_The New York Election--Mr. Lincoln Tells a Story--Cannot Do Justice to the Subject--Mr. Lincoln Feels Bad--The Major Amuses him by a Joke--How to get up a Message--Keeping a Party Together--The Excelsior Political Prepared Glue--The Different Stripes of Abolitionists-- Boating on the Mississippi River--Poleing Along._ WASHINGTON, Nov. 10th, 1862. _To the Editers of The Cawcashin:_ I expect you were very much surprised in not gettin a letter from me last week, but the truth is, I got one partly writ jest as the news of the elecshins in New York an Jersey cum in, an I should have finished it an sent it on ef the Kernel had not been taken down sick so sudden. Wen the rumor fust cum that York city had gone over thirty thousand for Seemore, an that Fernandow an Ben. Wood an Jeemes Brooks had been elected to Congriss, the Kernel didn't say a word, but looked as ef he'd drop down thru the floor. I didn't like to speak fust, but I see the Kernel warn't going to, an so ses I, "How do you feel, Mr. Presidint?" "Wal," ses he, "Majer, I'll tell you a story. A good meny years ago there lived in lower Kentuck an old feller named Josh Miller. Now, it was ginerally reckoned in that part of the country that old Josh could out-swear eny feller that ever lived. Josh was a kind of gineral teamster, an had a two-hoss wagon with which he did chores for everybody round the village. One day he had on a load of ashes, an was goin up a steep hill, sittin on the fore part of his wagon. Wen about half way up the hind-board of his wagon cum out, an old Josh not lookin round, nigh about all the ashes jarred out, so wen he got to the top of the hill he didn't have a pan full left. He stopped his hosses, however, an got out, an a hull lot of fellers, who knew the ability of old Josh in the swearin line, gathered around expecting to here the tallest kind of strong words. The old feller looked fust at his wagon an then at the ashes all strewed along the road, an finally ses he, 'Boys, there's no use in tryin--_I can't do jestice to the subject_.' An now, Majer," ses the Kernel, "That jest my condition now--I can't do jestice to the subject, an I don't feel like talkin; in fact, I _can't_ talk."