"Yes," says the 'responsible,' "I am the man," looking a little wild. "Vell, bine de great Jehosaphat, what for you'n make me deat?" "Me? Make you dead?" says the no little astonished editor. "Yaas!" bawled old Jake, for it was he--"You'n tell de people I diet; _it's a lie!_ And do you neber do it again, and fool de peeples, _witout you git a written order from me!_" That editor, ever afterwards, insisted on seeing the funeral before he recorded an obituary notice. What's Going to Happen. In fifty years the steam engine will be as old a notion, and as queer an invention, as the press Ben. Franklin worked is now. In fifty years, copper-plate, steel-plate, lithography, and other fine engravings, will be multiplied for a mere song, in a beautiful manner, by the now infantile art of _Daguerreotyping_. A passage to California will then be accomplished in twenty-four hours, by air carriages and electricity; or, perhaps, they'll go in buckets down Artesian holes, _clean through the earth!_ The arts of agriculture and horticulture will produce hams ready roasted, natural pies, baked with all sorts of _cookies_. About that time, a man may live forever at a cent a day, and sell for all he's worth at last--for soap fat! The Washerwoman's Windfall. Some years ago, there lived, dragged and toiled, in one of our "Middle States," or Southern cities, and old lady, named Landon, the widow of a lost sea captain; and as a dernier resort, occurring in many such cases, with a family of children to provide for,--the father and husband cut off from life and usefulness, leaving his family but a stone's cast from indigence,--the mother, to keep grim poverty from famishing her hearth and desolating her home, took in gentlemen's washing. Her eldest child, a boy of some twelve years old, was in the habit of visiting the largest hotels in the city, where he received the finer pieces of the gentlemen's apparel, and carried them to his mother. They were done up, and returned by the lad again. It was in mid-winter, cold and dreary season for the poor--travel was slack, and few and far between were the poor widow's receipts from her drudgery. "To-morrow," said the widow, as she sat musing by her small fire, "to-morrow is Saturday; I have not a stick of wood, pound of meal, nor dollar in the world, to provide food or warmth for my children over Sunday." "But, mother," responded her 'main prop,' George, the eldest boy, "that gentleman who gave me the half dollar for going to the bank for him, last week,--you know him we washed for at the United States Hotel,--said he was to be here again to-morrow. I was to call for his clothes; so I will go, mother, to-morrow; maybe he will have another errand for me, or some money--he's got so much money in his trunk!" "So, indeed, you said, good child; it's well you thought of it," said the poor woman.