The view from my suburban residence is fine. Lone Mountain, with its white obelisks, is a suggestive if not cheering termination of the vista in one direction, while the old receiving vault of Yerba Buena Cemetery limits the view in another. Most of the funerals which take place pass my house. My children, with the charming imitativeness that belongs to youth, have caught the spirit of these passing corteges, and reproduce in the back yard, with creditable skill, the salient features of the lugubrious procession. A doll, from whose features all traces of vitality and expression have been removed, represents the deceased. Yet unfortunately I have been obliged to promise them more active participation in this ceremony at some future time, and I fear that they look anxiously forward with the glowing impatience of youth to the speedy removal of some one of my circle of friends. I am told that the eldest, with the unsophisticated frankness that belongs to his age, made a personal request to that effect to one of my acquaintances. One singular result of the frequency of these funerals is the development of a critical and fastidious taste in such matters on the part of myself and family. If I may so express myself, without irreverence, we seldom turn out for anything less than six carriages. Any number over this is usually breathlessly announced by Bridget as, “Here's another, mum,--and a good long one.” With these slight drawbacks my suburban residence is charming. To the serious poet, and writer of elegiac verses, the aspect of Nature, viewed from my veranda, is suggestive. I myself have experienced moments when the “sad mechanic exercise” of verse would have been of infinite relief. The following stanzas, by a young friend who has been stopping with me for the benefit of his health, addressed to a duck that frequented a small pond in the vicinity of my mansion, may be worthy of perusal. I think I have met the idea conveyed in the first verse in some of Hood's prose, but as my friend assures me that Hood was too conscientious to appropriate anything not his own, I conclude I am mistaken. LINES TO A WATER-FOWL. (Intra Muros.) I. Fowl, that sing'st in yonder pool, Where the summer winds blow cool, Are there hydropathic cures For the ills that man endures? Know'st thou Priessnitz? What? alack Hast no other word but “Quack?” II. Cleopatra's barge might pale To the splendors of thy tail, Or the stately caravel Of some “high-pooped admiral.” Never yet left such a wake E'en the navigator Drake! III. Dux thou art, and leader, too, Heeding not what's “falling due,” Knowing not of debt or dun,--Thou dost heed no bill but one; And, though scarce conceivable, That's a bill Receivable, Made--that thou thy stars mightst thank--Payable at the next bank. ON A VULGAR LITTLE BOY