Some folks don't seem to care what they spend when they come here, and no sooner arrive at the Branch than they Branch out into all sorts of extravagance. There is some superb horseflesh here just now, and the fastest nags may be seen doing their Level best on the Smooth Beach. The Race Track, Grand Stand, &c., are all that the vivid fancy of a PUNCHINELLO can paint them. The bathing costumes! who can do justice to them and their lovely wearers? Some time ago, (as I am informed,) a lady made her appearance on the beach as a Nereid. Did you Ne'er read of the Nereids, Mr. PUNCHINELLO? If you have, you are aware that they were the Sea Nymphs of the Ancients, in other words the Old Maids of the Sea, who never got married, and frequently played Scaly tricks on Mariners. The Nereid referred to was arrayed in pea green and spangles, with green tresses, which is very well known to be the correct costume of a mermaid of antiquity, copied from the latest Paris fashions. This Spritely lady was, however, unprovided with a tail, which was Unmermaidenlike in the Extreme. You know how brilliant the Hops are, so I will Skip them. One thing, however, is worth noting. At some of the Hotels they have a Spread on the carpet before the dancing begins, as well as a supper afterwards. The excellent music of the Hotel bands is Instrumental in drawing crowds of listeners to the Ball rooms. Some Chinese Jugglers gave an entertainment here the other evening, but I didn't go, not being in the Juggler Vein. Yours Reverentially, CHINCAPIN. * * * * * [Illustration: PRUSSIC ACID. "FIFTY DOUSAND FENIANS ARMED MID REPEATERS FOR FRANCE! LET 'EM GO! BEESMARK WILL MAKE DEM NOT COOM PACK TO REPEAT IN DIS GOONDERY NO MORE!"] * * * * * THE POEMS OF THE CRADLE. CANTO IV. Little JACK HORNER Sat in a corner. Eating a Christmas Pie: He put in his thumb And pulled out a plum, And said, "What a brave boy am I." In Canto I, I have shown the varied emotions which seized the tender soul of Old Mother HUBBARD'S Dog. Emotions so fierce in their sorrow, that they left not a single wiggle in his tail: his hopes were crushed, his expectations ruined. In Canto II I have pictured the musical propensities of the genus _Cat_, the wandering vagaries of the moon-dane cow, the purp's withering contempt thereat, and the frisky evolutions of the dish which rolled off on its ear. In Canto III I have portrayed the "tender passion" and its melancholy result on the hill-side--a fitting illustration of the fact that the course of true love never did run smooth, especially if there were big rocks to knock one's toes against. And now, in Canto IV, I am about to portray childish innocence in the pursuit of bliss.