4 A.M. to 5 A.M.—­Find out the Archbishop.  Bang at his front door till he puts his head out of window, and wants to know “What on earth’s the matter?” Hide round the corner.  Repeat same business, with more or less success, at the residence of the Chief Justice, then at that of the Clerk of the Peace, and at those of any other officials I can call to mind, winding up by a regular good row at that of the General in Command.  Trumpeter comes out.  Take bugle from him, and give the call.  General in Command rubs his eyes sleepily, and says he’ll be down presently.

5 A.M.—­Hurry back to station.  Catch early cattle-train going back to Berlin.  Jump on engine, and declare myself.  Wire approach down line, and tear away with the cattle, at seventy miles an hour, getting back to Berlin just in time for breakfast.  Fancy I woke them up!  Altogether, a very enjoyable outing.

* * * * *

[Illustration:  GENUINE ENTHUSIASM.

(A Thaw Picture.)

WHAT MATTER AN INCH OR TWO OF SURFACE-WATER, IF THE ICE BE STILL SOUND
UNDERNEATH!]

* * * * *

“ROUGE ET NOIR!”

OR, JONATHAN’S PERPLEXING PROBLEM.

(SOME WAY AFTER HOSEA BIGLOW’S “JONATHAN TO JOHN.")

Jonathan (who has been reading the Articles on “The Negro Question in the United States,” in the English “Times”) loq.:—­

  It may be ez you’re right, JOHN,
    And both my hands are full;
  You know ez I can fight, JOHN,
    (I’ve wiped out “Sitting Bull"). 
  Ole Uncle S. sez he, “I guess
    We see our fix,” sez he. 
  “The ‘Thunderer’s’ paw lays down the law,
    Accordin’ to J.B. 
    To square it’s left to me!”

  Blood ain’t so cool as ink, JOHN;
    Big words are easy wrote;
  The “coons”—­well, you don’t think, JOHN,
    I’ll let ’em cut my throat. 
  Ole Uncle S. sez he, “I guess
    Ghost-dance must stop,” sez he. 
    “Suppose the ‘braves’ and black ex-slaves
    Hed b’longed to ole J.B. 
    Insted of unto me?”

  Ten art’cles in your Times, JOHN,
    Hev giv me good advice. 
  I mind th’ old Slavery crimes, JOHN. 
    I don’t need tellin’ twice. 
  Ole Uncle S. sez he, “I guess,
    I only guess,” sez he,
  “Seven million blacks on his folks’ backs
    Would kind o’ rile J.B. 
    Ez much ez it riles me!”

  The Red Man,—­well, I s’pose, JOHN,
    We’ll hev to wipe him aout. 
  Sech pizonous trash ez those, JOHN,
    The world kin do without. 
  Ole Uncle S. sez he, “I guess
    Injuns must go,” sez he. 
    “COOPER’s Red Man won’t fit our plan,
    Though he once witched J.B. 
    As once he fetched e’en me!”