All hiz ideas ov honor are governed bi the code which calls it dishonorable to puntch a man belo the belt. Hiz grate ambishun in life iz tew win a phew bloody fights, and then end hiz daze az the proprietor ov a gin mill, with hiz name and infamy hung up in gilt letters over hiz bar. He iz a rank koward bi natur, and never fought a battle yet in which he did not expekt hiz low cunning would enable him tew outwit hiz adversary. THE PRECISE MAN. The precise man weighs just 16 ounces tew the pounds, and meazzures just 36 inches tew the yard. He iz more partiklar about being _just so_, then he iz about being right. Hiz blunders, if he ever makes enny, are all kronik, and kant be kured. He iz most alwus what we kall a virtewous man at heart, but thare iz no logik kan make him alter hiz mind. He iz az exact in hiz way az a kompass. He knows the year, the month, the day ov the week, and sumtimes the very hour that enny important event took place. He kan tell yu the exact age ov every old maid in the naborhood, and kan rekollekt distinkly ov hearing hiz grate-grandfather tell what sort ov a kloud it waz that the lightning cum out ov that struck the steeple ov the Presbeterian church, and knoked the weathercock on it into the shape ov a cocked hat. The precise man iz a mere bundle ov fakts, figures, and trifling incidents, which are ov the utmost importance tew him, but not ov mutch use tew ennyboddy else. He iz just about az mutch consequentz whare he livs az a last year’s Farmers’ Allminax. He is az _set_ in hiz ways az an old goose trieing tew hatch out a glass egg. COQUETT AND PRUDE. Menny essays hav bin writ on the natur ov woman, setting forth her aspirashuns, her genius, her impulses, the delikate mechanicks ov her pashuns, the aroma ov her heart, the soft leading strings ov her dispisishun, the cast iron fortitude ov her resolves, and the lurid glare ov her love and her hate. I hav read menny ov these, only tew be more solid in mi long cultivated opinyun, that woman and her character in the lump, iz like the ranebo in the East, butiful beyond language, full ov promis and impossible tew paint. In mi philosophy, rude and untutored, i call woman the lesser light, the moon, gentle as an angel, stealing softly along the buzzum ov the skey on an errand ov love, light for the hour ov darkness, pashunt watcher while the world sleeps, queen ov the night, jeweled with stars. I compare woman to a vine full ov tendrils, which can’t reach perfection without a pole to climb, and then often mounting far above the pole. Man i call the sun, filling the earth with phrenzy, woman the moon, that chastens the twilight, and steals through the lattice to play on the hearth-stone. Each one haz their sphear, and the loss ov either would be the blotting out ov the sun, or the moon. Each one haz their appointment, which should not be changed.