With a sing-song intonation, which neither regarded paragraph nor period, but held on equably throughout a column, the little fellow began-- “The prospect of an abundant harvest is now very general throughout the country; and should we have a continuance off the heavenly weather for a week or so longer, we hope the corn will all be saved.” As the allusion made here by the journalist, was to a period of several years previous, the listeners might be excused for not feeling a perfect concurrence in the statement.' “Heavenly weather, indeed!” grunted out the cook, as she turned her eyes towards the windows, against which the plashing rain was beating--Mike read on. “Mr. Foran was stopped last night in Baggot-street, and robbed of his watch and clothes, by four villains who live in Stoney-batter; they are well known, and are advised to take care, as such depredations cannot go long unpunished. The two villains that broke into the house of the Archbishop of Dublin, and murdered the house-maid, will be turned off 'Lord Temple's trap,' on Saturday next; this, will be a lesson to the people about the Cross-Poddle, that we hope may serve to their advantage.” “Sir Miles M'Shane begs to inform the person who found his shoe-buckle after the last levee, that he will receive one and eight pence reward for the same, by bringing it to No. 2, Ely-place; or if he prefer it, Sir Miles will toss up who keeps the pair. They are only paste, and not diamond, though mighty well imitated.” “Paste!” echoed Mrs. Branahan; “the lying thieves!” her notions on the score of that material being limited to patties and pie-crusts. “The 'Bucks' are imitating the ladies in all the arts of beautifying the person.--Many were seen painted and patched at the duchess's last ball. We hope this effeminacy may not spread any farther.--It is Mr. Rigby, and not Mr. Harper, is to have the silk gown. Sir George Rose is to get the red ribbon for his services in North America.” “A silk gown and a red ribbon!” cried Mrs. Branaghan. “Bad luck to me, but they might be ashamed of themselves.” “Faix, I never believed what Darby Long said before,” broke in Kerry. “He tould me he saw the bishop of Cork in a black silk petticoat like a famale. Is there no more murders, Mickey?” “I don't know, sir, barrin' they're in the fashionable intelligence.” “Well, read on.” “Donald, the beast, who refused to leave his cell in Trim gaol at the last assizes, and was consequently fired at by a file of infantry, had his leg amputated yesterday by Surgeon Huston of this town, and is doing remarkably well.” “Where's the sporting news?” said Kerry. “Is not this it, here?” as he pointed to a figure of a horse above a column.