I am what the old women call an "Odd Fish." I do nothing under heaven without a motive--never. I attempt nothing, unless I think there is a probability of my succeeding. I ask no favors when I think they are not deserved; and finally, I don't wait upon the girls when I think my attentions would be disagreeable. I am a matter-of-fact man, I am. I do every thing seriously. I once offered to attend a young lady home; I did it seriously; that is, I meant to wait on her home if she wanted me. She accepted my offer; I went home with her, and it has ever since been an enigma with me whether she wanted me or not. I bade her good night, and she said not a word. I met her next morning, and I said not a word. I met her again, and she gave me two hours' talk. It struck me as curious. She feared I was offended, she said, and could not, for the life of her, conceive why. She begged me to explain, but would not give me a chance to do so. She said she hoped I wouldn't be offended, asked me to call, and it has ever since been a mystery to me whether she wanted me or not. Once I saw a lady at her window. I thought I would call. I did. I inquired for the lady, and was told she was not at home. I expected she was, I went away thinking so. I rather think so still. I met her again--she was offended--said I had not been neighborly. She reproached me for my negligence; said she thought I had been unkind. And I've ever since wondered whether she thought so or not. A lady once said to me that she should like to be married if she could get a good, congenial husband who would make her happy, or at least try to. She was not difficult to please, she said. I said I should like to get married, too, if I could find a wife that would try to make me happy. She said Umph, and looked as if she meant what she said. She did. For when I asked her if she thought she could not be persuaded to marry me, she said she would rather be excused. I have often wondered why I excused her. A good many things of this kind have happened to me, that are doubtful, wonderful, mysterious. What is it, then, that causes doubt and mystery to attend the ways of men? It is the want of fact. This is a matter-of-fact world, and in order to act well in it, we must deal in a matter-of-fact way. RICH AND POOR.--_Joseph Barber._ "Men are born equal;" Jefferson, the Sage, Upon our history's initial page, Inscribed that dictum; But we who live in later times amend The "declaration" of our patriot friend With a _postscriptum_. We deem, like him, swart Labor's son and heir, And wealth's soft bantling, of _one earthenware_, But mark the sequel: One's meanly clothed in threadbare suit forlorn, The other flaunts in velvet, lace, and lawn; Are they then equal?