The sports closed with a novel and interesting game, in which everybody joined with hearty good-will and enthusiasm. This game was called “Chasing the Greased Publisher.” An agile Harper, having been greased from head to foot, was let loose on the common and pursued for twenty minutes by the excited literary citizens. The skill which he displayed in eluding his pursuers, doubling on his tracks and breaking away from the insecure hold of some ravenous poet, served to make the contest the most exciting and enjoyable event of the whole day’s programme. He was finally caught by Mr. Joel Benton, who floored him with a Thanksgiving ode, delivered between the eyes. It was 4:30 o’clock when the games closed, and I was compelled to return to the city without waiting to enjoy the literary exercises which were held during the evening. I had a short conversation with Mr. McClure, however, and asked him if he did not find that it paid him to keep his workmen in good health and spirits the year round. Mr. McClure replied that he did, and that he proposed to encourage all sorts of innocent pastimes--of the kind that we had witnessed--and permit his literary and artistic hands to enjoy festivals and merrymakings at frequent intervals throughout the year. As the train steamed out of the depot I heard the inhabitants begin their evening hymn: “Thou art, McClure, the light, and life Of all this wondrous world we see.” LITERATURE BY PRISON CONTRACT LABOR. The enforced idleness of state prison convicts has led some of the large manufacturers and dealers to seriously consider the advisability of giving employment to some of them in the different branches of their literary establishments. Mr. Bok recently purchased a quantity of “Just Among Ourselves” goods, but found them to be inferior in quality to the samples from which they were ordered, so he refused to accept them, and they were subsequently sold at a reduced rate to Mr. Peter Parley, who is now editing the Sunday supplement of the “New York Times.” The Harpers have been more successful, having had more experience in this peculiar line. It is an open secret that the ten acres of historical and other foreign matter contracted for two or three years ago and signed with the _nom de plume_ “Poultney Bigelow” are really the work of a gang of long-term men in the Kings County Penitentiary, while fully half their poetry comes from the same institution. Not long ago, however, the long-termers, hoping by working overtime to secure a little money for themselves, prepared and offered to the proprietors of the Franklin Square foundry a short story, which those discerning publishers were compelled to decline because they did not like its moral. The story is as follows, and is called: CAFÉ THROWOUT; OR, THE HEY RUBE’S DREAM.