A soft rabbit under the wide paw of a California lion, or a sparrow in the talons of a hawk, is not more utterly helpless than was the poor dominie in her terrible clutch. His position was anything but an enviable one. It actually seemed as if every hair upon his head was gathered and drawn into one mass, over which her muscular fingers held complete control. He dropped his book and shouted loudly, partly through pain, and partly anger at seeing the fate of his fashionable hat, now lying under her great broad foot, flat as a German pancake. His cries of fear only made the crazy woman more confident of her abilities. She commenced backing along the street, in the direction of home, and at every step, with an irresistible yank, she dragged the expostulating minister along with her over the uneven sidewalk. She had snaked him along fully two rods in this manner, and was making, to use a nautical phrase, such good stern-way that she was on the point of breaking into a trot, when her heel caught on the edge of a plank. The result was terrible in the extreme. She fell backwards, pulling the unfortunate captive to the sidewalk after her, where they gyrated in the most ludicrous positions imaginable. A couple of gentlemen, emerging from a store at that instant, looked on the pair in blank astonishment for a moment. Recognizing their own gifted pastor, they ran to his assistance, and lost no time in raising him to his feet, and turning over the old crazy woman to an officer who happened at that moment to step out of a saloon. [Illustration] [Illustration] FLIRTING, AND WHAT CAME OF IT. At an open window wide, just across the way, Sits a roguish little blonde nearly all the day, Playing with a tabby cat, and gazing down below, Flirting with conductors that are passing to and fro. Some receive a passing nod, and some receive a smile; But she watches Number 6 whilst going half a mile. And the gay conductor while he’s throwing kisses there, Doesn’t hear the signals given by an aged pair, Though the man, as best he can, whistles loud and shrill, And the wife, as though for life, charges down the hill. And the blameful driver, while he gazes wistful back, Doesn’t see the little child a creeping on the track. Soon the jury summoned there to question how it died, Will as their opinion give, “a case of suicide;” And the driver and his mate acquitted from all blame, Kisses at the blonde will throw, and she’ll return the same. THE CHAMPION MEAN MAN. Yesterday I came across a singular looking individual dressed in a greasy, dingy suit. He was sitting on a log before his door engaged in repairing a shovel-handle. “Say, stranger,” I said, addressing him, “can you inform me where Deacon Shellbark lives?”