I think I'll chain the bull-dog
As soon as it is dark,
And put him in the stable, where
We cannot hear him bark.
Because if I should let him
Upon the sofa stay,
His awful bark might frighten dear
Old Santa Claus away.

A NOVEL IDEA.

Paris is responsible for bringing out the very latest fad of the advertising fiend, says an English newspaper. We have heard of the American who advertised his wares on the passing clouds at night-time, by means of reflecting written sentences extolling literally to the skies his particular brand of merchandise with a powerful magic-lantern. We have heard, too, of the enterprising firm of patent-medicine venders who painted an advertisement of their wares on the rocks round Niagara, and of those who painted them upon the roadway. It is a development of this last method which has just come out. It is worked as follows: A tricycle is built with very broad tires, but these tires, instead of being smooth, are furnished with rubber type of large pattern, arranged so as to form sentences. On the top of the wheel is an ink-reservoir, supplied with a roller which inks the type, and at the bottom is a blower worked by the pedals, which is constantly blowing away the dust from the roadway in front of the wheel, so that it has a nice clean surface on which to impress its advertisement. Of course this novel tricycle can only print on wood or asphalt; but as most streets of Paris are so paved, there is plenty of scope for it, and the ink, being of a brilliant color and very permanent, leaves its mark quite readable for days.

Frank. "I saw Mr. Fish to-day."

Willie. "Did he give you any message for me?"

Frank. "Yes; he asked me to tell you to drop him a line."

Teacher. "Tell me of some rule in your experience that did not work both ways?"

John. "The rule which you broke yesterday in hitting Jack Brooks' hand."

Frances. "Oh, mamma! are you sure Santa Claus knows my name is spelt with an e; it makes me so worried."

Mamma. "Why, what's the matter, my dear?"

Frances. "Because if he thought it was spelt with an i, he might bring me boys' toys for Christmas, and that would be terrible."

Jack. "Papa, isn't it always best to have one head to everything?"

Papa. "Yes, my boy."

Jack. "Well, then, what makes you say two heads are better than one."

Sunday-school Teacher. "Can any little boy tell me what man attained the greatest age in the world?"

Bobby (holding up his hand). "I can."

Teacher. "Well, who?"

Bobby. "Santa Claus."

Papa. "Well, Tommy, what do you want Santa Claus to bring you this Christmas?"

Tommy. "Oh, jes the same as usual—one of everything he can think of."

Tommy. "Papa, is Mr. Browne a cannibal?"

Papa. "A cannibal? What do you mean, Tommy?"

Tommy. "Well, I heard you say the other day that he lived on his friends."

HOW TO GET IT BACK.

Tony. "Pa, I can tell you how to get back your umbrella that was stolen."

Father. "How, Tony?"

Tony. "Go to Mr. Textor. He advertises 'Umbrellas Repaired and Recovered,' you know."

"Mamma, how do you spell court-house?" said little Willie.

"C-o-u-r-t-h-o-u-s-e, dear," answered his mother.

"But I should think you ought to spell it, C-a-u-g-h-t-house, because all the people who are caught are taken there," responded little Willie.