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CHAPTER XI.

Our new Horse improves-He is loaned to to a Neighbor, and disgraces himself -Autumnal Vegetation-The Palisades and Rock Cataract-An agreeable Surprise-Mr. Sparrowgrass takes a short trip to the County of Broome-Meets with a Disappointment on his Return, but indulges in a flowing vein of "Adversity's sweet milk."

OUR new horse waxes fat. He takes kindly to his feed, and has already eaten himself into the shape of a bell-pear. As he was suffering from want of exercise, I loaned him, for a few days, to a neighbor, who was moving his chattels into a new house. He was quite serviceable for a time, and really would have done very well, but for a sudden return of his epilepsy as he was carrying a load of crockery. I think our neighbor has acquitted me of any malicious intention in letting him have the animal, but his wife always meets me with a smile as fine as a wire. In fact, she told Mrs. Sparrowgrass it was of no consequence, that it was all right, and she never would have thought of it at all,

if it had not been for an old family teapot that had belonged to her grandmother, that could not be replaced "a thing, my dear, the family has always set a great deal of store by." Confound the family teapot! If it were really so choice a piece of porcelain, what did they put it in the wagon for? Why didn't they carry it by hand? I suppose we will have that broken teapot alluded to, every now and then, at village tea-parties, for years

to come.

Our horse waxes fat. I had serious thoughts of parting with him once, but the person who was negotiating for him wanted me to take another horse in exchange, and pay him a sum of money to boot, which seemed to be, at least, as much as, if not more than, both horses were worth. Upon consultation with Mrs. S., I declined the trade.

Notwithstanding the continued warm weather, the leaves already manifest the visible approaches of autumn. Earliest of all, the velvet-podded sumach hangs its fringe of fire, here and there, in the heart of the deep old wood. Then the sugarmaples, golden at the top, and the deeper green leaves of the swamp-maple, are bound with a florid border. The pointed foliage of the gum-tree comes

out with a chromatic spread of tints, and, around the trunks, and up in the heavy verdure of cedar and oak, the five-fingered creeper winds its threads of gleaming crimson. Countless little purple flowers scatter between the trees, and margin the roads; white asters, large and small, put forth their tufts of stars; and above them the golden rod waves in the wind its brilliant sceptre. Down by the plashy spring, the wild-rose thickets are densely spotted with round, red berries, beautiful to behold, and, if you look in the grass, you will often find a yellow jewel, a sort of wild lady's-slipper.

But, oh, the glory of those grand old Palisades! Those bald, storm-splintered crags, that overlook the river! Far as the vision stretches, reach their grim, grey precipices, gorgeous, in autumnal tartan, to the waist, but bare, disrobed, and regal to the summit. Brave old thunder-mockers, they. I once suggested, to some of my neighbors, the propriety of having them white-washed, for appearance sake, but I do most heartily repent me of the irreverent jest. Truth to say, I had no intention in it, although the project was taken seriously, and as seriously objected to, partly on the ground that there were other things about the village, to be done, of more

pressing importance, and partly on account of the

expense.

There is another hint of the coming of autumn; the evening music of the insect world hath ceased; the iterated chirp of the cricket, the love-lorn cry of Katy-did, and the long, swelling monotone of the locust, have departed. But we have brought forth the antique andirons, and the winter-wood lies piled up in the shed, and, with the first crackle of the hickory, we shall hear, at least, one summervoice, on the earth. We shall miss our beetles, though; we shall see no more of those window-visitors who used to bump against the centre-lamp and then go crawling, in a very improper way, over the table, with a segment of white shirt sticking forth from their nether garments behind. We shall miss our beetles. The swamps and ponds, too, are silent. The frogs no longer serenade us with their one-pronged jews-harps, and, oh, saddest of all, the birds! the summer birds! now pipe in other lands, and under alien skies.

"The melancholy days are come,

The saddest of the year."

Take it all in all, our garden, this season, has

redeemed itself. To be sure, our fruit-trees blossomed away their energies, attempting to make too much of a show in the spring. But we do not care. a great deal for pears, and as one cherry-tree put out quite a respectable show of ox-hearts, we were content. As for musk and water-melons, we had much to brag of; and our potatoes have yielded an abundant crop of all sizes. When we get in our tomatoes, we shall feel pretty comfortable for the winter; at present, they are green, but thrifty.

It is a good thing to have an agreeable surprise, now and then, in the country. I have been tempted lately, by the fine moonlight evenings, to take short rides in the saddle by the haunted shores of the Nepperhan. I love to note the striking contrasts of massive foliage in deep shadow, silvery water in breaks and bends, a pond here, a mill-dam there, with its mimic cascade, and at times the red glare of a belated cottage window. I enjoy these rides, even at the risk of a tumble. And this custom was the cause of a pleasant surprise. One evening, I returned rather early from the river, on account of the fog, and tied our new horse under the shed, intending to ride him over to the stable at the usual hour. But finding some visitors at

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