Review And Telegraph

WHY SHOULD WE DIE.

There are some few persons in the community
who think that the press can be made the vehicle
of every communication to the public, whatever,
free of expense, so that it be written in the form of
a letter, or cut up into poetic measure. Now we
belong to that class of bipeds who are always will-
ing and ready to receive a fair remuneration for
their services. And in stepping aside from the
general rules of this class, we might be catalogued
in some other or which we have no friendship,
THEREFORE, WE ARE DETERMINED NOT TO DO IT. We
have a poetic (?) communication, with the above
quoted title, before us, which we should be very
happy to give a place in our columns as a regular
advertisement, but it contains too much personal
puff to come under the head of literature. We
will give one verse of it, to let our readers know
what we are talking about, and at the same time
we would recommend the author to have it set to
music, or instance, by adopting the air of that
delightful melody, "Zip Coon;" it would then run
thus:

Yet not the last nor least are known,
To ease life's painful woes,
And cure disease in every shape,
Phelp's Compound Tomatoes.

CHORUS.

Oh! my toes, my toes!
Oh! my tommy toes!
To cure disease in every shape,
Phelp's Compound Tomatoes.