"Yours in affliction,
"SOLOMON SNIPP."
"SIR: I calculate to give a funeral down at my place shortly, that is, if things go right; but we have no preacher to do the work. Would you please to send us one? Not particular what kind, so long as the work is sure. Party is not dead yet, but I make arrangements beforehand as I expect to be insane. Good pay for good work.
"Sincerely,
"P. MCFINIGAN.
"P. S. Do preachers warrant their burials?"
"DEAR MR. PUNCHINELLO:--You were so good as to prescribe a hot pitch plaster for the baby's mouth. Next day I took the prescription to your office, but failed to get it made up, as the devil, they told me, was busy. Will you please inform me when you will be at leisure? Meanwhile baby yells.
"Yours truly,
"C. PUGSBY.
"P.S. Later. Mrs. PUGSBY says if I apply that plaster she will go insane. True, she does not understand fire-arms, but then I should be afraid to drink any coffee for a month. In the meantime, if the baby keeps on, I shall go crazy myself; so there is likely to be a casualty somewhere. What's to be done? Shall I bring the child to you?