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In nearly all yarns or plays in which Yankees figure, they are supposed to be “a leetle teu darn’d ceute” for almost any body else, creating a heap of fun, and coming out clean ahead; but that even Connecticut Yankees–the cutest and all firedest tight critters on the face of the yearth, when money or trade’s in the question–are ” done ” now and then, upon the most scientific principles, we are going to prove.

It is generally known, in the newspaper world, that two or three Eastern men, a few years ago, started a paper in Philadelphia, upon the penny principle, and have since been rewarded as they deserved. They were, and are, men of great enterprise and liberality, as far as their business is concerned, and thereby they got ahead of all competition, and made their pile. The proprietors were always “fly” for any new dodge, by which they could keep the lead of things, and monopolize the news market. The Telegraph had not “turned up” in the day of which we write–the mails, and, now and then, express horse lines, were the media through which Great Excitements! Alarming Events!! Great Fires and Awful Calamities!! were come at. One morning, as one of these gentlemen was sitting in his office, a long, lank genius, with a visage as hatchet-faced and keen as any Connecticut Yankee’s on record, came in, and inquired of one of the clerks for the proprietors of that institution. Being pointed out, the thin man made a lean towards him. After getting close up, and twisting and screwing around his head to see that nobody was listening or looking, the lean man sat down very gingerly upon the extreme verge of a chair, and leaning forward until his razor-made nose almost touched that of the publisher, in a low, nasal, anxious tone, says he,

“Air yeou one of the publishers of this paper?”

“I am, sir.”

“Oh, yeou, sir!” said the visitor, again looking suspiciously around and about him.

“Did you ever hear tell of the Pigeon Express ?” he continued.

“The Pigeon Express?” echoed the publisher.

“Ya-a-s. Carrier pigeons–letters to their l-e-g-s and newspapers under their wings–trained to fly any where you warnt ’em.”

“Carrier Pigeons,” mused the publisher–“Carrier–pigeons trained to carry billets–bulletins and–“

“Go frum fifty to a hundred miles an hour!” chimed in the stranger.

“True, so they say, very true,” continued the publisher, musingly.

“Elegant things for gettin’ or sendin’ noos head of every body else.”

“Precisely: that’s a fact, that’s a fact,” the other responded, rising from his chair and pacing the floor, as though rather and decidedly taken by the novelty and feasibility of the operation.

“You’d have ’em all, Mister, dead as mutton, by a Pigeon Express.”

“I like the idea; good, first rate!”

“Can’t be beat, noheow!” said the stranger.

“But what would it cost?”

“Two hundred dollars, and a small wagon, to begin on.”

“A small wagon?”

“Ya-a-s. Yeou see, Mister, the birds haff to be trained to fly from one pint to another!”

“Yes; well?”

“Wa-a-ll, yeou see the birds are put in a box, on the top of the bildin’, for a spell, teu git the hang of things, and so on!”

“Yes, very well; go on.”

“Then the birds are put in a cage, the trainer takes ’em into his wagon–ten miles at first–throws ’em up, and the birds go to the bildin’. Next day fifteen miles, and so forth; yeou see?”

“Perfectly; I understand; now, where can these birds be had?”

Putting his thin lips close to the publisher’s opening ears, in a low, long way, says the stranger–

” I’ve got ’em! R-a-l-e Persian birds–be-e-utis!”

“You understand training them?” says the anxious publisher.

” Like a book,” the stranger responded.