out every article in the store, it would be a
white stone indeed in the fortunes of the beau! The ladies sat; they
dickered and examined--we exhibited and put away, the beau lying
crouched and crucifying at our feet, and we sniggering fit to burst at
the _contretemps_ of the poor victim. Charley stood it with the most
heroic resignation for full twenty minutes, when the two Misses W. got
up to go. Casting their eyes towards the door, who should be about to
pass but the divine Fanny!

Fanny Kemble! Seeing the two Misses W., whose recognition and
acquaintance was worth cultivating--even by the haughty queen of the
drama and belle of the hour; she rushed in, they all had a talk--and you
know how women can talk, will _talk_ for an hour or two, all about
nothing in particular, except to _talk_. Imagine our beau,--"Phancy his
phelinks," as _Yellow Plush_ says, and to heighten the effect, in comes
the boss! He comes behind the counter--he sees poor Charley
sprawling--he roars out:

"By Jupiter! Mr. Whackstack, are you sick? _dead_?"

"Dead?" utters Fanny.

"A man dead behind your counter, sir?" scream the Misses W.!

With one desperate _splurge_, up jumps the beau; rushes out, up
stairs--gets on his clothes, and we did not see him again for over two
years!

A Juvenile Joe Miller.

We observed a small transaction last Wednesday noon, on Hanover street,
that wasn't so coarse for an urchin hardly out of his swaddling clouts.
He was a cunning-looking little fellow, and poking his head into a shoe
shop, he bawls out in a very keen, fine, silvery voice--

"S-a-a-y, Mister-r-r--"

"Eh?--what?" says the shop-keeper.

"Somebody's got your boots out here!"

Supposing, of course, that somebody was pegging away with a bunch of his
_wares_ at the door, Lapstone rushes out and cries--

"Where?"

"There," says the shaver; "they're there--somebody's got 'em--hung up
'long your window there."

Lapstone seized a box lid to give the juvenile joker a flip, but he
scooted, grinning and ha! ha!-ing in the most provoking strain.

"Selling" a Landlord.

During the great gathering of people in Quakerdom, while the Whigs were
dovetailing in Old Zack, an artful dodger, a queer quizzing Boston
friend of mine, thought a little _side play_ wouldn't be out of the way,
so to work he goes to get up a muss, and I'll tell you how he managed
it, nice as wax.

Among the Boston delegates--self-constituted, _a la_ Gen. Command