the butcher.

Seven years could elapse between that act and the next, and a scene
could be laid in a boarding house, and some of the same beef could be on
the table, and all that. Of course we do not desire to go into details.
We are no play writer, but we know what takes. People have got tired of
imitation blood on the stage. They kick on seeing a man killed in one
act, and come out as good as new in the next. Any good play writer can
take the cue from this article and give the country a play that will
take the biscuit.

Imagine John McCullough, or Barrett, instead of killing Roman supes with
night gowns on, and bare legs, killing a Texas steer. There's where you
would get the worth of your money. It would make them show the metal
within them, and they would have to dance around to keep from getting a
horn in their trousers. It does not require any pluck to go out behind
the scenes with a sword and kill enough supes for a mess. Give us some
slaughter house tragedy, right away.

THE MISTAKE ABOUT IT.

There is nothing that is more touching than the gallantry of men, total
strangers, to a lady who has met with an accident. Any man who has a
heart in him, who sees a lady whose apparel has become disarranged
in such a manner that she cannot see it, will, though she be a total
stranger, tell her of her misfortune, so she can fix up and not be
stared at. But sometimes these efforts to do a kindly action are not
appreciated, and men get fooled.

This was illustrated at Watertown last week. People have no doubt
noticed that one of the late fashions among women is to wear at the
bottom of the dress a strip of red, which goes clear around. To the
initiated it looks real nice, but a man who is not posted in the
fashions would swear that the woman's petticoat was dropping off, and
if she was not notified, and allowed to fix it, she would soon be in a
terrible fix on the street.

It was a week ago Monday that a lady from Oshkosh was at Watertown on
a visit, and she wore a black silk dress with a red strip on the bottom.
As she walked across the bridge Mr. Calvin Cheeney, a gentleman whose
heart is in the right place, saw what he supposed would soon be a
terrible accident, which would tend to embarrass the lady, so he stepped
up to her in the politest manner possible, took off his hat and said:

"Excuse me, madame, but I think your wearing apparel is becoming
disarranged. You might step right into Clark's, here, and fi