water to drink, or to some spring where I couldn't get "sprung." I tried the White Sulphur, and while there learned some facts that may be useful to others who seek them for a similar purpose.

These springs differ from the European springs in that they were not discovered by the Romans. The Latin conquerors never roamed so far, and it was perhaps a good thing for them that they didn't, Sulphur water could not have agreed with Romans any more than it agrees with Yankees who take whiskey with it. I was asked if I would like to analyse the water, (as everything here is done by analysis under the eye of the resident physician.) My analysis was done entirely under the nose.

I raised a glass of the enchanted fluid to my lips: but my nose said very positively, "Don't do it," and I didn't. I told my conductor I had analyzed it, and he seemed not a little astonished at the rapidity and simplicity of the method. He asked me if I would be kind enough to write out a statement of the result after the manner of Dr. HAYES, Prof. ROGERS, and others who have examined these waters and testified that they would cure everything but hydrophobia. I told him I would, and retiring to my room, wrote as follows:

"Sulphur water contains mineral properties of a sulphuric character, owing to the fact that the water runs over beds of sulphur. Nobody has ever seen these beds, but they are supposed to constitute the cooler portions of those dominions corresponding to the Christian location of Purgatory. Sinners, preliminary to being plunged into the fiery furnace, are laid out on these beds and wrapped in damp sheets by chambermaids regularly attached to the establishment. This is meant to increase the torture of their subsequent sufferings, and there can be no doubt that it succeeds. Herein we have also an explanation of the reason of these waters coming to the surface of the earth—it is to give patients and other miserables who drink them a foretaste of future horrors. Passing from this branch of the subject to the analysis proper, I find that fifty thousand grains of sulphur water divided, into one hundred parts, contains,

Twenty thousand grains of the water would contain less of the above element than fifty thousand grains, which ought to be mentioned as another one of the remarkable peculiarities of this most remarkable fluid."

I sent the foregoing scientific deductions to the "Resident Physician," and the bearer told me afterwards that the venerable Esculapian only observed,—"Well, the writer of that must have been a most egregious ass. There is no such thing as 'Sulphate of Bilgerius,' or 'Silica Bilgica,' or anything like them", and then the old fellow chuckled to himself over my supposed ignorance. I was willing he should. I'm accustomed to being called an ass, and always like to be recognized by my kindred. Chemically thine,

SULPHURO.

COOL, IF NOT COMFORTABLE.

Apropos of complications arising out of the late Navy Appropriation Law, a daily paper states as follows:

"The decision of the Attorney General now forces him to turn the balance into the Treasury, and the sailors have to go unclothed."

How this decision will affect recruiting for our navy yet remains to be seen, though it is probable that but few civilized men can be found to join a service in which nudity is obligatory. In such torrid weather as we are having, JACK ashore with nothing on, except, perhaps, a Panama hat, will be a novel and refreshing object—but how about the police?

LAW VERSUS LAWLESSNESS. THE VIRTUOUS ALLIES OF THE NEW YORK "SUN" ENGAGED IN THEIR CONGENIAL OCCUPATION OF THROWING DIRT.

HIRAM GREEN ON BASE BALL.

A Match Game between Centenarians.—"Roomatix" vs. "Bloostockin's."

The veterans of the war of 1812 of this place, organized a base ball club.

It was called the "Roomatix base ball club."

A challinge was sent to the "Bloo stockin' base ball club," an old man's club in an adjoinin' town. They met last week to play a match game.

It required rather more macheenery than is usually allowed in this grate nashunal game of chance.

For instance: The pitchers haden't very good eye-site, and were just as liable to pitch a ball to "2nd base," as to "Home base."

To make a sure thing of it, a big long tin tube was made, on the principle of the Noomatic tunnel under Broadway, New York. A large thing, like a molasses funnel, was made, onto the end facin' the pitcher.

The old man ceased the ball and pitched it into the brod openin'. The raceway was slantin' downwards, towords the "Homebase." The batter stood at his post, with an ear trumpet at his ear, and a wash-bord in his two hands holdin' onto the handles.

When he heard the ball come rollin' down the tin, he would "muff" it with his wash-bord. Then the excitement would begin. The "striker" would start off and go feelin' about the "field" for the base, while the "outs" got down onto their bands and knees and went huntin' for the ball.

Sometimes a "fielder," whose sense of feelin' wasen't very acute, got hold of a cobble stun, then he would waddle, and grope his way about, to find the base. But I tell you it was soothin' fun for the old men.

After lookin' 20 minuts for a ball, then findin' the base before the batter did, who just as like as not had strayed out into another lot, it made the old fellers laff.

Sometimes two players would run into each other and go tumblin' over together. Then the "Umpire" would go and get them onto their pins agin, and give 'em a fresh start.

On each side of this interestin' match game, was two old men who went on crutches.

It was agreed, as these men coulden't run the bases, that a man be blindfolded and wheel these aged cripples about the bases in a wheel-barrer.

The minnit these old chaps would "strike," they dropped their crutches, and the umpire would dump them into the vehicle, and away went mister striker.

A player was bein' wheeled this way once, and the "outs" was down onto their marrow-bones tryin' to find the ball, when a splash! was heard. The wheel-barrer man had run his cart into a goose pond, and made a scatterin' among the geese.

"Fowl!" cride the Umpire.

The wheel-barrer man drew his lode ashore.

"Out!" hollers the Umpire.

And another victim went to the wash-bord.

Bets were offered 2 to one, that "The Roomatixs" would pass more balls—on their hands and knees—than the "Bloostockin's." These bets were freely taken—by obligin' stake-holders.

A friend of the "Bloostockin's" jumped upon a pile of stuns and said:

"15 to 10 'the Roomatix' have got more blinds than the 'Bloostockin's.'"

No takers—I guess he would have won his bet, for just at this juncture a "Roomatix" was at the bat.

The Umpire moved his head.

The old man thought it was the ball, and he "muffed" the "Umpire's" head with his wash-bord.

The Umpire turned suddenly and wanted to know: "Who was firin' spit balls at his back hair?"

One "innins," the ball was rolled through, it struck the batter in the rite eye.

"Out on rite eye," cride the Umpire, and the batter was minus an eye.

Next man to the bat.

His eyes were gummy. He coulden't see the ball.

He heard the ball rollin'.

He raised his wash-board.

His strength gave way.

Down came the bat, and the handle of the wash-bord entered his eye.

"Out! on the left eye," screams the Umpire.

Old man No. 3 went to the wash-bord.

The ball came tearin' along.

It was a little too swift for the old man.—Rather too much "English" into it. It "Kissed" and made a "scratch," strikin' the "Cushion" between the old man's eyes.

This gave him the "cue." Tryin' to make a "draw" with the wash bord, so as to "Uker" the ball, and "checkmate" the other club, he was "distansed," and his spectacles went flyin', smashin' the glass and shuttin' off his eyesite.

"Out! agin," bellers the Umpire.

This was the first Blind innin's for the "Roomatix."

The "Bloostockin's" bein' told how this innin's stood, by addressin' them through their ear-trumpets, made a faint effort to holler "Whooray!"

And, I am grieved to say it, one by-stander, who diden't understand the grate nashunal game, wanted to know:

"What in thunder them old dry bones was cryin' about"

It was a crooel remark, altho' the old men, not bein' used to hollerin' much, and not havin' any teeth, did make rather queer work tryin' to holler.

Ime sorry to say, the game wasen't finished.

Refreshments were served at the end of this innin's, consistin' of Slippery Elm tea and water gruel.

The old men eat harty.

This made them sleepy, and the consequence was, that the minnit they was led out on the grass, "Sleep, barmy sleep," got the best of 'em, and they laid down and slept like infants.

Both nines were then loaded onto stone botes and drawn off of the field.

The friends of both sides drew their stake money, and the Umpire, drawin' a long breath, declared the match a draw game.

Basely Ewers, HIRAM GREEN, Esq.,

Lait Gustise of the Peece.

Bad Eggs.

The following suggestive item appears in an evening paper:

"Illinois boasts of chickens hatched by the sun."

Well, New York can beat Illinois at that game. The chickens hatched by the Sun, here, are far too numerous for counting, and they are curses of the kind that will assuredly "come home to roost."

Disagreeable, but True.

The restoration of the Bourbon dynasty is reckoned possible in France.

In this country the Bourbon die-nasty has never been played out. It is a malignant disease, sometimes known as delirium tremens.

Musical.

Mlle. Silly, the daily papers inform us, has been engaged for the Grand Opera House in opera bouffe, and will make her début about the middle of September. The lady should not be confounded with any of our New York "girls of the period" who bear, (or ought to bear,) her name.

Caution to Readers.

Seven steady business men of this city, four solid capitalists of Boston, eighteen Frenchmen residents of the United States, but doing business nowhere, and a German butcher in the Bowery, have just been added to sundry lunatic asylums, their intellects having become hopelessly deranged from reading the conflicting telegrams about the war in Europe.

A Parallel.

In one of the reports of the Coroner's investigation of the Twenty-third street murder, it was mentioned that "Several ladies and some young children occupied chairs within the railing."

When REAL was hanged, it was noticeable that a great number of women appeared in the morbid crowd that surrounded the Tombs, many of them with small children in their arms.

Fifth Avenue and Five Points! Six of one and half-a-dozen of the other! Blood will tell!

THIS IS STUBBS, (an incorrigible old bachelor,) WHO TAKES AN OPEN CAB, FOR GREENWOOD, AND IS COMPELLED TO DO THE WHOLE DISTANCE SO.	AND THIS IS THE WAY IN WHICH DOBBS, WHO WOULD HAVE BEEN DELIGHTED WITH STUBB'S LUCK, IS MADE TO SUFFER MARTYRDOM ON his LITTLE EXCURSION.

THE POEMS OF THE CRADLE.

CANTO V.

"Let's go to bed," says Sleepy Head,
"Tarry awhile," says Slow;
"Put on the pot," says Greedy Gut,
"We'll sup before we go."

These lines the observant student of nursery literature will perceive are satirical. Was there ever a poet who was not satirical? How could he be a genius and not be able to point out the folly he sees around him and comment upon it. In this case, the poor poet,—who lived in a roseate cloud-land of his own, not desiring such mundane things as sleep and food, was undoubtedly troubled and plagued to death by having brothers and sisters who were of the earth, earthy; and who never neglected on opportunity to laugh at his poems; to squirt water on him when in the heavenly mood, his eyes in frenzy rolling; to put spiders down his back; to stick pins in his elbows when writing; or upset his inkstand.

Fine natures always have a deal to bear, in this world, from the coarse, unfeeling natures that cannot appreciate their delicacy; and this one had more than his share.

Many a time has he been goaded to frenzy by the cruel sneers and jokes of those who should have been proud of his talents; and rushed with wild-eyed eagerness down to the gentle frog pond, intending there to bury his sorrows beneath its glassy surface. He saw in imagination the grief-stricken faces of those cruel ones as they gazed upon his cold corpus, with his damp locks clinging to his noble brow, the green slimy weeds clasped in his pale hands, and the mud oozing from his pockets and the legs of his pants; and he gloried in the remorse and anguish they would feel when they knew that the Poet of the family was gone forever.

All this he pictured as he stood on the bank, and, while thinking, the desire to plunge in grew smaller by degrees and beautifully less, till at last it vanished entirely, and he concluded he had better go home, finish his book first and drown himself afterwards, if necessary. It would make much more stir in the world, and his name and works might live forever.

A happy thought strikes him as he slowly meanders homeward. He would have revenge. He would punish these wretches by handing down—to posterity their peculiarities. He would put it in verse and have it printed in his book, and then they'd see that even the gentle worm could turn and sting.

Ah! blessed thought. He flies to his garret bedroom, seizes his goose-quill and paper, and sits down. What shall he write about? He nibbles the feather end of his pen, plunges the point into the ink, looks at it intently to see if he has hooked up an idea, sees none, and falls to nibbling again. Ah! now he has it. There is TOM, the dunderhead, who is always sleepy and he will put that down about him. Squaring his shoulders, he writes:

"Let's go to bed," says Sleepy Head.

Gleefully he rubs his hands. Won't that cut TOM. Ah! Ha! I guess TOM won't say much more about staring at the moon. Now for DICK, the old stupid. What shall he say about him? The end of the pen diminishes slowly but surely, and then he writes:

"Tarry awhile," says Slow.

That will answer for DICK. Now let him give HARRY something scorching, withering, and cutting—so that he'll never open his mouth again unless it is to put something in