Every week during the season he expects to slip off somewhere, for a day or two, and hopes to have something worth telling when he comes back. Last week he ran down to Long Branch. It's early yet, but folks like Mr. P.; CHILDS, of the Philadelphia _Ledger;_ THOMPSON, of the Pennsylvania Central; and other rich fellows always do go early. The big bugs always fly the soonest. Mr. P. went directly to the West End Hotel--the old Stetson House, you know. He went there because he always did like a hotel that had three men to keep it. What you can't get out of one of them is pretty certain to be screwed out of one of the others. "When Mr. P. drove up, Messrs. PRESBURY, SYKES, and GARDNER, were all sitting out on the front piazza, smoking seventy-five-cent cigars. They arose in chorus, and assured Mr. P. that the house was not yet quite ready for occupancy, "But, sir--" said Mr. PRESBURY, "the Girard House, my hotel in Philadelphia, is always open. If you would like to go there--" And here SYKES struck in. "But, sir," said he, "my hotel, WILLARD'S, in Washington, is always ready for guests, and if you could go there for a while--" But forward sprang GARDNER, and says he: "But, sir--if you would like to run down to Cape May, you will find my hotel--the Stockton House--" And here Mr. P. interrupted. "Gentlemen," said he, "I would not have you quarrel, and you shan't split on my rocks. Good evening to you all," and he drove directly to General GRANT'S thirty-two thousand dollar cottage in the Park. GRANT was not there yet, but Mr. P. did not expect that he was. There being a butler and some cooks on hand, Mr. P. considered them sufficient, and had his baggage taken right up to the second story back room. The butler looked a little astonished at first, but when Mr. P. explained about the hotel, and how he didn't want to go about any more--for from riding in the salt evening air he had already got a little hoarse--the man brightened up immediately. "Oh, a little horse!" said he. "If that's what you come about you'll be welcome here. The General isn't here yet, but till he comes the rooms is yours." And they were! If any one feels inclined to follow Mr. P.'s example, he begs to recommend the President's "Old Yarns,"--the hind box on the top shelf of the library closet. The next morning, Mr. P. wandered on the sands. Fond memories flocked around him, as he stood gazing on the corruscating waves. But they were mostly memories of sheepsheads and flanneled bathers and 'tis not for these that the poet gazes into the emerald depths whence the pearly scum, like tears of mermaids--Ah! Mermaids! Mr. P. had never seen a mermaid. These were not among his memories He deeply woulded that he could--and lo! he did! The creature came gliding to his very feet, and he had barely time to bound back before she reached the shore. Shaking the water from her spectacles, she came up, and stood before him. Twas SUSAN B. ANTHONY.