Well, I made myself dry, and I sat down to tea:

Of the good that it did me you'd form no idea.

But I quite hate the country, the weather's so rough,

So you'll see me, dear, soon in your little borough.

I hope, after all, that my cold will be trivial—

But still you may send me that stuff in the vial—

In the kitchen you'll find it, just over the trough.

Oh, my cough! oh, my cough! it all comes of the plough.

A SETTLER'S LETTER.

The Emigration Committee have thought it right to give publicity to the following very intelligent letter, lately written by a settler to his mother, on account of the valuable statistical information it contains.