MINSE PIE AND DREEMS.--TERRIBLE RETRYBUSHUN.--WOT'LL OVER TAKE A GOOD MENNY.--VIRTUE RECEIVES ITS REWARD. I guess the wurry of collecktin yesterday afternoon muster wurked upon my mind, cos, last nite, I dremt a dreem, wot'd maid each seprate hare on the heds of every delikent subskriber stand on end, and sing out “Pay up your noosepaper bill, old feller, if yer dont warnt a skorschin in the dubius hereafter.” Ma and Pa was out, cos it was prayer meetin nite at our church, so I went ter bed urley, cos I was frade wen they cum home, they'd miss the hull minse pie wot I'd ete. I'd just bout got ter sleep, wen I smelt a orful smell, surgestiv of a straw hat revivin shop, wen they burn sulfir and brimstone, I looked down and behold, I seen a cort room, with a lot of lawyers and clurks sittin round a table, and the judge in a pulpit wot over looked them. The peepel all looked like Barnum's skellyton man, ony they didnt have no skin over there bones, and there eyes was maid of fire balls and eech of em had a long tail, like a snake. Purty soon the judge sed the court was open for bisness, and the sargent at arms brot in a feller all dressed up with a gold wach and big charm wot I reckernized as one of our ded beet subskri-bers wot'd dide last weak. The judge looked him all over in a com-plermenterry way, and ast him if he'd alwus lived a onhest and uprite life. “Yer onher,” sed he, “I've given of my substanse to the poor; I've luved my nay-bor as myself; I've surved for ten years as Warden of a fashunubble church, and tride to the best of my knowlege and beleef to do rite.” “Yer onher,” sed the prosercutin turney, wot I reckernized as the ex-religio-jurnalistick edittur of a defunckted alliance noosepaper, “May I ast the prisner a questshun?” “You may,” sed Judge Satan, for it was his infurnissimo himself. “Prisner at the bar,” sed the turney, “Did you pay your subskripshun to the _Buster_ 'fore you checked your baggage thru to Hay dies?” “No, sir,” sed the prisner, “I did not. I never thot it was perticklar, cos editturs aint like other mortels, enyway, and I never knowd it was a sin to beet em if you culd.” “Yes, sir, yer onher,” said the prosercutin 'turney, “he confesses his gilt, and I find, by lookin over the reckord, he ows the _Buster_ offis for 8 years' subskripshun besides a hull string of free advertisin wot the edittur giv him outer goodness of hart. Not only that, but I notis in the day book that jest wun week 'fore he departed he ordered his paper stopped, cos he was opposed to surportin', by his munny, a Dem-mercratick candydate for Guvner. You see, yer onher, there is nothing left for you but to pass sentense on the prisner.”