SEPTEMBER 15, 18 —.

Vice, vice, vice, vice!— and‘ tis n't all clear and free, Where any one can take a look and see, And then decide, immediate, on the spot, Whether he'll buy his soul-farm there or not; It's scattered round about so‘ mongst the good, Folks can n't entirely shun it when they would. Much better to escape it we'd be able, If‘ twas obliged to carry‘ round a label ( It always does, some time before it ages, But not enough so in its early stages ).

My mind was led around about this way, By a well-dressed young man I met to-day, Who strove to twist some money out of me, But had, instead, a first-class lecture free.

My cousin, Abdiel Stebbins, large and good, Inclined to do even better than he should, And with a heart that gets him into scrapes Of a most strange variety of shapes, But who, before they've run a fatal course, Always gets out of them by sheer main force, Wrote me two letters, several years ago, Which I have kept, with no intent to show, But simply to read over now and then As part of my text-book entitled “Men.”

I think I'll get my cousin's wail by letter, And paste it here where I can find it better.