s.

In PUNCHINELLO No. 11 will be commenced a new burlesque serial, "The
Mystery of Mister E. Drood," written expressly for this paper by the
celebrated humorist, ORPHEUS C. KERR.

* * * * *

[Illustration: MAKING A HASH OF IT. _Customer_. "I THOUGHT YOU HAD
A GOOD PLACE WITH MR. ASHE; WHY ARE YOU GOING TO LEAVE?"

_Cockney Waiter_. "FACT IS, SIR, HASHE IS IN THE 'ABIT OF MAKING USE OF
HODIOUS LANGUAGE TO HIS WAITERS, SIR, AND NO MAN OF HEDUCATION COULD
STAND _THAT_, SIR, YOU KNOW, SIR."]

* * * * *

JUMBLES.

MR. PUNCHINELLO, do you know when a woman is perfection itself? "No." I
do. It is when she is from sixteen to nineteen. Of course you take her
judgment. At sixteen she is the coming flower that has come--the first
Rose of Summer, and about the best that may be looked for. Her ideas may
not be solid, but they are expansive. Her mind may not make a very great
show, but her hair (real and otherwise) is sure to. She is very deep in
love--with herself. The supremest divinity is seen when she looks in the
mirror. Call her ARABELLA if you like. ARABELLA is mistress of that
portion of the dictionary which includes the common-place compliments of
society. In her mouth they have a common place, indeed. Some people call
such utterances "stuff," "nonsense," "puerilities," but nobody is so
prejudiced and unreliable as the above-named some people. They
complacently think they know a thing or two, but that is all it amounts
to. ARABELLA hasn't any doubt about her being perfection. Unfortunately
there is a question about some matters in this world in politics,
religion, morality and other kindred things, but on the doctrine of
perfection, as applied to her individual self, ARABELLA is clear and
settled. Did any body, she says _sotto voce_, to herself, ever put
vision on such an ensemble countenance? Were eyes ever more sparkling?
Were ever dimples dimpler? Had ever peach such artistic hue, and teeth
such pearly pearliness, and lips such positive sweetness, and brow such
loveliness? We suppose not. ARABELLA is eighteen, is of elastic notions,
sees life as a romance, believes the ground on which she walks ought to
be grateful for the honor, and wonders if every body who goes out don't
go straightway to talking rapturously about her. ARABELLA is a type--the
type of a class of perfectionists. ARABELLA is neither a worm nor a
butterfly, but the bridge between. For