_You've_ got a good home, Mr. Sheriff, with everything cosy and nice, And 'tisn't for a wrist-shackled convict to offer _you_ words of advice; But this I _must_ say, of all places your children may visit or call, Make HOME the most pleasant and happy--the sweetest and best of them all; For the Devil won't offer a dollar to have his world-chances improved, When Home is turned into a side-show, with half the attractions removed! _Don't_ think I'm too bitter, good sheriff--I like you: you've been very good; I'm ever and ever so grateful--would pay it all back if I could. I didn't mean to slander my parents--I've nothing against their good name, And as for my unrighteous actions, it's mostly myself that's to blame; Still, _if I'd had a home_--But the prison is only one station ahead-- I'm done, Mr. Sheriff; forget me, but _don't_ forget what I have said! * * * * * SEPTEMBER 15, 18--. Vice, vice, vice, vice!--and 'tisn'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'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. [FARMER STEBBINS ON THE BOWERY.] DEAR COUSIN JOHN: We got here safe--my worthy wife an' me, An' then I looked the village through to see what I could see: I rode upon the cur'us track with stations all up-stairs; I walked through Wall Street all its length, an' saw no bulls or bears; I patronized a red-nosed chap with manners very queer, Who hadn't had a thing to eat for somethin' like a year; I saw the road commissioners to work upon a bridge A million times as large as that we built at Tompkins' Ridge-- (I'm told that they are makin' it, though maybe that's all fun, To use the coming century, an' hope to get it done)-- When who should up an' grasp my hand, with face of genuine joy, But Cousin Jeroboam Jones, my cousin's oldest boy!