GINGER-SNAPS.

I will now offer you some good things of various degrees of humor. I do not feel it necessary to impress their merits upon you, for they speak for themselves Here is a quaint bit of satire from a bright Boston woman, which those on her side of the vexed Indian question will enjoy:

THE INDIAN AGENT.

BY LOUISA HALL.

He was a long, lean man, with a sad expression, as if weighed down by pity for poor humanity. His heart was evidently a great many sizes too large for him. He yearned to enfold all tribes and conditions of men in his encircling arms. He surveyed his audience with such affectionate interest that he seemed to look into the very depths of their pockets.

A few resolute men buttoned their coats, but the majority knew that this artifice would not save them, and they rather enjoyed it as a species of harmless dissipation. They liked to be talked into a state of exhilaration which obliged them to give without thinking much about it, and they felt very good and benevolent afterward. So they cheered the agent enthusiastically, as a signal for him to begin, and he came forward bowing, while the three red brothers who accompanied him remained seated on the platform. He appeared to smile on every one present as he said:

"Friends and Fellow-Citizens, I have the honor to introduce to you these chiefs of the Laughing Dog Nation. Twenty-five years ago this tribe was one of the fiercest on our Western plains. Snarling Bear, the most noted chief of his tribe, was a great warrior. Fifty scalps adorned his wigwam. Some of them had once belonged to his best friends. He was murdered while in the prime of life by a white man whose wife he had accidentally shot at the door of her cabin. He was one of the first to welcome the white men and adopt the improvements they brought with them. When he became sufficiently civilized to understand that polygamy was unlawful, he separated from his oldest wife. Her scalp was carefully preserved among those of the great warriors he had conquered. His son, Flying Deer, who is with us to-day, will address you in his own language, which I shall interpret for you. The last twenty years have made a great change in their condition. These men are not savages, but educated gentlemen. They are all graduates of Tomahawk College, at Bloody Mountain, near the Gray Wolf country. They are chiefs of their tribes, each one holding a position equal to the Governor of our own State. Their influence at the West is great. Last year they sent a small party of missionaries to the highlands of the Wolf country, where the women and children pasture the ponies during the dry season. Not one of these noble men ever returned. Unfortunately for the success of this mission, the Gray Wolf warriors were at home. The medicine man's dreams had been unfavorable, and they dared not set out on their annual hunt. This year they will send a larger party well armed.

"These devoted men have left their Western homes and come here to assure you of their confidence in your affection, and the love and gratitude they feel toward you. They come to ask for churches and schools, that their children may grow up like yours. But these things require money. On account of the great scarcity of stone in the Rocky Mountains, and the necessity of preserving standing timber for the Indian hunting-grounds, all building materials for churches and school-houses must be carried from the East at great expense. The door-steps of the third orthodox Kickapoo church cost one hundred and fifty dollars. But it is money well invested. The gradual decrease of crime at the West has convinced the most sceptical that a great work can be done among these people. The number of murders committed in this country last year was one hundred and twenty-five; this year only one hundred and twenty-three.

"Although a great deal has been done for these people, you will be surprised to learn how much remains to be done. I need not tell you that every dollar intrusted to me will be spent, and I hope you will live to see the result of your generosity.

"I wish to build at least fifteen churches and school-houses before the cold weather sets in. The cost of building has been greatly lessened by employing native workmen, who are capable of designing and erecting simple edifices. The pulpits will be supplied by native preachers, and the expense of light and heat will be paid by the congregation.

"We have at least twenty-five well-qualified native teachers, who will require no salary beyond the necessary expense of food and clothing.

"A few boarding-houses must be built and tastefully furnished. We have a large number of Laughing Dog widows, who would gladly take charge of such establishments.

"The native committee will make a careful selection of such matrons as are most capable of guiding and encouraging young people.

"All money for the benefit of these people has been used with the strictest economy; and will be while I retain the agency. I have secured a slender provision for my declining years, and shall return to spend my days with my adopted people.

"But I will let these men who once owned this great country speak for themselves. Flying Deer, who will now address you, is about forty years of age. He lives with his wife and ten children near the agency, at a place called Humanketchet."

Flying Deer came forward and spoke very distinctly, though rapidly.

"O hoo bree-gutchee, gumme maw choo kibbe showain nemeshin. Dawmasse choochugah goo waugh; kawboo. Nokka brewis goo, honowin nudwag moonoo shugh kawmun menjeis. Babas kwasind waugh muskoday, wawa gessonwon goo. Nahna naskeen oza yenadisse mayben mudjo, kenemoosha. Wawconassee nushka kahgagoo, jossahut, wabenas ogu winemon jabs. Ahmuck wana wayroossen chooponnuk segwan maysen. Opeechee annewayman, kewadoda shenghen kad goo tagamengow."

"He says, my friends, that he has always loved and trusted the white people. He says that since he has seen the great cities and towns of the East, he loves his white brothers more than before. His red brothers, White Crow and the Rock on End, wish him to say that they also love you. He says the savage Gray Wolf tribe threaten to shoot and scalp them if they continue friendly to the whites. He asks for powder, guns, and ponies, that they may defend themselves from their enemies. He wants to convince you that they are rapidly becoming a civilized nation. The assistance you are about to give will only be required for a short time. They will soon become self-supporting, and relieve the Government of a heavy tax. They thank you for the kindness you have shown, and for the generous collection which will now be taken up.

"Will some friend close the doors while we give every one an opportunity to contribute to this good cause? Remember that he who shutteth up his ears to the cry of the poor, he shall also cry himself and shall not be heard. Those who prefer can leave a check with Deacon Meekham at the door, or with me at the hotel. These substantial tokens of your regard will cause the wilderness to blossom as the rose.

"In the name of our red brethren, let me again thank you."

If one inclines to Irish fun, try this burlesque from Mrs. Lippincott.

MISTRESS O'RAFFERTY ON THE WOMAN QUESTION.

BY GRACE GREENWOOD.

Or the triumphs of a quack, by Miss Amanda T. Jones.

DOCHTHER O'FLANNIGAN AND HIS WONDHERFUL CURES.

Or, if one prefers to laugh at the experience of a "culled" brother, what can be found more irresistible than this?

THE OLD-TIME RELIGION.

BY JULIA PICKERING.

Brother Simon. I say, Brover Horace, I hearn you give Meriky de terriblest beating las' nite. What you and she hab a fallin'-out about?

Brother Horace. Well, Brover Simon, you knows yourself I never has no dejection to splanifying how I rules my folks at home, and 'stablishes order dar when it's p'intedly needed; and 'fore gracious! I leab you to say dis time ef 'twant needed, and dat pow'ful bad.

You see, I'se allers been a plain, straight-sided nigger, an' hain't never had no use for new fandangles, let it be what it mout; 'ligion, polytix, bisness—don't ker what. Ole Horace say: "De ole way am de bes' way, an' you niggers dat's all runnin' teetotleum crazy 'bout ebery new gimerack dat's started, better jes' stay whar you is and let them things alone." But dey won't do it; no 'mount of preaching won't sarve um. And dat is jes' at this partickeler pint dat Meriky got dat dressin'. She done been off to Richmun town, a-livin' in sarvice dar dis las' winter, and Saturday a week ago she camed home ter make a visit. Course we war all glad to see our darter. But you b'l'eve dat gal hadn't turned stark bodily naked fool? Yes, sir; she wa'n't no more like de Meriky dat went away jes' a few munts ago dan chalk's like cheese. Dar she come in wid her close pinned tight enuff to hinder her from squattin', an' her ha'r a-danglin' right in her eyes, jes' for all de worl' like a ram a-looking fru a brush-pile, and you think dat nigger hain't forgot how to talk! She jes' rolled up her eyes ebery oder word, and fanned and talked like she 'spected to die de nex' breff. She'd toss dat mush-head ob hern and talk proper as two dixunarys. 'Stead ob she call-in' ob me "daddy" and her mudder "mammy," she say: "Par and mar, how can you bear to live in sech a one-hoss town as this? Oh! I think I should die." And right about dar she hab all de actions ob an' old drake in a thunder-storm. I jes' stared at dat gal tell I make her out, an' says I to myself: "It's got to come;" but I don't say nothin' to nobody 'bout it—all de same I knowed it had to come fus' as las'. Well, I jes' let her hab more rope, as de sayin' is, tell she got whar I 'cluded war 'bout de end ob her tedder. Dat was on last Sunday mornin', when she went to meetin' in sich a rig, a-puttin' on airs, tell she couldn't keep a straight track. When she camed home she brung kumpny wid her, and, ob course, I couldn't do nuthin' then; but I jes' kept my ears open, an' ef dat gal didn't disquollify me dat day, you ken hab my hat. Bimeby dey all gits to talkin' 'bout 'ligion and de churches, and den one young buck he step up, an' says he: "Miss Meriky, give us your 'pinion 'bout de matter." Wid dat she flung up her head proud as de Queen Victory, an' says she: "I takes no intelligence in sich matters; dey is all too common for me. Baptisses is a foot or two below my grade. I 'tends de 'Pisclopian Church whar I resides, an' 'specs to jine dat one de nex' anniversary ob de bishop. Oh! dey does eberything so lovely, and in so much style. I declar' nobody but common folks in de city goes to de Babtiss Church. It made me sick 't my stomuck to see so much shoutin' and groanin' dis mornin'; 'tis so ungenteel wid us to make so much sarcumlocutions in meetin'." And thar she went a-giratin' 'bout de preacher a-comin' out in a white shirt, and den a-runnin' back and gittin' on a black one, and de people a-jumpin' up and a-jawin' ob de preacher outen a book, and a-bowin' ob deir heads, and a-saying long rigmaroles o' stuff, tell my head fairly buzzed, and were dat mad at de gal I jes' couldn't see nuffin' in dat room. Well, I jes' waited tell the kumpny riz to go, and den I steps up, and says I: "Young folks, you needn't let what Meriky told you 'bout dat church put no change inter you. She's sorter out ob her right mine now, but de nex' time you comes she'll be all right on dat and seberal oder subjicks;" and den dey stared at Meriky mighty hard and goed away.

Well, I jes' walks up to her, and I says: "Darter," says I, "what chu'ch are dat you say you gwine to jine?" And says she, very prompt like: "De 'Pisclopian, pa." And says I: "Meriky, I'se mighty consarned 'bout you, kase I knows your mine ain't right, and I shall jes' hab to bring you roun' de shortest way possible." So I retch me a fine bunch of hick'ries I done prepared for dat 'casion. And den she jumped up, and says she: "What make you think I loss my senses?" "Bekase, darter, you done forgot how to walk and to talk, and dem is sure signs." And wid dat I jes' let in on her tell I 'stonished her 'siderably. 'Fore I were done wid her she got ober dem dying a'rs, and jumped as high as a hopper-grass. Bimeby she 'gins to holler: "Oh, Lordy, daddy! daddy! don't give me no more."

And says I: "You're improvin', dat's a fac'; done got your natural voice back. What chu'ch does you 'long to, Meriky?" And says she, a-cryin': "I don't 'long to none, par."

Well, I gib her anodder leetle tetch, and says I: "What chu'ch does you 'long to, darter?" And says she, all choked like: "I doesn't 'long to none."

Den I jes' make dem hick'ries ring for 'bout five minutes, and den I say: "What chu'ch you 'longs to now, Meriky?" And says she, fairly shoutin': "Baptiss; I'se a deep-water Baptiss." "Berry good," says I. "You don't 'spect to hab your name tuck offen dem chu'ch books?" And says she: "No, sar; I allus did despise dem stuck-up 'Pisclopians; dey ain't got no 'ligion nohow."

Brover Simon, you never see a gal so holpen by a good genteel thrashin' in all your days. I boun' she won't neber stick her nose in dem new-fandangle chu'ches no more. Why, she jes' walks as straight dis morning, and looks as peart as a sunflower. I'll lay a tenpence she'll be a-singin' before night dat good ole hyme she usened to be so fond ob. You knows, Brover Simon, how de words run:

Brother Simon. Yes, dat she will, I be boun'; ef I does say it, Brover Horace, you beats any man on church guberment an' family displanement ob anybody I ever has seen.

Brother Horace. Well, Brover, I does my bes'. You mus' pray for me, so dat my han's may be strengthened. Dey feels mighty weak after dat conversion I give dat Meriky las' night.—Scribner's Monthly, Bric-À-Brac, 1876.

If it is unadulterated consolation that you need, try

AUNTY DOLEFUL'S VISIT.

BY MARY KYLE DALLAS.

How do you do, Cornelia? I heard you were sick, and I stepped in to cheer you up a little. My friends often say: "It's such a comfort to see you, Aunty Doleful. You have such a flow of conversation, and are so lively." Besides, I said to myself, as I came up the stairs: "Perhaps it's the last time I'll ever see Cornelia Jane alive."

You don't mean to die yet, eh? Well, now, how do you know? You can't tell. You think you are getting better, but there was poor Mrs. Jones sitting up, and every one saying how smart she was, and all of a sudden she was taken with spasms in the heart, and went off like a flash. Parthenia is young to bring the baby up by hand. But you must be careful, and not get anxious or excited. Keep quite calm, and don't fret about anything. Of course, things can't go on jest as if you were down-stairs; and I wondered whether you knew your little Billy was sailing about in a tub on the mill-pond, and that your little Sammy was letting your little Jimmy down from the veranda-roof in a clothes-basket.

Gracious goodness, what's the matter? I guess Providence'll take care of 'em. Don't look so. You thought Bridget was watching them? Well, no, she isn't. I saw her talking to a man at the gate. He looked to me like a burglar. No doubt she'll let him take the impression of the door-key in wax, and then he'll get in and murder you all. There was a family at Bobble Hill all killed last week for fifty dollars. Now, don't fidget so; it will be bad for the baby.

Poor, little dear! How singular it is, to be sure, that you can't tell whether a child is blind, or deaf and dumb, or a cripple at that age. It might be all, and you'd never know it.

Most of them that have their senses make bad use of them though; that ought to be your comfort, if it does turn out to have anything dreadful the matter with it. And more don't live a year. I saw a baby's funeral down the street as I came along.

How is Mr. Kobble? Well, but finds it warm in town, eh? Well, I should think he would. They are dropping down by hundreds there with sun-stroke. You must prepare your mind to have him brought home any day. Anyhow, a trip on these railroad trains is just risking your life every time you take one. Back and forth every day as he is, it's just trifling with danger.

Dear! dear! now to think what dreadful things hang over us all the time! Dear! dear!

Scarlet fever has broken out in the village, Cornelia. Little Isaac Potter has it, and I saw your Jimmy playing with him last Saturday.

Well, I must be going now. I've got another sick friend, and I sha'n't think my duty done unless I cheer her up a little before I sleep. Good-by. How pale you look, Cornelia! I don't believe you have a good doctor. Do send him away and try some one else. You don't look so well as you did when I came in. But if anything happens, send for me at once. If I can't do anything else, I can cheer you up a little.

Mrs. Dallas, who lives in New York City, is a regular correspondent of the New York Ledger, having taken Fanny Fern's place on that widely circulated paper, is a prominent member of "Sorosis," and her Tuesday evening receptions draw about her some of the brightest society of that cosmopolitan centre.

All these selections are prizes for the long-suffering elocutionist who is expected to entertain his friends with something new, laughter-provoking, and fully up to the mark.

Mrs. Ames, of Brooklyn, known to the public as "Eleanor Kirk," has revealed in her "Thanksgiving Growl" a bit of honest experience, refreshing with its plain Saxon and homely realism, which, when recited with proper spirit, is most effective.

A THANKSGIVING GROWL.