Dust we are and to dust we must return—­but, as the old epitaph said of Catherine Gray, who sold pottery,—­

  ’In some tall pitcher or broad pan
  She in life’s shop may live again,’—­

so, in a higher sphere we may all become vases unbreakable, filled with the wine of life.

* * * * *

Were the enemy in their senses they would probably admit that the annexed proposal is far from being deficient in common-sense:—­

DEAR CONTINENTAL: 

I see that it is proposed by the Southern press that the rebels, as they retreat, shall burn all their tobacco.

I have a proposition to make.

Let General McCLELLAN send a flag of truce and inform them that if they need any assistance in that work, nothing will give me greater pleasure than to assist in the consummation.

I have an enormous meerschaum and a corps of friends equally well piped.  If the seceders have no time to ignite the weed, we are quite ready, and a great deal more willing, considering the late frightful rise in Lynchburg, to do it for them.  I can answer for burning one pound a day myself.  What do you think of it?  It isn’t traitorous in me, is it, to thus desire to aid and assist the enemy?

Yours truly,

RAUCHER.

* * * * *

A CURE FOR STEALING.

  Far back among the days of yore
  There’s many a pleasing tale in store,
  Rich with the humor of the time,
  That sometimes jingle well in rhyme. 
  Of these, the following may possess
  A claim on ‘hours of idleness.’ 
    When Governor Gurdon Saltonstall,
  Like Abram Lincoln, straight and tall,
  Presided o’er the Nutmeg State,
  A loved and honored magistrate,
  His quiet humor was portrayed
  In Yankee tricks he sometimes played. 
  The Governor had a serious air,
  ’Twas solemn as a funeral prayer,
  But when he spoke the mirth was stirred,—­
  A joke leaped out at every word. 
    One morn, a man, alarmed and pale,
  Came to him with a frightful tale;
  The substance was, that Jerry Style
  Had stolen wood from off his pile. 
  The Governor started in surprise,
  And on the accuser fixed his eyes. 
  ’He steal my wood! to his regret,
  Before this blessed sun shall set,
  I’ll put a final end to that.’ 
  Then, putting on his stately hat,
  All nicely cocked and trimmed with lace,
  He issued forth with lofty grace,
  Bade the accuser; duty mind,’
  And follow him ‘five steps behind.’ 
    Ere they a furlong’s space complete,
  They meet the culprit in the street;
  The Governor took him by the hand—­
  That lowly man! that Governor grand!—­
  Kindly inquired of his condition,
  His present prospects and position. 
  The man a tale of sorrow told—­
  That food was dear, the winter cold,