e to the conclusion
that it would be useless to oppose the decrees of Society. The idea that
the Count, that worthy leader of the metropolitan _ton_, had put into
his head, was not to be treated contemptuously. He must give up all the
fruity richness of September, the royal glories of October, and the
delicious hazes of the Indian Summer, pack away his fish-hooks and his
pocket-flask, and stay in the city like the rest of the fools.

This conclusion, however, did not prevent Mr. P. from dreaming. He had a
delightful dream that night, in which he found himself sailing on Lake
George; ascending Mount Washington; and participating in the revelry of
a clam-bake on the seagirt shore of Kings and Queens and Suffolk
Counties. As nearly as circumstances will permit, he has endeavored to
give an idea of his dream by means of the following sketch.

Taken as a whole, Mr. P. is not desirous that this dream should come
true, but taken in parts he would have no objections to see it fulfilled
as soon as Society will permit.

Which will be, he supposes, about next July.

In the meantime, he advises such of his patrons as have depended
entirely upon his letters for their summer recreation, and who will now
be deprived of this delightful enjoyment, to make every effort to go to
some of our summer resorts and spend a few weeks after the fashionable
season is over,--that is, if they think they can brave the opinion of
society. It may not be so pleasant to go to these places as to read Mr.
P.'s accounts of them, but it is the best that can be done.

The following little tail-piece will give a forcible idea of how
completely Mr. P. has given up, for the season, his field sports and
country pleasures. Copies may be obtained by placing a piece of
tracing-paper over the picture and following the lines with a
lead-pencil.

* * * * *

THE POEMS OF THE CRADLE.

CANTO VI.

TAFFY was a Welshman,
TAFFY was a thief,
TAFFY came to my house and stole a piece of beef.
I went to TAFFY'S house,
TAFFY wasn't at home,
TAFFY came to my house and stole a mutton bone.

It is not often that a poet descends to the discussion of mundane
affairs. His sphere of usefulness, oftentimes usefulness to himself,
only, lies among the roseate clouds of the morn, or the spiritual
essences of the cerulean regions, but, like other human beings, he
cannot live on the zephyr breeze, or on the moonbeams flitting o'