All flesh is grass: all paper's rags, (So it is said by wicked wags.) But I would like to pass along Among th' epistolary throng, Till I reach the town of Kent Nor to a paper mill be sent, And come to an untimely end, Before I find my writer's friend; Whose name is Putnam, or Sam Put, In the old State Connecticut. * * * * * This is going to my tailor, A _trust_-worthy man is he; Like a clock, for ever _ticking_, He keeps his account with me. To send my bill I here request him For the br--ches he has made: Thanks to good old uncle Samuel, He must send it on _pre-paid_. (The address was in prose.) * * * * * When you C this letter, You'd better letter B. For it is going over Unto Tom McG. In the town of Dover, State of Tennessee. * * * * * Address on a Valentine: Mr. Post Master, keep this well, for every line is going to tell how much I love my Bill Martell, Syracuse, N. Y. * * * * * I want this letter to go right straight To Wilmington city in Delaware State, To Daniel B. Woodard, a cooper by trade; He can make as good barrels as ever were made. * * * * * Swiftly hasten, Postman's organ, Bear this onward to its fate, In New York to George C. Morgan; John Street, No. 78. * * * * * East 10th Street, City of New York, Two hundred fifty-three-- Is where of all this little work, This moment ought to be. And could I to the lightning's wing Or telegraphic wire, Attach it by a silken string, 'Twould be my fond desire. But since to do the swift exploit Each other power must fail, I send to Emily Bailey Hoyt, With pleasure--in the mail. * * * * * I know a man, his name is Dunn! He lives in splendid style: But if he'd pay--say half his debts, He'd lose 'bout all his "_pile_." He stops in Charlestown, old Bay State, Quite near to Bunker Hill, Where many a brave man met his fate, Dispensing Putnam Pill. * * * * * A VALENTINE ADDRESS. Lizzie, they say the little birds Are making matches now; (Warranted to keep in any climate.) A good example they have set Which I would like to follow; So if you have a heart to let, I hope to know to-morrow. * * * * * On the river Hudson, In the town of Troy, Lives Miss Sarah Judson Full of life and joy. 'Tis for that sweet creature This epistle's meant; If it does but reach her, I shall be content. * * * * *