Reported for the Spirit of the Times.

CITY NEWS.

            City Police—Thursday, January 6—Green Enough!—Jabez Coyle, a gaunt country wight from the Eastern shore of Maryland, came into town with a drove of sheep, had them penned about sundown and got penned himself about ten o'clock; having been found seated on the earth at the corner of Washington Square; unable, at that time, to give any account of himself.  His examination this morning was conducted as follows:—

Mayor.—How came you in that condition, Mr. Coyle?

            Coyle.—Lord love you, sir, I don't know.  It's the strangest circumstance in my whole life.  I’d never been in the city before, so I thought I'd take a stroll around and try to make some acquaintance.  But some how or nother the people seemed rather shy; hardly any one I spoke to would give me a straight answer.  One fellow, allowed I was drunk, and gracious knows I hadn't touched a drop, another one seemed more clever like, and axed me if my mother knowed I was away from home; I told him she did, for she had sent me to town to sell the sheep; then he looked very serious and says he, "I guess you wouldn’t bring much; the market's stock'd with such cattle" says he, "but come in here and take something to drink and I'll show you how things are done hereabouts."  So in we went and sot down and he told me to call for whatever I wanted and they would fetch it.  "If I might advise," says he, "we'll have a couple of plates of oysters a piece, and something to wash it down with."  Sure enough I called for every thing he mentioned and we eat and drink as long as we could set to it.  At last he got up and he says, "Coyle, my dear fellow," says he, for he had axed my name before, "you stay here," says he, "while I step out to see a man that owes me seventy-five dollars—I'll be back in the shake of a junk bottle."  "Oh certainly," says I, "I'll wait for you.  You needn‘t to hurry yourself, for I've got nothing to do in particular," says I.  So he laughed and went out.  I sot more than two hours looking at the chaps playing fox and geese with them little black and white horn things with spots on 'em;—at last I begun to get tired of waiting, and thought I'd go out and take a turn or two and then come back again.  So I went and told the feller behind the counter, when my friend come in to tell him to wait for me.  "Jest please to square off before you go," says the feller with a kind o' half laugh, "the bill's one dollar and three fips."  "Why, my friend that went out told me there would be nothing to pay." Says I, "he axed me to walk in and allowed he'd show me how they did things in Philadelphia."  "Well, I 'spect he's kept his word," says the feller, "what more do you want?"  "No; he has'nt shown me yet," says I.  "Yes, but he has," says he:—"you are diddled; and that's a thing that's done here pretty extensively."  "Well, let's see what he says about it when he comes back," says I; "he can't stay much longer."  "I'm afraid he'll forget to come," says the chap behind the counter, "he's got the worst memory of any man that ever you see."  So I sot down again, and jest to pass away the time, kept drinking one stuff er another till my head got all in a buzz, like a hornet's next.  Then I paid the bill and put out, but how I got in the watchhouse, heaven only knows, for I'm sure I don't.  But I s'pose I shall be diddled again, before I get off.”  And so he was, to the tune of $1.50. 

Toney Blink.