ten millions, increases the amount to twenty millions, and swears it is
worth thirty. Then he "puts his foot in it" and shows the knave in his
deal, (dealings--jocular,) by selling the stock at thirty-five.

This from PUNCHINELLO, as he looks over The Street--and through it--from
his lofty pinnacle. Don't strain your precious eyes and necks in
fruitless endeavors to discover him there, since he can make himself
invisible at will. But listen, ye men of The Street, with all your ears,
(Erie,) and you will hear a solemn chant like unto that of the _muezzin_
from the minaret. 'Tis the voice of PUNCHINELLO wafting sonorously from
his tower the instructive moral--

"Whoe'er sells stocks as isn't his'n,
Must pay up or go to pris'n."

* * * * *

A New Conglomerate Pavement.

It was well said by a saucy Frenchman, "that England had fifty religions
but only one sauce." Paraphrasing this loosely, we may say of New-York,
that she has a dozen different pavements and deuce a good one. There was
the "Russ," on which the horses used to be "let slide," but couldn't
trot; the "Belgian," of dubious repute; the "Nicholson," which, from its
material, must have been invented by "Nick of the Woods;" the
"Mouse-trap," set to catch other things than mice; the "Fiske," a
pavement pitched in altogether too high a key to be pleasant; The
"Stafford," the "Stow," and several others which it would be painful to
enumerate here. Why doesn't the daily press look lively, and devise a
better pavement than any of these? There's STONE, of the _Journal of