to convince Mr. P. and his men
that this was the island where they had seen the picnic.

And where were the picnickers?

If any of Mr. P's. subscribers in Prince EDWARD Island, Costa Rica, the
Gallipagoes, or other outstanding places, receive their paper rather
late this week, they are informed that, in consequence of his having
spent three entire days exploring the labyrinth of these islands in
order to find the bodies of the unfortunate party of pleasure, (which
bodies he did not find,) Mr. P. was very much delayed in his office
business. His near patrons received their papers in due time, but those
at a distance will excuse him, he feels sure, when they consider what
his feelings must have been, while grappling for an entire picnic.

The island was dumped down anywhere, without reference to its former
place. When the Alabama claims are settled, Mr. P. will go back and
adjust it properly.

Mr. P. gained nothing by this trip but the knowledge that there are but
980 of these islands, which an unscrupulous monarchy imposes upon a
credulous people as a full thousand, and the gloom which would naturally
pervade a man, after an occurrence of the kind just narrated.

On his way home, he stopped for supper at Albany, and there he met CYRUS
W. FIELD and Commodore VANDERBILT. One of these gentlemen was looking
very happy and the other very doleful.

(Illustration: The tall gentleman in the picture is Mr. FIELD--not that
he is really so very tall--but he is elevated. The short one is the
Commodore--so drawn, not because he is short, but because he is
depressed.)

After the compliments of the season, (warm ones,) Mr. P. asked his
friends how the war in Europe affected them.

"Gloriously!" cried Mr. FIELD. "Nothing could be better. The messages
fly over our cables like--like--like lightning. Why, sir, I wish they
would keep up the war for ten years."

"And you, sir?" said Mr. P. to the Commodore.

"Oh, I hate it!" said VANDERBILT. "They send neither men nor munitions
by our road. It is an absolute dead loss of hundreds of thousands of
dollars to me that my railroad is on this side of the ocean. I shall
never cease to deplore it."

"But sir," said Mr. P. "the war may cause a great exportation of grain
from the West, and then your road will profit."

"Don't believe it," said the Commodore. "The war will stop exportation."

"It goes against the grain with him, any way you fix it," said Mr.
FIELD, with a festive air.