Book 3 — GRAHAM’S SMALL-TALK.

Held in his idle moments, with his Readers, Correspondents and Exchanges.

The present number we are proud of—and not caring who knows it—we tell you, reader, that in our opinion Graham for May, is THE GEM OF THE MONTH. The illustrations are excellent and appropriate; and as we are not the engraver, we feel that there can be no impropriety in saying this. The leading plate, “The Bavarian May Queen,” in artistic excellence, we know, will not be equaled this month by any plate in any other Magazine—and Devereux’s exquisitely finished engravings in the body of the book, may be compared with any that appear elsewhere without much fear upon his part.

The printing of these wood-cuts, by Mr. Jacob Young, our pressman, entitles him to the designation of the best pressman in Philadelphia, and those who deny or doubt his right to this appellation, may try to beat the work, before they question the ability of the man. But there is “no use of talking,” reader—the book is before you, and it is for you to say how you like it—and if in debt—to pay for it. That you may do so, we send a bill this month, for which please remit by mail. Now do not lay aside the book without first booking up.

Snooks “wants to know” why, there is always so much gold “in the hands of passengers” whenever a California steamer arrives? “Why they don’t put it in their pockets or their trunks, or have it in patent safety-belts?”

We suppose it is, to have it ready to subscribe for Graham as soon as they step on shore! That is our solution. But there are other theories.

Enterprising Editor. Mr. Grab, can you do a small note to-day?

Grab. No!—the gold is all going to England, and the California steamer brings very little.

Editor. Oh!—but there’s “4,000,000 in the hands of passengers!”

Grab. Ah!—that makes a difference—2 per cent. a month is the rate on this!

“Can such things be—and overcome us?” asks an astounded country editor. Yes, brother—but such things don’t come over Graham.

Love Letters.—A perfect shower of perfumed billets, with the odor of violets and roses fresh upon them, has fallen upon us since our last; and we can almost fancy the sunny faces of the fair writers in all their witchery before us. Well, Graham is a happy rascal: he labors from early morn to dewy Eve—ah, now the charm’s dispelled—if she had never tasted the forbidden fruit we should have been in Paradise with all these beautiful girls, and instead of reading their delicious love-letters on this spring morning, we should have been crowning their fair brows with flowers, and talking—talking!—singing Love’s own music to them, under “the greenwood tree.” We are mad about it.

The editor of the Evening Bulletin, who confesses to the writing of his editorials up in the fourth story—in a dingy apartment, insufferably close, recently closed a long editorial upon summer-houses, walks in shady lanes, and roses, with the cry “a-lass—a-lass!” Considering that the man is married, he ought to be ashamed of himself.

Did anybody ever write a piece of bad poetry, without sending it to some unfortunate editor, with the story, that “numerous friends urged the publication—some of them critics, too—or the writer would never have thought of it?” An answer is requested.

A Certain Rule.—The man who pays for his paper, never grumbles about it. It is your fellow who never pays, and who is afraid the editor will stop it, who is your loud critic. Borrowers, though—they are the boys. “Neighbor Jenkins, why don’t you make the editor say something about the next President? If I took his paper—I’d stop it.”