Notes From Riverstone.
Mr. George Ireland once had a cook who could knock spots off any cook in the district, be he French, Chinese, Russian, Aboriginal, or Turk. This individual could make brownie, spotted-dog, doughboys, beggar-on-the-coals, or pumpkin-frit- ters with any man on earth. When cooking the latter, he would (whilst whistling a bar or two of the "Wild Colonial Boy," or " The Old Bullock dray"), toss them up the chimney and run round the house outside and catch them in a frying pan, instead of turning them over in the usual common place manner. His lobscouse, kangaroo-tail soup, and wallaby-stews were fit to grace the table of a Duke. But, alas, to the unspeakable woe of all the
boarders, one morning he put a coil on his swag, and, letting his dog off the chain, took his depar- ture at daylight, and left them for ever. Much surprise was felt at the time, but it has since trans pired that the cook was daily in the habit of striding up and down the kitchen, and roaring out "Bold Jack Donohoo," as he ground out his own accompaniment on the concertina. This consider- ably annoyed Mr. Ireland, and he frequently cau- tioned his cook-ship to moderate the transports, as he dossed in the adjoining chamber, and could not bear the dulcet strains of the gentle instrument. No notice being taken, one morning, in a moment of sudden and ungovernable fury, the only, only "George" leaped from his bunk, and dashing through the doorway, hurled himself upon the cook like a catapult. Bearing the astonished songster to the ground, he wrenched the concertina from his grasp and tore the bellows asunder. "You scound- rel," roared the now thoroughly-enraged Mr. Ire land, " if I were only a J.P. I'd sentence you to 3 months in a cook's shop with your mouth sewn up." That's why cookie left.
Mr. Schofield is the owner of one of the most intelligent horseB in the town. The animal in question is piebald in color, and is se trained that he can tell, from the sound in Donohue's bil liard room, when a player gets a cannon.
Mr. George 'Terry has suffered a severe loss by the death of his valuable race-horse " Links." It is said that only one man within a hundred miles could manage him on a race-course. People say that he adopted the French method of seizing him by the hind leg whilst he kicked him underneath the girth and swore in Volapuk.
It's an ill-wind that blows nobody any good. Mr. John Doyle, the other day, was sitting on a log in Hamilton-street. As he scratched his head, whilst turning over the pages of his order-book, a wasp came lorth and plunged his business end into him. Mr. Doyle made the welkin ring with his wild yells, and fled towards a large box-tree for shelter. Chancing to look upwards he dis covered one of the finest bees-nests that has ever been found in Riverstone. The honey has since had such a beneficial eftect upotji his voice, that he contemplates reviving the local Minstrels
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