morning as with the later day, and for the best reason in life, there's no body "up" to see. So she makes it a neat steel-gray, inlaying a piece or two of pearl here and there, and looping up round the edges, a few odd bits of red ribbon. Noon she doesn't mind much. To be sure the coloring is rich and warm, but then, nothing like a master-piece. But come night,' when the labor of the world is pretty near done, she 'lays herself out' in the West, exactly where every body would naturally be looking, and gathers there, the pearl and gold of morning, the glow and glory of noon, and the Tyrian tints of night. She spreads there, unbended rainbows from dismantled clouds; she gives there, patterns for the sea-shells to tint by a red and a white that set the pattern for York and Lancaster- - themes for a thousand preachers, and songs for a thousand bards.

On such a night, in such a June, who has not sat, side by side, with some body, for all the world like

Jenny June?" May-be it was years ago; but it was some time. May-be you had quite forgotten it; but you will be the better for remembering it. Maybe she has " gone on before," where it is June all the year long, and never January at all; but God forbid !

There it was, and then it was, and thus it was:

The Beautiful River.

Like a Foundling in slumber, the summer day lay

On the crimsoning threshold of Even,

And I thought that the glow through the azure-arined way,

Was a glimpse of the coming of Heaven.

There together we sat by the beautiful stream:

We had nothing to do, but to love and to dream,

In the days that have gone on before.

These are not the same days, though they bear the same

name,

With the ones I shall welcome no more.

But it may be, the angels are culling them o'er,

For a Sabbath and Summer for ever,

When the years shall forget the Decembers they wore,
And the shroud shall be woven, no, never!

In a twilight like that, Jenny June for a bride,
Oh! what more of the world could one wish for beside,
As we gazed on the River unroll'd,

Till we heard, or we fancied, its musical tide,

When it flowed through the Gate-way of gold!

Jenny June, then I said, let us linger no more,
On the banks of the beautiful River-

Let the boat be unmoored, and be muffled the oar,
And we'll steal into Heaven together.

If the Angel on duty our coming descries,

You have nothing to do but throw off the disguise
That you wore while you wandered with me,
And the Sentry shall say, "Welcome back to the skies;
We have long been a-waiting for thee."

Oh! how sweetly she spoke, ere she uttered a word,
With that blush, partly hers, partly Even's,
And that tone, like the dream of a song we once heard,
As she whispered, 'That way is not Heaven's;

For the River that runs by the realm of the Blest
Has no song on its ripple, no star on its breast-
Oh! that River is nothing like this!

For it glides on in shadow, beyond the world's west,
Till it breaks into beauty and bliss.'

I am lingering yet, but I linger alone,

On the banks of the Beautiful River.

Tis the twin of that day, but the wave where it shone, Bears the willow tree's shadow for ever!

Ploughshares and Sorrows.

GREAT grief in the clover just now, and every body but "Rachel, weeping for her children." For a few days past, they have kept a thing, a machine, a monster, going in the Clover Field, that they call a "breaking-up plough," and it is well named for an ill business; inasmuch as it interferes with more domestic arrangements, and destroys more domestic happiness and hopes, than "Consuelo or the Last War-in fact, it breaks up whole families.

Talk about "beating swords into ploughshares!"

If this identical implement had been turned into a dozen good broad-swords, in these "piping times of peace," it would have hastened the Millennium, at least one generation, in the Meadow back of the Orchard.

What John Rogers-like families of infant mice were orphaned; what snug and cozy little homes were destroyed, no body can tell. If all ploughmen were poets, and all poets were Burns-es, and all Burns-es

had sung,

"But, mousie, thou art not alane,

In proving foresight may be vain;
The best laid schemes o mice an' men

Gang aft a-gley,

An' lea'e us naught but grief and pain
For promised joy,"

it wouldn't mend the matter; it wouldn't turn back the turf, nor restore the wee ones to their "mither" again.

Two of the beautifully dappled eggs of the Meadow lark were brought in by one of the boys,' this morning, thus left without "a local habitation;" furnishing, so it seems to us, an admirable escapement for the overflowing philanthropy that renders so many people so very miserable. Wouldn't "a nest for the society be just the thing! And if some.

nestless'

body, whose sympathies have been "wool-gathering" at the sources of the White Nile, would volunteer to— I feel a delicacy about suggesting it-to-to hatch the eggs aforesaid, two innocents would be spared an untimely fate. They are wrapped in cotton-wool, awaiting orders. "References exchanged."

Fire has also been called into requisition, to finish the work commenced by the share. Hard by a brush-heap, a Quail had hidden her summer hopes— sixteen spotless eggs-a cup full of pearls; within which, ere long, "Spiritual Rappings" should be heard, and a brood of life emerge, and skulk away, each with his cradle of a shell upon his back. The sad story is soon told; they set fire to the pile, that was to become a funeral-pyre; the brush sparkled and blazed, the logs kindled and glowed, but the bird, Phoenix-like, sat upon her nest. The flames surga! around her, but when the dark volumes of smoke lifted, our bird was still there.' The red fire at last, drove over the nest; the very straws were lighted, and the mother whirled despairingly away with a cry of anguish, and was seen no more. Many a heart heaves the twin billows of Circassian bosoms to-day, neither so true nor so wrung, as the little morsel of irritable muscle in the breast of that Quail mother