and its roaring convival songs; its carved furniture, splendid diamonds, rouge, and gilding; its hollow etiquette, and its sickly sentimentalities, what a poor, miserable show it makes beside little Posterity, with his toils and pleasures; his satchel, and scraps of song, sitting by his slender pathway, and watching with great eyes the dazzling pageant passing by. Little Posterity! Sitting in judgment by the wayside, and only waiting for a few years to close, before he brings in his solemn verdict.

What delicate perceptions children have, lively sympathies, quick-eyed penetration. How they shrink from hypocrisy, let it speak with never so soft a voice; and open their little chubby arms, when goodness steps into the room. What a sadfaced group it was that stood upon our bank, the day little Tommy was drowned.

There is a smooth sand beach in front of our house, a small dock, and a boat-house. The railroad track is laid between the bank and the beach, so that you can look out of the car-windows and see the river, and the Palisades, the sloops, the beach, and the boat-house. One summer afternoon, as the train flew by the cottage (for the

station is beyond it a short walk), I observed quite a concourse of people on one side of the track-on the dock-and sat down by the water's edge. So when the cars stopped, I hurried back over the iron track I had just passed, and on my way met a man, who told me a little boy was drowned in the water in front of my house. What a desperate race Sparrowgrass ran that day, with the image of each of his children successively drowned, passing through his mind with the rapidity of lightning flashes! When I got in the crowd of people, I saw a poor woman lying lifeless in the arms of two other women; some were bathing her forehead, some were chafing her hands, and just then I heard some one say, "It is his mother, poor thing." How cruel it was in me to whisper, "Thank God!" but could I help it? To rush up the bank, to get the boat-house key, to throw open the outside doors, and swing out the davits, was but an instant's work; and then down went the boat from the blocks, and a volunteer crew had pushed her off in a moment. Then they slowly rowed her down the river, close in shore; for the tide was falling, and every now and then the iron boat-hook sank under the water on its errand of mercy.

Meanwhile we lashed hooks to other poles; and along the beach, and on the dock, a number of men were busy with them searching for the body. At last there was a subdued shout--it came from the river, a little south of the boat-house--and the men dropped the poles on the dock, and on the beach, and ran down that way, and we saw a little white object glisten in the arms of the boatmen, and then it was laid tenderly, face downward, on the grass that grew on the parapet of the railway. Poor little fellow! He had been bathing on the beach, and had ventured out beyond his depth in the river. It was too late to recall that little spirit -the slender breath had bubbled up through the water half an hour before. The poor women wrapped up the tiny white death in a warm shawl; and one stout fellow took it in his arms, and carried it softly along the iron road, followed by the concourse of people.

When I came up on the bank again, I thanked God, for the group of small, sad faces I found there-partly for their safety-partly for their sympathy. And we observed that afternoon, how quiet and orderly the young ones were; although the sun went down in splendid clouds, and the

river was flushed with crimson, and the birds sang as they were wont to sing, and the dogs sported across the grass, and all nature seemed to be unconsciously gay over the melancholy casualty; yet our little ones were true to themselves, and to humanity. They had turned over an important page in life, and were profiting by the lesson.

CHAPTER XIV.

Winter once more-Mr. Sparrowgrass feels as if he would like to Chirp a littleThomas Fuller, D.D.-The Good Wife-Old Dockweed again-A Barrel of Cider-News of the Saddle and Bridle-Superior Tactics of the Village Teamster-Christmas-Great Preparations-Christmas Carols and Masques-A Suggestion of Mrs. Sparrowgrass.

"THE first flurry of snow," said I, making a show of shaking off a few starry flakes from my hat, "the first sky-signals of winter." It is a good thing to have winter in the country. There is something cheery in the prospect of roaring fires ; and Christmas trees, glittering with tapers-and golden eggs and sugar-hearts-and wheels-and harps of sparry sweets; and pipes and tabors; and mince pies; and ringing sleigh-bells; and robes of fur, and reeking horses; and ponds with glassy floors, alive with, and rattling under the mercurial heels of skaters. We love to watch the snow shaking down from the clouds; and to rise up some bright morning, when its fine woof is folded over the