We have heard of some very hard cases since we have enlivened this world with our brilliant presence.  We once saw an able-bodied man chase a party of little school-children and rob them of their dinners.  The man who stole the coppers from his deceased grandmother's eyes lived in our neighborhood, and we have read about the man who went to church for the sole purpose of stealing the testaments and hymn-books.  But the hardest case we ever heard of lived in Arkansas.  He was only fourteen years old.  One night he deliberately murdered his father and mother in cold blood, with a meat-axe.  He was tried and found guilty.  The Judge drew on his black cap, and in a voice choked with emotion asked the young prisoner if he had anything to say before the sentence of the Court was passed on him.  The court-room was densely crowded and there was not a dry eye in the vast assembly.  The youth of the prisoner, his beauty and innocent looks, the mild, lamblike manner in which he had conducted himself during the trial all, all had thoroughly enlisted the sympathy of the spectators, the ladies in particular.  And even the Jury, who had found it to be their stern duty to declare him guilty of the appalling crime even the Jury now wept aloud at this awful moment. "Have you anything to say?" repeated the deeply moved Judge. "Why, no," replied the prisoner, "I think I haven't, though I hope yer Honor will show some consideration for the feelings of a poor orphan!" The Judge sentenced the perfect young wretch without delay. ____________________ AFFAIRS AROUND THE VILLAGE GREEN. It isn't every one who has a village green to write about.  I have one, although I have not seen much of it for some years past.  I am back again, now.  In the language of the duke who went around with a motto about him, "I am here!" and I fancy I am about as happy a peasant of the vale as ever garnished a melodrama, although I have not as yet danced on my village green, as the melodramatic peasant usually does on his.  It was the case when Rosina Meadows left home. The time rolls by serenely now so serenely that I don't care what time it is, which is fortunate, because my watch is at present in the hands of those "men of New York who are called rioters."  We met by chance, the usual way certainly not by appointment and I brought the interview to a close with all possible despatch.  Assuring them that I wasn't Mr. Greeley, particularly, and that he had never boarded in the private family where I enjoy the comforts of a home, I tendered them my watch, and begged they would distribute it judiciously among the laboring classes, as I had seen the rioters styled in certain public prints.