The dwarf gave one quick savage glance at the pocket of the giant, S.T. MATE, and then, without a word, he proudly crossed the drawbridge. But he had not long left the castle at his back ere dejection crept upon him and never left him more. The dwarf he did his cellar reach, fainting, almost bereft of speech; and as his men he staggered by, with panting breast and haggard eye, "Minstrel!" he cried, "O laggard! I for deepest depths of Lethe long. Get thy guitar and sing a song!" The minstrel sang: "O Estimate! Thy name is great, MEDUSA's head thou sure must own. Do as we will, Thy coming still Turns all our hard-earned cash to stone." The dwarf, now sunk in Lethe's mud, did snore; knowing the sign, the minstrel then forbore. [Illustration] * * * * * ODE TO THE MISSING COLLECTOR. BY REGALIA REYNA. Where are _you now_, MR. BAILEY? We've been looking for you daily, Sometimes sadly, sometimes gayly, Ever since the week begun. Loving you so dear as we do, Doting on you, doubting for you, Looking for you, longing for you, Waiting for you, watching for you, Fearing you have cut and run, Ere your heavy task was done In cigars, and snuff, and rum; Spoiling for us lots of fun, And racy items for _The Sun_, In the seizure rows begun, And the heavy raids to come. Think of poor, forsaken KIRBY, Think of honest-scented HARVEY! Your desertion, J. F. BAILEY, "Busts" our glorious Trinity; Robs the law of subtlety, Knocks our look for _moietie_, Knocks that Jersey property! So much whisky all set free: Where is SHIELDS to get his fee? Think of melancholy PUFFER, What the aged CHILDS must suffer! JOSHUA F., the noble buffer, "Lost to sight, to memory dear," Think of energetic VAIL Looking round to get his bail, While you're riding on a rail, Or on ocean gayly sail For UNCLE BULL'S dominion! How could you thus fly the track With so many stores to "crack," And COLUMBUS at your back To defy the whiskey pack And popular opinion? Whiskey "fellers" feeling badly, Cigar-sellers smoking madly, Bondsmen looking sorely, sadly, If their signatures are clear, If you will not cost them dear, If in court they must appear Mournfully, in doubt and fear. Oh! you weak, unfeeling cuss, To get them in this shocking muss; How their pocket-books will rue it! J.F.B., how _could_ you do it? Are you putting for the West, Did you take French leave for Brest, Have you feathered well your nest, Do you sweetly take your rest; Say, whom _do_ you like the best-- COOK, or JENKS, or FULLERTON? Would you, JOSH, believe it true, At the moment, sir, when you Waited for that verdict blue, O'er the wires the message flew, Paid or franked by BOUTWELL through: "The gig is up; the cuss won't do. Put the district Thirty-two