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Mr. Pickwick, Sir:—­ I address you upon the subject of sin the sinner I mean is a man named Winkle who makes trouble in his club by laughing and sometimes won’t write his piece in this fine paper I hope you will pardon his badness and let him send a French fable because he can’t write out of his head as he has so many lessons to do and no brains in future I will try to take time by the fetlock and prepare some work which will be all commy la fo that means all right I am in haste as it is nearly school time.  Yours respectably, N. Winkle

    [The above is a manly and handsome aknowledgment of past
    misdemeanors.  If our young friend studied punctuation, it
    would be well.]

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    A sad accident

On Friday last, we were startled by a violent shock in our basement, followed by cries of distress.  On rushing in a body to the cellar, we discovered our beloved President prostrate upon the floor, having tripped and fallen while getting wood for domestic purposes.  A perfect scene of ruin met our eyes, for in his fall Mr. Pickwick had plunged his head and shoulders into a tub of water, upset a keg of soft soap upon his manly form, and torn his garments badly.  On being removed from this perilous situation, it was discovered that he had suffered no injury but several bruises, and we are happy to add, is now doing well.  Ed.

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    The public bereavement

It is our painful duty to record the sudden and mysterious disappearance of our cherished friend, Mrs. Snowball Pat Paw.  This lovely and beloved cat was the pet of a large circle of warm and admiring friends; for her beauty attracted all eyes, her graces and virtues endeared her to all hearts, and her loss is deeply felt by the whole community.

When last seen, she was sitting at the gate, watching the butcher’s cart, and it is feared that some villain, tempted by her charms, basely stole her.  Weeks have passed, but no trace of her has been discovered, and we relinquish all hope, tie a black ribbon to her basket, set aside her dish, and weep for her as one lost to us forever.

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A sympathizing friend sends the following gem: 

    A lament
    (for S. B. Pat paw)

    We mourn the loss of our little pet,
    And sigh o’er her hapless fate,
    For never more by the fire she’ll sit,
    Nor play by the old green gate.

    The little grave where her infant sleeps
    Is ’neath the chestnut tree. 
    But o’er her grave we may not weep,
    We know not where it may be.

    Her empty bed, her idle ball,
    Will never see her more;
    No gentle tap, no loving purr
    Is heard at the parlor door.