g colored man, which
smells of fish, and they go home and tell their parents they went out
to Forest Home Cemetery in the afternoon, and the sun was awful hot. The
good mother knows she smells fish on her son's clothes, but she thinks
it is some new kind of perfumery, and she is silent.

An honest up-and-up fish-pole is a thing of beauty and a joy forever,
if the fishing is good, but one of these deceptive, three carde monte,
political fish-poles, that shoves in and appears to be a cane, is
incendiary, and ought to be suppressed. There ought to be a law passed
to suppress a fish-pole that passes in polite society for a cane, and
in such a moment as ye think not is pulled out to catch fish. There is
nothing square about it, and the invention of that blasted stem winding
fish-pole is doing more to ruin this country than all the political
parties can overcome. If there was a law to compel the owners of those
wailking-sticks to put a sign on their canes, "This is a fish-pole,"
there would be less canes taken on these Sunday excursions in summer.

Look not upon the walking-stick when it is hollow, and pulls out, for at
last it giveth thee away, young fellow.

*****

The Sun is in receipt of an invitation to attend the opening of a new
hotel in an Iowa city, but it will be impossible to attend. We remember
one Iowa hotel which we visited in 1869, when the Wisconsin editors
stopped there on the way back from Omaha,--the time when a couple of bed
bugs took Uncle David Atwood up on the roof and were going to throw him
off, and they would have done it, only a party of cockroaches took his
part and killed the bed bugs.

Sam Ryan will remember how there was a crop of new potatoes growing on
the billiard room floor in the dirt, that were all blossomed out; and
Charley Seymour can tell how he had to argue for an hour to convince the
colored cook that the peculiar smell of the scrambled eggs was owing to
some of them being rotten. There were four waiters to a hundred guests,
and it was a sight long to be remembered to see Mrs. Seymour and Mrs.
Atwood carry their broiled chicken back to the kitchen and pick
the feathers off, while good Uncle McBride, of Sparta, got into an
altercation over his fried fish because the fish had not been scaled;
where it was said the only thing that was not sour was the vinegar,
and where the only thing that was not too small was the bill, and where
every room smelled like a morgue, and the towels