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.