"THE PORT FOULKE WEEKLY NEWS." in a sling. There is a fair sprinkling of "enigmas," "original jokes," "items of domestic and foreign intelligence," "personals," "advertisements," &c., &c., among a larger allowance of more pretentious effusions. Among these latter there is an illustrated prospectus by the senior editor, a poem by the steward, and a song which is addressed to the General. This last the men are now singing, and they seem to take special delight in the chorus, which runs thus:—
"Hang up the harness and the whip,
Put up the sledge on the ship;
There's no more work for poor Gen-e-ral,
For he's going for his wind for to slip."
I am sorry to say that the prophecy therein contained is likely to prove true, for the General is very sick. Poor fellow! he hears every word of this unpitying merriment over his misfortunes, and, could he speak, I have no doubt that he would sigh with Gray's cat,—
"Alas!—
A favorite has no friends!"
However, there is a verse coming, to which he is listening attentively, and the very tears mount to his eyes with this unexpected mark of sympathy. For his sake I give it a place here:—
"Sad times there will be when the General slips his wind,
And is gathered to his fathers down below;
And is gone far away with his broken leg and all,
And is buried underneath the cold snow."
November 12th.
The temperature has gone down within 4° of zero, but there is still much slush and dampness. The snow lying next the ice is filled with water, a circumstance which it is difficult to explain, since the temperature
