Last night was unusually dismal at the sanctum. The wind scurried about, shaking the doors, rattling the windows, and fluttering the files of exchanges. The Board had the blues. Once the Poet (Fact and Rumor Man) as he glanced up at the two-forked flame which sputtered despairingly from the single gas burner, allowed his melancholy spirit to express itself. "Our only light comes from a cloven hoof," he said, grimly.

The funny editor roused himself and feebly ejaculated: "Perhaps it would be clover if the burner was worse - three leaf - see?"

But suddenly, in the midst of the gloom, there came a sound that startled the weary scribes, and they saw among them a familiar figure.

"How did you get in?" shouted the Board in a chorus.

"Came in on a strain of music from Lyceum Hall," said the Ibis, for it was he. "Rather a strain-ge way to drop in," he continued, "but then, it isn't as though I was a stranger."

While the entire Editorial Board fainted, the Ibis took occasion to light a cigarette with an important notice for the next morning's paper. The Advertising Editor was the first to recover.

"Say, Ibis," he moaned, "give me something to put me to sleep before the next one; Mrs. Winslow's Soothing Syrup - or something - Will you?"

"Nein," said the bird.

"What about the nine?" asked the sporting editor, who was just coming to his senses.

"It will need it next year," sighed the Ibis.

"Need what? Ibis, are you crazy?"

"Need Sam Winslow's Soothing Chirrup, of course," cackled the fowl.

Several members of the Board started for the door, but through weakness none reached it. A Goat hired of Puck, in anticipation of 'Beautiful Snow' literature, expired in his box of straw. As the Ibis leaned over this box, and arranged the straw so as to cover the lifeless body, he murmured, with an air that reminded one of bygone summers, of fruit and of flowers: - "Ah, well! The Board of Straw-berries him completely."

Then glancing at the prostrate wielders of the mighty pen, he wiped a tear from his eye, and with drooping wings went out into the night. He left his card in the punch bowl, and beneath his name was scribbled: "Will call again, when you feel better, to see why you don't puff our last number."

[The last Lampoon was unusually good. - Editors CRIMSON.