We had our first fall of snow on Friday last.  Frosts have been unusually backward this fall.  A singular circumstance occurred in this town on the 20th October, in the family of Deacon Pelatiah Tinkham.  On the previous evening, a few moments before family-prayers,

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[The editors of the “Atlantic” find it necessary here to cut short the letter of their valued correspondent, which seemed calculated rather on the rates of longevity in Jaalam than for less favored localities.  They have every encouragement to hope that he will write again.]

With esteem and respect,

Your obedient servant,

HOMER WILBUR, A.M.

  It’s some consid’ble of a spell sence I hain’t writ no letters,
  An’ ther’ ’s gret changes hez took place in all polit’cle metters: 
  Some canderdates air dead an’ gone, an’ some hez ben defeated,
  Which ’mounts to pooty much the same; fer it’s ben proved repeated
  A betch o’ bread thet hain’t riz once ain’t goin’ to rise agin,
  An’ it’s jest money throwed away to put the emptins in: 
  But thet’s wut folks wun’t never larn; they dunno how to go,
  Arter you want their room, no more ’n a bullet-headed beau;
  Ther’ ‘s ollers chaps a-hangin’ roun’ thet can’t see pea-time’s past,
  Mis’ble as roosters in a rain, heads down an’ tails half-mast: 
  It ain’t disgraceful bein’ beat, when a holl nation doos it,
  But Chance is like an amberill,—­it don’t take twice to lose it.

  I spose you’re kin’ o’ cur’ous, now, to know why I hain’t writ. 
  Wal, I’ve ben where a litt’ry taste don’t somehow seem to git
  Th’ encouragement a feller’d think, thet’s used to public schools,
  An’ where sech things ez paper ‘n’ ink air clean agin the rules: 
  A kind o’ vicyvarsy house, built dreffle strong an’ stout,
  So ’s ‘t honest people can’t git in, ner t’ other sort git out,
  An’ with the winders so contrived, you’d prob’ly like the view
  Better a-lookin’ in than out, though it seems sing’lar, tu;
  But then the landlord sets by ye, can’t bear ye out o’ sight,
  And locks ye up ez reg’lar ez an outside door at night.

  This world is awfle contrary:  the rope may stretch your neck
  Thet mebby kep’ another chap frum washin’ off a wreck;
  An’ you will see the taters grow in one poor feller’s patch,
  So small no self-respectin’ hen thet vallied time ’ould scratch,
  So small the rot can’t find ’em out, an’ then agin, nex’ door,
  Ez big ez wut hogs dream on when they’re ’most too fat to snore. 
  But groutin’ ain’t no kin’ o’ use; an’ ef the fust throw fails,
  Why, up an’ try agin, thet’s all,—­the coppers ain’t all tails;
  Though I hev seen ’em when I thought they hed n’t no more head
  Than’d sarve a nussin’ Brigadier thet gits some ink to shed.