him and his sled on an ice-island, in the midst of the basin of water. For a short time he kept his footing upon the island, but the end upon which he was standing gradually sank into the water, until he slid into the cool element, and then, instead of swimming towards the unbroken ice, where he would have found assistance, he turned down stream, and towing his sled behind him, reached at last the edge of the mill-dam. There, after some struggles, he managed to get one fore leg over the brink, and so hung, in spite of all persuasion, his nostrils throbbing with terror, his neck smoking with cold, and his one pitiful eye looking wistfully toward the crowd that had betrayed him. Had there been a boat he might have been saved, but there was none near, except a skiff, both filled with, and bedded in, a solid mass of ice, near the shore. The water was pouring over the dam, so that no one could approach him from below, nor could living man walk upon its slippery edge. They tried to throw a slip-noose over his neck, but without success; they held a sieve of oats in the most tempting way towards him, but he shook his head. At last, when all efforts to save him proved unavailing, an old sea-captain who had commanded

a Nepperhan sloop in the last war, and had seen service, was touched with pity; he sent for his gun. The old fellow's hand shook as he loaded it, but he loaded it deliberately, took excellent aim, fired, and, amid a thousand echoes, the head of our poor old horse was thrown up in the air for a moment, and then it dropped upon the brink of the dam. There it lay, in the midst of the waters— stirring from side to side with the ripples that poured over the edge-so life-like in its motions, that some said "he must yet live;" but it was not so, and the next morning it was firmly set in an icy collar, and to this day he may be seen looking over the mill-dam, as you approach Baldwin's pond, from the south, by way of Chicken Island, or as you come up the road, hard by THE HOUSE WITH THE

STONE CHIMNEY.

FEBRUARY, 1856.

CHAPTER XVII.

The great Snow-storm-A quotation from Samuel-Recollections of Town-What we then thought-A Song-Scraps in a Commonplace-book-An old epistleAnd anticipations.

Since we

THIS has been a great snow-storm. have lived in the country we have had two great snow-storms. A snow-storm in the city, with its motley panorama, is a curious spectacle, but a snowstorm in the country is sublime. The harmony of a winter landscape always inspires me with a sweet and melancholy gravity, exceeding, in its profound tranquillity, any emotion derived from a mere transitory flush of joy. The soul rests amid the hush and calm. Nature itself, restless, industrious nature at last reposes, in a sort of frozen rapture.

One does not wish to hear, at all hours, the pleasant jargon of sleigh-bells, let them ring never so melodiously: it is good, sometimes, to shut out the noisy carnival, to enjoy the broader winter of the country, with feelings akin to those the hardy navi

gator experiences amid the strange solitudes of the Arctic. Look at the crags opposite, muffled breast high in snow, and the broad river with its myriad iceislands. Look at the leagues of coldness, stretching northward until the vision rests upon the crescent line of hills glowing like sunset-clouds upon the borders of the Tappan-Zee. Look up at the bright sun of winter in his cerulean dome above, and at the fair country around us, within the horizon's blue ring, and say, if it be not a good thing to have a snow-storm in Westchester County. Thou ancient Dorp of Yonkers! I love thee with a love passing the love of women.

The ambiguity of this last expression gave rise to a novel train of ideas in the mind of Mrs. Sparrowgrass, upon which I immediately turned to the twenty-sixth verse of the first chapter of Samuel II., and read therefrom the exquisite lines I had so happily quoted.

"It is a good thing to live in the country," said I; "this is something different from what we had surmised in the little back parlor in Avenue G, Mrs. Sparrowgrass. Do you not remember how we used to anticipate rural felicity?" Mrs. Sparrowgrass replied, she remembered it very well. "It is

not precisely what we had pictured to ourselves,

is it?

"When a little farm we keep,

And have little girls and boys,

With little pigs and sheep,

To make a little noise,

Oh what happy, happy days we'll see,

With the children sitting, sitting on our knee."

"Not precisely," echoed Mrs. S., "but still I like it as it is. To think of going back to the city now, is to think of moving into a prison. Yet there was something cheerful in the little house in town, too. There was a gas-lamp in front of the door, that even in stormy weather threw out its friendly ray, and I used to think it good company to have it always burning before the window, and shining up through the blinds. Then your library was quite a jewel in its way, with the brilliant jet of light over the table-and the rows of gilt books— and the pictures on the walls-and the brackets, niches, and busts, and statuettes, and pieces of armor, and bows, and spears, and stag-horns, all looking so bright and pleasant. I do not think this one lights up so well as that did." "Not with two

candles and a wood fire?" said I.

"No," replied