sellor Bunker's case exactly. He was there to better his fortune,
and he felt bound to do it, persimmons or no persimmons. It occurred to
him, as those infernal persimmons had cost him something, they ought to
_bring in_ something. By the aid of starch and sugar, Doctor
Phlebotonizem converted some hundreds of the smallest persimmons into
_pills_--sugar-coated pills--warranted to cure about all the ills flesh
was heir to, at $2 each dose. One generally constituted a dose for a
full-grown person, and as the patient left with a countenance much
"puckered up," and rarely returned, the _pseudo_ M. D. concluded there
was virtue in persimmon pills, and so, after disposing of his stock to
first-rate advantage, the doctor paid off his bills; tired of the pill
trade, he _vamosed the ranche_ with about funds enough to reach home,
and explain to his friends the difference between _per_ Simmons and
_persimmons!_

Mysteries and Miseries of the Life of a City Editor.

A great deal has been written, to show that the literary business is a
very disagreeable business; and that branch of it coming under the
"Editorial" head is about as comfortable as the bed of Procustes would
be to an invalid. It may doubtless look and sound well, to see one's
name in print, going the rounds, especially at the head of the editorial
columns, from ten to fifty thousand eyes and tongues scanning and
pronouncing it every day, or week--hundreds and thousands of the fair
sex wondering whether he is a young or an old man, a married man or a
bachelor; while the pious and devout are contemplating the serious of
his emanations, and conjecturing whether he be a Methodist, Puseyite, or
Catholic, a Presbyterian, Unitarian or Baptist; and the politicians
scanning his views, to discover whether he _leans_ toward the
_Locofocos, Free-Soilers, or Whigs_--all being necessarily much
mystified, inasmuch as the neutral writer, or editor, is obliged to
study, and most vigilantly to act, the part of a cunning
diplomatist--stroke every body's hair with the _grain!_

The Tribulations of Incivility.

"A gentleman by the name of Collins stopping with you?"

"Collins?" was the response.

"Yes, Collins, or Collings, I ain't sure which," said the hardy-looking,
bronzed seaman, to the gaily-dressed, flippant-mannered, be-whiskered
man of vast importance, presiding over the affairs of one of our
"first-class hotels."

"Very indefinite inquiry, then," said the h