I staggered forward. My hat, which much clamor in the rear had not made me remove, fell over the iron rail and plunged, resounding ike a sinful drum, upon the head of a painted Jersey belle below.
I heeded not, but groped me to the door.
And now I write to thee, friend PUNCHINELLO. Can thee buy me such a fiddle in New-York? Thy friend,
VENTER CLUPLE.
A Puzzler.
The Belgians, it is said, are anxious to have the letter h dropped from the French alphabet. As that contains no w, how, in the event of a new elision, will the Parisians, who are so fond of English words, manage to spell wheelwright?
A Blow that Hurteth not.
The Blow of a flower.