bad, ye see."

Strange, practical man! We could not do thus with all our little
tid-toddlers of but four bright summers.


A correspondent in San Francisco sends the Drawer these epitaphs, which
are entirely too good to be lost.

The first is from the grave of a farmer, much notorified for his
"forehandidification," and who, it is needless to say, was buried on his
own farm:--

"Here lies JOHN SIMMS, who always did
Good farming understand;
E'en now he's gratified to think
He benefits his land."

Here is one upon a gambler, who died of some sort of sickness,
superinduced by some description of disease:--

"His hand was so bad that he laid him down here;
But up he will certainly jump,
And quick follow suit for the rest of the game
When Gabriel plays his last trump."

Here is one on a truly unfortunate member of the human race:--

"Here lies CORNELIUS COX,
who, on account of a series of unhappy occurrences, the principal