I wish the Editor would put a little note in large letters right here, requesting readers not to run off and read Mr. MORRIS'S poem, after gazing on the above title. My very respectable reader, you're smart, very smart indeed, but let me assure you that you haven't discovered from the float which I have placed on the surface, which way my string is drifting, so, if you get on a string don't complain.

As, at this season of the year, everybody who is anybody either goes into the country or else shuts up his front windows and lives in the back area, in order to create the impression that he is to be found in the rural districts, PUNCHINELLO must of course follow the universal example. His front windows, however, must never be shut, so he must fall to packing his trunks at once. But where shall he go? List! oh, list! I will give a list of spots present.

They say the seas-on has commenced at Long Branch. This place is peopled by the foolish men of whom we have heard, who built their houses on the sand. The chief amusement of visitors is thus: you put on some old clothes, which have evidently just retired from the coal-heaving business, stand in the water up to your ankles, and grasp manfully, with both hands, a rope; then a watery creature, named Surf, climbs upon you and gets down on the other side; you rush to a neighboring shanty, put on your store clothes, and feel twice as warm as you would have felt if you hadn't wrestled with Surf. The reports from Boston are that the Pilgrim Fathers have ceased to enjoy their coffins and shrouds, since Jubilee JIM has commenced to carry pleasure-seekers to the seaside on Plymouth Rock.

Saratoga is still the place for SARA to patronize. The chief objection to that place is that the water is so muddy that they call it Congress Water. However, you soon become infatuated with it. I once saw a very stout lady imbibe sixteen glasses of the water, and as I left the scene of dissipation she was screaming for more. I concluded that she was a sister-in-law to BOREAS. A young and tender Sixteenth Amendment, who was a three-quarter orphan, (she had only a step-father,) has been known to drink, unaided, thirty glasses of Saratoga water in twenty-four hours. Can Mr. WESTON beat that? I forgot to say that she survived. The difference between Long Branch and Saratoga is, that at the former you take salt water externally, while at the latter you take salt and water internally.

Newport is still appropriately situated on Rowed Island. None but the select deserve Newport. However, they say Old Gin is the next best thing. You can rent a cottage by the sea and see what you can. (I may add that you can also rent a cottage by the year, though I believe the view is not any finer on that account.) Beware of the tow! This is not a warning against blondes, but against rolls.

The proper thing to do at Newport is thus: A scented youth, with a perfumed damsel resting on his arm, wanders at eventide down to the sea to hear the majestic waves roll upon the beach. Having selected a suitable spot, the pair sit down and then make night hideous with "What are the wild waves saying?"

Niagara is perched upon its Erie. To a man of a reflective mind this is an unpleasant place. As he gazes on the rushing flood he thinks of the waste of raw material. Water being thrown away and no tax being collected. As a rule in this place cheat your carriage-driver, for if you don't, he'll cheat you for your negligence.

Of course, as it is now June, no one will visit Cape May. The White Mountains, having received a new coat of paint, are ready for summer visitors. A few stock quotations, such as, "cloud-capped towers," "peak of Teneriffe," &c., are very useful here. Also a large supply of breath. Lake Mahopac may be packed, of course, but any one of a romantic turn of mind, who loves to float with fair women idly upon a summer sea, (in a boat, of course,) 'mid crocuses and lilies, while the air is filled with the melodious sounds from a bass-drum and that sort of thing, and is redolent with the perfume of a thousand flowers, will find solace here. (I flatter myself that period is well turned.)

All over the land you may find choice little spots, farm-houses, over which the woodbine and the honeysuckle clamber, while the surrounding wheat fields—(I have lost my volume of WHITMAN, and forget what the wheat fields do, poetically.) Perhaps it is my duty to here introduce some remarks about farming, but, as the Self-made Man is struggling with that subject, and as a certain innocent, who has been abroad, proposes to handle it, I refrain.

I very nearly forgot Coney Island. This is the favorite resort of clams and little jokers. Here you may daily fill your bread-basket with bivalves, and then observe the mysteries of that mystic game, now you see it, now you don't.

Of course I don't propose to state which of these places is the Earthly Paradise. You pays your money and you takes your choice. What hurts my feelings is, that any one should have supposed that I intended to write a criticism of Mr. MORRIS'S poem. Do people imagine that my time is entirely valueless, and that I can afford to waste it in criticising poetry?

LOT.