* * * * *

THE PLYMOUTH ROCK.

The fact of his having relinquished (at the imperative demand of
society) his weekly visits to the watering places, need lead no one to
believe that Mr. PUNCHINELLO does not like a little fresh air. And
surely a half a day or so by the seaside need jeopardize no one's social
standing if the thing is not repeated too often. At least so thought Mr.
P., and he determined, one fine morning last week, that he would hurry
up his business as fast as possible, and take a trip on Col. FISK'S
steamboat to Sandy Hook. A man calling with a bundle of puns detained
him so long that he found that he would not be able to reach the 11 A.M.
boat without he made unusual haste.

Rushing into the street, therefore, he hailed a passing hack, and
ordered the driver to take him, as quickly as possible, to the Plymouth
Rock.

When the carriage stopped, and the man opened the door, Mr. P. rubbed
his eyes, for he had fallen into a doze, on the way, and sprang hastily
out.

But what a sight met his gaze!

Before him was the hack, covered with mud and dust, and the horses in a
position indicating utter exhaustion: to his right lay a huge
unsymmetrical stone, while behind him rolled the heaving waters of Cape
Cod bay! The man had mistaken his directions, and had driven him to JOHN
CARVER'S old Plymouth Rock in Massachusetts, instead of JAMES FISK Jr.'s