A young doctor, clever, rich, pure-minded, and just, but of somewhat ambigufied principles, was strenuously married to a sweet young creature, delicate as a daffodil, and altogether loveliacious.  One night, having been entreated by a select party of his most aged patients to go with them on a horniferous bendation, he gradually dropped, by dramific degrees, in a state of absolute tipsidity, and four clergymen, who happened to be passing, carried him home on a shutter, and thus ushered him in all his drunkosity, into the presence of his little better-half, who was drawing in crayons in the back parlor.  “My dear,” said she, looking up with an angelic smile, “why did you come home in that odd manner, upon a shutter?” “Because, mon ange,” said he, “you see that these worthy gentlemen, all good men and true, mon only ange, brought me home upon a shutter because they were not able to get any of the doors off of their hinges. (Hic.)”

This is almost too funny.

The descendant of the Hamnisticorious sojourner in the ark knows what is good for him.  For pungent proof, hear this:  A young lady, a daughter of the venerable and hospitable General G-----, of Upper Guilford, Conn., was once catechizing a black camp-meeting, and when the exercises were over, a colored brother approached her and said: 

“Look-a-yar now, ’s MARY, jist gib dis nigger one obdem catekidgeble books.”

“But what would you do with it, CUDJO, if I gave it to you?”

“Oh, dis chile ’ud take it!”

Ha! ha! ha!  Our colored brother will have his wild hilarity.

Two septennialated youngsters of Boston.  Mass, (so writes their gifted mother), thus recently dialogued: 

“PERSEUS,” said the younger, “why was the noble WASHINGTON buried at Mount Vernon?”

“Because he was dead,” boldly answered his brother.

Oh! the tender-aged!  How their sub-corrected longings curb our much maturer yearnings.

Here is an anecdote of a “four-year old,” which we give in the exact words of our correspondent, an aged and respected resident of Oswego county, in this State: 

“Well, now, ye see, I couldn’t do nothing at all with this ’ere four-year old ’o mine, fur he was jist as wild an onruly as anything ye ever see; and so I jist knocked him in the head, and kep the hide and the taller, and got thirteen cents a pound for the beef, which wasn’t so bad, ye see.”

Strange, practical man!  We could not do thus with all our little tid-toddlers of but four bright summers.

A correspondent in San Francisco sends the Drawer these epitaphs, which are entirely too good to be lost.

The first is from the grave of a farmer, much notorified for his “forehandidification,” and who, it is needless to say, was buried on his own farm:—­

    “Here lies JOHN SIMMS, who always did
      Good farming understand;
    E’en now he’s gratified to think
      He benefits his land.”