MARCH 20, 18 —.

Speaking of fires, my powers of language fail; They run them here upon so large a scale. My son, Charles Sumner (who is, by-the-way, In Europe—terms ten dollars by the day, Paid strictly in advance), can rhyme somewhat, And often seems to me to touch the spot, And light the truth up with a healthier glare, And make it truthfuller for his being there. (But in such furrows human nature runs, That old men aren't good critics for their sons.) He used to rush (as youngsters often will) To every fire we had at Tompkins Hill, And seemed to plan less how to put them out Than to get something new to write about. He struck a rhyme I think isn't over bad, About a "fire" our little village had (Or city; for that town took city airs Before its village short-clothes reached repairs). I found a copy of it t'other day Where he had laid it carefully away, To keep me from not finding it (he meant To get it back in the next check I sent). 'Twill cost me several dollars yet, I fear;— I'll paste the fellow's nonsense right in here: