ame
rushing into Washington. He paused not, nor turned not right or left,
until he found the office of the "Argus of Freedom," where he rushed in,
and confronting the editor, he spluttered forth:--

"You der printer of dish paper,--der noosh paper?"

"Yes," says the 'responsible,' "I am the man," looking a little wild.

"Vell, bine de great Jehosaphat, what for you'n make me deat?"

"Me? Make you dead?" says the no little astonished editor.

"Yaas!" bawled old Jake, for it was he--"You'n tell de people I diet;
_it's a lie!_ And do you neber do it again, and fool de peeples, _witout
you git a written order from me!_"

That editor, ever afterwards, insisted on seeing the funeral before he
recorded an obituary notice.

What's Going to Happen.

In fifty years the steam engine will be as old a notion, and as queer an
invention, as the press Ben. Franklin worked is now. In fifty years,
copper-plate, steel-plate, lithography, and other fine engravings, will
be multiplied for a mere song, in a beautiful manner, by the now
infantile art of _Daguerreotyping_. A passage to California will then be
accomplished in twenty-four hours, by air carriages and electricity; or,
perhaps, they'll go in buckets down Artesian holes, _clean through the
earth!_ The arts of agriculture and horticulture will produce hams ready
roasted, natural pies, baked with all sorts of _cookies_. About that
time, a man may live forever at a cent a day, and sell for all he's
worth at last--for soap fat!

The Washerwoman's Windfall.

Some years ago, there lived, dragged and toiled, in one of our "Middle
States," or Southern cities, and old lady, named Landon, the widow of a
lost sea captain; and as a dernier resort, occurring in many such cases,
with a family of children to provide for,--the father and husband cut
off from life and usefulness, leaving his family but a stone's cast from
indigence,--the mother, to keep grim poverty from famishing her hearth
and desolating her home, took in gentlemen's washing. Her eldest child,
a boy of some twelve years old, was in the habit of visiting the largest
hotels in the city, where he received the finer pieces of the gentlemen's
apparel, and carried them to his mother. They were done up, and returned
by the lad again.

It was in mid-winter, cold and dreary season for the poor--travel was
slack, and few and far between were the poor widow's receipts from her
drudgery.

"To-morrow," said the w