Now “Graham” you may rely upon—there is a certain don’t care for anybody air about _him_ that you can understand. If any fellow wishes to blow up his Magazine, Graham asks him—nay, commands him to “blaze away”—if he don’t like the painted fashions, which cost $945, lo! Graham goes to the enormous expense of $2 and gives him his “own peculiar” in wood—Bloomer and all, fresh from the newspapers, and not credited to Paris either—if the small-talk don’t suit—Graham suggests something else, and invites him to read some of the other Magazines, where the editor “talks big,” and swells in imaginary dignity until a turkey is rather cast into the shade by overblown dignity—if he don’t like the stories he may read the essays—if neither, the poetry is before him—and if literature has no charms for him, he may admire Art in the engravings: “if none of these things move him,” let him admire Nature by looking at himself in a mirror, and imagine his ears wonderfully grown, and his voice a lion’s. Graham is as easily pleased as a young girl at her first ball, and thinks the world is moving round to the timing of music—and though he is as poor as Job’s—ah! that reminds us of _the turkeys_ we sent to editors. * * * * * The Turkey Ovation.—Never, we suppose, since the day the Romans overran the world, has there been such terrible bloodshed and sanguinary goings on, as was consequent upon Graham’s royal edict about Turkey. The crimson dye was streaming about all the editorial sanctums on Christmas Eve. Graham had issued orders to bring up the culprits for execution, and at about ten o’clock, at _a given_ signal, twelve hundred of the inhabitants of Turkeydom were marched out, and had their throats cut without mercy. The bloody-minded issuer of this sanguinary decree still lives and glories in the deed; and strange to say—his men back him up with fixed bayonets. If these things are allowed to proceed, people will not be able to sleep quietly in their beds, but a terror will go forth over the land, and neighbors will have to keep watch and ward over each other—turkeys will be, _nowhere_—editors will grow fat, on the fat of the land, and will soon have the hardihood to ask their subscribers to pay for the papers they read, with the same promptitude with which they expect them delivered.