacket, perfumed with cigars,
Away from the world in its toils and its cares,
I've a snug little kingdom up four pair of stairs.

To mount to this realm is a toil, to be sure,
But the fire there is bright and the air rather pure,
And the view I behold on a sunshiny day

Is grand, through the chimney pots over the way.

This snug little chamber is crammed in all nooks,
With worthless old nicknacks and silly old books,
And foolish old odds and foolish old ends,

Cracked bargains from brokers, cheap keepsakes from friends.

Old armor, prints, pictures, pipes, china (all cracked).
Old rickety tables, and chairs broken-backed;

A two-penny treasure, wondrous to see;

What matter? 'tis pleasant to you friend, and me.

No better divan need the Sultan require
Than the creaking old sofa that basks by the fire;
And 'tis wonderful, surely, what music you get
From the rickety, ramshackle, wheezy spinet.

That praying-rug came from a Turcoman's camp,
By Tiber once twinkled that brazen old lamp,
A Mameluke fierce yon dagger has drawn,
"Tis a murderous knife to toast muffins upon.

Long, long, through the hours, and the night, and the chimes,
Here we talk of old books, and old friends, and old times;
As we sit in the fog made of rich Latakie,
This chamber is pleasant to you friend, and me.

But of all the cheap treasures that garnish my nest
There's one that I love and cherish the best;
For the finest of coaches that's padded with hair,
I never would change thee, my cane-bottomed chair.

'Tis a bandy-legged, high-shouldered, worm-eaten seat,
With a creaking old back, and twisted old feet,
But since the fair morning when Fanny sat there,
I bless thee and love thee, old cane-bottomed chair.

If chairs have but feeling in holding such charms,

A thrill must have passed through your withered old arms; I looked and I longed; I wished in despair;

I wished myself turned to a cane-bottomed chair.

It was but a moment she sat in this place;

She'd a scarf on her neck and a smile on her face!

A smile on her face, and a rose in her hair,

And she sat there and bloomed in my cane-bottomed chair.

And so I have valued my chair ever since,

Like the shrine of a saint, or the throne of a prince;

Saint Fanny, my patroness sweet, I declare

The queen of my heart and my cane-bottomed chair.

When the candles burn low, and the company's gone,
In the silence of night, as I sit here alone-

I sit here alone, but we yet are a pair-
My Fanny I see in my cane-bottomed chair.

She comes from the past and re-visits my room;
She looks as she then did, all beauty and bloom;
So smiling and tender, so fresh and so fair;
And yonder she sits in my cane-bottomed chair.