cake, and segars, and firmly declared that if I did not sleep with him, he would never speak to me again. So I had to stop, and we went to bed, when he proposed to snuggle up a little before we went to sleep, and I had to let him do it. But the cold had made him sleepy, and he soon turned over, and away he departed in a roaring sleep, to my infinite delight, as the punch and crackling fire had caused my pimples to itch horribly for two hours, and I could only slyly and gently scratch them while he was awake. So I went at them with my long nails, which I had cultivated for scratching, and I soon made the pimples smart and bleed instead of itch, which afforded me the same relief that an eel obtains in his desperate leap from the pan into the lurid coals. The college bell aroused Terry early, but not me, as I was already aroused, not having closed my eyes, though I pretended (out of compliment to Terry’s nice punch and feather bed,) to have had the most delightful repose. So we arose, and clad ourselves, and combed our hair, and brushed our teeth, and Terry let me out, and I departed for a two hour’s communion with itch ointment. In about three weeks, while Terry was telling a most comical story to myself and some students in his room, he suddenly stopped, and made a desperate grab at the calf of his left leg, which he scratched like a cross and sick hen, in pursuit of food for her hungry chickens, until I thought he would tear his pantaloons. Terry scratched so hard and long that he excited one of the students, who begun to scratch his head, and asked him if he ever discovered fleas in his room. Terry looked indignant, and ceased scratching, and continued his story. Presently he made a lunge for the other leg, higher up. The students stared at Terry, and looked extremely solicitous towards each other, and two left very suddenly. Terry closed his story, and the other students left, leaving myself and Terry, who hauled up his pantaloons, and exclaimed: “Why, Branch, I think I must have fleas, for, good God, just look at my legs, they are covered with pimples, and they itch most awfully.” I inquired if a dog had been in his room recently, to which he negatively responded. I then said: “Perhaps you have not got fleas, but the itch.” He instantly straightened himself, and looking me dead in the eye, said: “Branch: If I had the itch, I think I would commit suicide.” I replied: “That would be (To be continued to our last groan.) The following meritorious gentlemen are wholesale agents for the Alligator. Ross & Tousey, 121 Nassau street. Hamilton & Johnson, 22 Ann street. Samuel Yates, 22 Beekman street. Mike Madden, 21 Ann street. Cauldwell & Long, 23 Ann street. Boyle &, Whalen, 32 Ann street and Bell & Hendrickson, 25 Ann street. Advertisements—One Dollar a line IN ADVANCE. THERE IS SOMETHING MYSTERIOUS IN THE PICAYUNE. You are sincerely warned not to look at THE PICAYUNE. AVOID THE PICAYUNE! SHUN THE PICAYUNE!