Och blur-an-ounthers, Misther Editor, sure we've had the divil's own fun up here on Widnesday week last, whin Misther Barton unboosomed himself to the ilicthors o' Willinton. Faix he tould thim all about his ancesthore, how he was "the son of an Orangeman, and cousin to a Dane." Be me sowl it warm'd the cockels o' me heart to hear George give an account av his relations. He's not ashamed av his humble origin, like some av our mushroom aristocrats who pritind to have sprung from anshint histhry, and more luck to him for ownin' that his father followed the honest though humble occupation of a fruit dailer. Av course it was no news to me at all, for I knew the ould man well. He kept an orange stall in Stoney Batther, Dublin, and he used to sind little Georgy round the Tey-athers ivery night wid "apples, oranges, nuts, an' limonade." Bad luck to the betther oranges were to be had in Dublin, an' I'm tould that, the ould man used to import them himself from Barcyloney. But be the hokey it's news to me to hear that George's cousin is a Dane, Sure I thought Brian Boru dhrove all the Danes into the say at the Battle av Clontarf. But I must have been mistaken, for George's cousin is one. Be-gorra that must be the rayson he wouldn't Dane to apologise to the judges. Och it's a quare world, so it is, an' the more we grow the ouldher we larn. Afther the meetin' George axed me to throw off a pome in honor o' the occasion, so wid the aid o' me Pig- asses I wove the following nate thribute to