MY DEAR B.,--We was all at the wet feet at Chissick on Saturday; Lavy and Fulmer, and Mounsheer, my second, and the two "june dimiselles," as Mounsheer calls them; and sich a site as that for a breakfast, never did I clap my too eyes on--furst of all, we went off in Fulmer's broach and Mounsheer's brisket--all in the poring rein--two cargoes of us, and we was literally socked through and through afore we got there, and there was a great poodle under the place where I sot; however, we had paid our jennies, and we was determined to have a reseat in fool. But now I must tell you before I begin, that when we got home, Fulmer sot down just like Swalter Scott, or Milton, or Pop, or any one of the potes, and rot a whole account of it in verse, every bit of it as true as if it warn't pottery at all, and then he sung it to us, Lavy playing the Pein forte accompaniment; and when I asked him to give it me for you, he tore it all to hattams. But I matched him there, as I had done afore. As soon as he was gone out of the room I picked up the pieces (which, if I had not a watched him, I think he would have gone and done himself); and so I stuck the paper together as well as I cood, but some of the virses is still missing: however, wherever there is a ole in the ballad I will supply the place with my pros, so as to make it a jint produxion just like Bowman and Flesher, or Merton and Reinholds, or Mathews and Yates. Fulmer begins thus, to your favourite toon of "Hunting the Hair:"-- "Go tell Jenkins to order the horses, The clouds are all breaking, the sky's looking blue; At half after one let us muster our forces, And order the carriage at half after two. Tell Emma and Susan To put their thick shoes on, And get Parabous on, And send up for Kate; Put the Halls in the rumble, (I'm sure they can't grumble,) With Bob and your humble, They'll just make us eight. "'Where are ye going to?' cries Mrs. Dickenson, 'What can you do such a very damp day?' 'Comfort ourselves with champagne and cold chickens soon, See the big cherries, and hear Littolf play, Iceing or prawning, (It's all under awning) Or lounging the lawn in, The crowd will be great; So come, Mrs. Dickenson, Folks will drop thick in soon, Mud you shan't stick in soon, Come to the _Fete_.