When all was quiet, that evening, on Dangle-worm Creek, near which
they were encamped, Mr. P. found the Reverend MURRAY sitting in the
smoke of his private smudge, enjoying his fragrant pipe. Seating himself
by the veteran pioneer, Mr. P. addressed him thus:

"Tell me, Mr. MURRAY, in confidence, your opinion of the Adirondacks."

"Sir," said Mr. MURRAY, "I have no objection to give a person of your
respectability and knowledge of the world my opinion of this region, but
I do not wish it made public."

"Of course, sir!" said Mr. P. "A man of your station and antecedents
would not wish his private opinions to be made too public. You may rely
upon my discretion."

"Well, then," said the reverend mountaineer, "I think the Adirondacks an
unmitigated humbug, and I wish I had never let the world know that there
was such a place."

"Why then do you come here every season, sir?"

"After all I have written and said about it," said Mr. MURRAY, "I have
to come to keep up appearances. Don't you see? But I hate these
mountains from the bottom of my heart. For every word I have written in
praise of the region I have a black-fly-bite on my legs. For every word
I have said in favor of it I have a scratch or a bruise in some other
part of my corpus. I wish that there was no such a season as
summer-time, or else no such a place as the Adirondacks."

(Readers of this paper are requested to skip the above, as those are Mr.
MURRAY'S private opinions, and not the statements he makes in public,
and his desire to keep them dark should be respected.)

It may be of interest to his patrons to know that Mr. P. arrived home
safely and with whole bones.

* * * * *

RAMBLINGS.

BY MOSE SKINNER.

MR. PUNCHINELLO: The editor of the Slunkville _Lyre_ says in his last
issue:--

"Notwithstanding the calumnies of Mr. SKINNER, our reputation is still
good, and we continue to pay our debts promptly."

This is the fifth hoax he has perpetrated within two weeks. His line of
business at present seems to be the _canard_ line.

I'll trust him out of sight if I can keep one eye on him. Not otherwise.

For a light recreation, combining a little business, I recommend his
funeral.

It is pleasant to reflect that men of his stamp are never born again.
They are born once too much as it is.

He went to the Agricultural Fair last Fall. There was a big potato
there. After gazing spell-bound upon it for one hour, he r