About one month after the affair in Chicago, Dr. P. St. C. Smith was seen strutting around in Charters st., New Orleans, confident in his security, smiling in the brightness of the scenes around him; he had just negotiated for an office, had already concocted his advertisements, and subscribed for the papers, when lo! the same due bill from Boston appeared to him, in the hand of an _agent_ of Peabody, Grab, Catchem & Co. The Dr. was almost tempted to pay the bill! But, then, perhaps the _agent_ had a hat full of others--from the same place--for larger amounts! The next day the Doctor _put_ for Texas! planting himself in the pleasant town of Bexar, and cursing duns from the bottom of his heart--he determined to keep clear of them, even if he had to bury himself away out here in Texas. But what was his horror to find, the first week of his hanging up in Bexar, that an agent of the firm of Peabody, Grab, Catchem & Co., _was there!_ The Doctor _stepped_ to Galveston; on the way he accidentally _met_ a travelling agent of Peabody, Grab, Catchem & Co. The Doctor took the _Sabine_ slide for Tampico; there he found the "black vomit." He up and off again, for Mobile; his nervous system was much worked up and his pocket-book sadly depleted! There were two alternatives--change his name, size and profession, and live in a swamp; _or settle with the firm of Peabody, Grab, Catchem & Co_. Dr. Pendleton St. Clair Smith chose the latter; he sought and soon found in Mobile, a veritable _agent_, duly authorized to receive and forward funds for Peabody, Grab, Catchem & Co., and hunt up and down--fugitives from the printer! The Doctor paid up--felt better, and learned the moral fact that delinquent subscribers are no longer to be the printers' ghosts. Ambition. A person never thinks so meanly of ambition as when walking through a grave-yard.--To see men who have filled the world with their glory for half a century or more, reduced to a six foot mudhole, gives pride a shock which requires a long stay in a city to counteract.--The gentlemen who are now "spoken of for the Presidency," will in less than a century, have their bones carted away to make room for a street sewer. Queer creature that man--well, he is. Way the Women Fixed the Tale-Bearer. "I dunno where I heer'd it, but I know it's true. I expected it long ago. I told Jones it'd come out so." "Why, Uncle Josh, you don't pretend to say that Miller's wife has run off with Bob Tape, Yardstick's clark, do you?" "Yes, I do, too; hain't it been the talk of the neighborhood for a year past, that Miller's wife and that feller--Bob Tape, were a leetle too thick?" "Well, Uncle Josh," says his neighbor Brown, "I don't recollect anybody saying anything about it, but you, and for my part, I don't believe a word of it." "Why, hain't Miller's wife gone?" says Uncle Josh. "I don't know--is she?" says Brown.