Went out shooting before dinner.  Killed one wild turkey, after an awful struggle, in which I very nearly got the worst of it; but fortunately the turkey was unarmed, though for all that he used his drumsticks in such a manner as in a little more would have brought flocks of other furious wild turkeys on to the scene, had I not, with great presence of mind and one small bullet out of my spring-pea rifle managed to crack the parchment-like skin which covers his drum, and at the same time broken one of his sticks.  Then, he fell.  Carried him home on my back.  What larks!  Killed four-and-twenty blackbirds at one shot as they were all sitting in a row on a rail.  They were so frightened of me, it made ’em quail!! Wonderful transformation, wasn’t it?  But fact, all the same.  Four-and-twenty quail All on a rail.  Killed eighty “Koran,” a Mahomedan bird, very scarce, and therefore bring in a considerable Mahomet, or, (ahem) profit?  See?  Shot a “Tittup”—­so called on account of its peculiar action after drinking; also three early German Beerbirds, or, as the Dutchmen call them, “Spring-boks.”  There is another origin for this name, which is also likely, and that is that they don’t appear when there’s an early spring, but when the spring is rather backward then they come forward.  Whichever you like, my little dear, you pays your money, &c., &c.  After all these exciting adventures—­“The game is cook’d, and now we’ll go to dinner!”—­quotation from early Dramatist, by Yours ever, [Illustration]

* * * * *

WORTH NOTICING.

  O poor Mr. ATKINSON, victim of fate,
    Who bowed when you ought to have lifted your hat,
  When the Session is over it’s far—­far too late,
    To give notice of this and give notice of that. 
  Your attempts to be funny are amazing to see,
    It’s a dangerous venture to pose as a wit. 
  Though the voters of Boston may love their M.P.,
    It may end in their giving you notice—­to quit!

* * * * *

OUR BOOKING-OFFICE.

[Illustration]

Short Papers in Magazines.—­“A starry night Is the shepherd’s delight,” and as this sort of night is to the pastor, so are short stories in Monthly Magazines to the Baron.  Moreover, his recommendation of them is, as he knows from numerous grateful Correspondents, “a boon and a blessing” to such as follow his lead.  He owns to a partiality for the weird, and if he can come across a brief “curdler,” he at once singles it out for the delectation of those whose taste is in the same direction.  But no curdler has he come across for some considerable time; but for short essays and tales to be read by ladies in some quiet half-hour before toiletting or untoiletting, or by the weaker sex in the smoking-room, the Baron begs to commend “THACKERAY’s Portraits of Himself,” as interesting to Thackerayans, and “A Maiden Speech,” in Murray, for August, the latter being rather too sketchy, though in its sketchiness artistic, as, like Sam Weller’s love-letter, it makes you “wish as there was more of it.”