in the list was--"A poor woman--_one hundred
dollars!_"

"Why, it's you, of course," said a _quid-nunc_, to Aunt Abby, as she
held the Evening Transcript in her hands, in the store of Redding & Co.,
and observed the interesting item above alluded to.

"Well, so I think," says Aunt Nabby. "If I ain't a poor woman, and a
var-tuous woman, and a good and _true woman_ (down came her brakes on
the book piles), I'd like to know where--_where_, on this univarsal
_yearth_ (down with the brakes), you'd find one! One hundred dollars to
a poor woman," she continued, reading the item. "I must be the
person--yes, Abigail, _thou art the man!_" she concluded in her favorite
apothegm.

The _quid_ gave Abby the residence of the Agent (!) who was to disburse
the Lind charities, and away went Abby to the Agent, who happened to be
an amateur joker; knowing Aunt Abby, and smelling a "sell," he told the
old 'un that Mr. Somerby, of No. -- Cornhill, the joker of the Post, was
the Agent, and would shell out next morning, at nine o'clock. At that
hour, S. had Aunt Nabby in his sanctum. He knew the ropes, so assured
Abby that there was a mistake; Charles Davenport, of Cornhill, rear of
Joy's building, was the man. Charles D. informed Aunt Nabby, that he had
declined to disburse for Miss Lind, but that Bro. Norris, of the Yankee
Blade, had the pile, and was serving it out to an excited mob. Norris
declared that she was in error. She was not, by a jug full, the only,
poor woman in town, and didn't begin to be _the_ poor woman set forth in
Miss Lind's schedule! But Aunt Nabby wasn't to be _done!_ She besieged
Miss Lind--followed her to the cars--mounted the platform--Jenny espied
her, and to avoid a harangue on the freedom of speech and woman's
rights, hid her head in her cloak. The last exclamation the Nightingale
heard from the screech owl, was--

"Miss Jane Lind--who was that poor wom-a-n?"

Infirmities of Nature.

Some folks are easily glorified. We once knew a man who became so elated
because he was elected first sergeant in the militia, that he went home
and put a silver plate on his door. Ollapod, in speaking of this kind of
people, makes mention of one Sabin, who was so overjoyed the first time
he saw his name in the list of letters, advertised by the post-office,
that he called his friends together and put them through on woodcock.

Andrew Jackson and his Mother.

It is a most singular, or at least curious fact, co