Both respectable men and elders of the Church are capable now and then of indulging in a little toxophilite recreation; archery: shooting with the old English weapon of ROBIN HOOD. The elder sometimes comes, or becomes, the ancient of the Church militant or old soldier, over us. The above narrative may, perhaps, be regarded as a shaft of waggery aimed at the bull's eye of faith. A correspondent, however, who is farther North than even the _North British Daily Mail_, assures us that it tells the truth, though not the whole truth. That a bird was spitted on one of the harrows in the manner described, is a positive fact. But the additional circumstance should have been mentioned, that a couch-fire having been made between the harrows, for the twofold purpose of burning the weeds, and drying the implements the more effectually, the creature was found not only spitted but roasted. It further remains to be stated, that the bird which was so silly as to spit itself, or get spitted, in its blundering flight, was not a duck, but a goose; which thus became its own cook. Last of all the coincidence deserves to be recorded, that the feathered simpleton, which, previously to the stupid act, had just been feeding, probably in an adjoining garden, was discovered, with some presentiment of its destiny, to have stuffed itself with sage and onions. * * * * * A CHAUNT. BY A TEETOTALLER. Hence away, loathed Melancholy! Friends around again we see: Banish care, and let's be jolly, Eating muffins, drinking tea. Round the social board we'll cluster, (That which names from tea I mean), And wash down the festive "buster" With deep draughts of Black and Green. What care we for Beer-kings' prices? Or the bitters of the vat? ADAM'S pale ale never rises, There's no strychnine, boys, in _that_! What to us the size of bottles? Pint or quart, who cares a jot? While we to tea confine our throttles, Ours will always be a Pot. (Only mind lest "Fine Young Hyson" Be a synonyme for "sloe:" And beware the aqueous poison Which from filthy Thames doth flow.) Jovial boys, come pass the Sally Lunn, nor let the crumpet stand: Round the jocund kettle rally, And silence for its song demand. Water from its dumpy level Shall elevate each thirsty soul: And if dull care approach our revel, We'll drown it in the sugar bowl. Thus we'll pass each festive season, From all indigestion free: And enjoy the feast of reason, Coupled with the flow of tea. * * * * * WALKER! WOMEN--they so like matches of any sort--have taken to walking-matches. A MRS. DUNN, of Hartshill, is walking 1,000 miles in 1,000 hours. Another lady, one MISS MEW, of Cateaton Street, has also offered to do the same distance in the same time with this additional difficulty--she offers to walk in walnut-shells. Friends who know her best back her at long odds.