spoon and a dead rat. On being removed from this locality he howled
dismally and refused to be comforted.

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