Correspondence.
[We cannot resist the pleasure of giving the following to our readers, even at the sacrifice of our other usual matter. We trust we may be often favored by our valued correspondent. We hope our readers will aid us to reply suitably in our next.]
Mr. Wild Goose,—
You "Wild Goose" folk talk very loud about things;—such things as your readers desire to hear, if not will, at least not noisily ventilated. You are a sociable bird, by the way of steadied habits,—your feather is beautiful. Come, let us have a flight together. Your wing is strong,—your vision is microscopic power.
Tell me, my water fowl, you who are next, if not equal to the snow-white swan in skies to scan the surface of the deep—who so cunningly drop an ear to listen to the nestling of the pearly dewdrop, disentangling itself from its fellows in the aqueous body, to lift itself aloft, for no other end than to be shivered with atoms on the point of a ray from the valiant sun,—you, who, with upturned eye, survey the firmament; so gracefully duck your head and, with due caution discover the tracks of the watery fragments, shaped out to a (illegible text) and attractive clouds, bound woolpack (illegible text) for the temperate zones.
Let me ask you, my wild flier, a few plain questions. You know the good-for-nothing capacity of Australian soil and atmosphere, to hold the vapours that envelope your slumbers, as well as the capability of an Australian Sun to draw away and dissipate, if it like, all fertilizing humidity, and to restore it again out of the store-houses of space. You have measured in your (illegible text) flights the best shores of the immense island—continent, whither our good ship is bound; and in one glance you have seen how it is belted round by an ocean of foam, whence by evaporation, ascends numerically more tons of water than we have traveled inches in this voyage.
Tell me, you who hear the whispers of the mighty deep, have you not heard of water famine when man and beast is distant parts are exposed to perish of drought?
Tell me, "Wild Goose," why is Australia so dry, and our own native island so humid?
Tell me, "Wild Goose," whereas abandoned to sun, and wind, and weather, evaporation from the smooth and mirrored surface,—wherein you admire your own beautiful proportions,—is so great—to what extent would it be increased if the operation of water were assisted by the ruffling and agitating, and why flapping off now—white wings to the breeze?
Tell me, Wild Goose, what you think of brown canvas, spread, having one (illegible text) (illegible text) dipping in the briny element, the other flaunting to the breeze,—but receiving every moment by capillary attraction, as much moistens it gives off—placed points to the wind, perpendicular, parallel, or oblique to the rays of the scorching sun?
Tell me, "Wild Goose," are you not able to drain marshes, and remove noxious lakes by a system of accelerated evaporation?
Tell me, Wild Goose, with outstretched wings, together would you guide, and where collect the golden-edged illumined clouds? Would you assemble them to do homage to the setting sun; and to what favored region would you conduct them to discharge their refreshing showers? Auser ichos(illegible text) "Garden towers.—The fruit onions."
Mr. "Wild Goose", I am much obliged for your aerial excursions. I am well steeped in vapour—drenched with brine and rain; when next I have the honor of accompanying you in a fly, I shall come provided with an oil cloth.
"The man behind the mast" once reared a pet shark but had to part with it, its love of its natural prey—fish—having once induced it to eat the flukes off all the anchors.
"Sweet are the uses of Adversity", but is that any reason why we should have to take our gruel and tea without sugar?
Mat a love sick swan some time since taking a walk with his fiancee, being greatly concerned at the loss of billets-doux, asked his sweet-heart’s opinion as to the best means of recovering his lost treasure. When she replied, with great naivete, Mat-try-money. (Matrimony). He took the hint.
Wanted.
A few blacklead pencils that were originally made to write—not to sell.
Printed and published at the office, No 6. Mess, "Intermediate Cabin," for the Editors, Messrs. John Flood and J.B. O’Reilly.
