"Movements."

THERE are movements-believe it-not due to Le· comotives, not made by fast horses,' not occurring in Markets,' nor noted by Astronomers, nor caught by Dancers. Movements full of grace and beauty; movements full of wonder and mystery; Voyagers without log-books, Travellers without diaries; movements occurring every day, every where, in the quietest nooks you can think of; even here on the Farm, carved out of the woods with an axe, sculptured with a plough, and lettered with a spade.

PINE LAKE, you know, is just out of sight of the Farm, but wouldn't be, if Summer did not lay out

ever so much" in fringe, about and about it, as if green fringe were every thing, and to be seen, nothing! Well, Pine Lake is gemmed with wee bits of Erinsan Archipelago of LILY leaves riding at anchor; whereon creep petite snakes, of species to me unknown, that wind themselves up like watch-springs, and sun themselves to sleep. Occasionally, a silly tobacco-box of a Turtle assays to make a landing, but

there's a leaf-quake; up tips the Emerald Isle, and down tumbles his turtle-ship.

Like white chalices held up by unseen hands, thousands of lilies just part the water, gently lifted on every wave, silently withdrawn as it subsides. Beautiful thoughts they are, rocked on the swells of a pure bosom. In storm and calm, by sunlight and starlight, always there, no tri-linked cable clanks beneath, but fragile stems sway softly in the water; while brave old Oaks, moored by an hundred roots to solid land, are torn from their fastenings, and flung crashing to earth!

Lilies there are, pearling the billows of our troublous humanity, that thus ride out all its storms, unrent and spotless-Lilies still, till, in the last cold baptism of death, they are buried "out of our sight." leave not a leaf; they make not a sign; the waters are crystal as before, and next year there are lilies again.

"So dies in human hearts the thought of death.”

They

The sweetest offering of humanity to Heaven is beauty: the beauty of form and fame. Lilies alike of the field and the flood! SOLOMON, "in all his glory," could not rival them, and the utterances of

life's MASTER, upon the Mount, have vested them both with a beauty immortal as the Spring.

Hard by the cellar-door, a POTATO had fallen, no body knows when. Potatoes were "scarce and in demand;" potatoes were "like angels' visits;" in fact, potatoes were potatoes; but amid the darkness and damp, the individual tuber in question was not noticed. So, and if not "so," then any how, it determined to do something for itself, and, potato as it was, be something. So it sent out a Vine that crept here and there without a light-poor thing!-looking very pale indeed, in the darkness.

By and by, instead of rambling about like a truant, it set off all at once, and away it went along the damp, earthen floor; and what was its errand, and had it, in very deed, a mission? A stray beam or two of sunlight from the upper air had been in the habit, at a certain hour, of venturing down the cellar stairs, and struggling with the dim, and falling upon the floor.

And the VINE, like a mariner, was making for 'the light' that God had kindled there in the dark! Joy go with thee, pale Vine, on thy journey. Engineers cannot direct thy route; Contractors cannot build a way for thee. With a passport from the hum

blest deputy of the Universal Life, thou canst go around the world alone!

On it went, and yesterday it reached its destination, and with a raveled leaf of lightest green, it lies there beneath the sunbeam, the tint of a freer, fuller life in every fibre.

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Like some low-born maiden in the "Morning Land," where dwell the worshippers of the Sun, this Vine has crept night after night, without a day between, to the place it had heard of afar off, where the SHAH for a while held audience. Arrived, it unfolds its gift, though 'tis of the humblest, and lying upon the earth, timidly lifts the border of his gorgeous robe, and covers its bended head, as if it had faltered, “I too am thy subject. Be thou my protector, as thou art my king." So said the Vine to the great Prince of Morning. But he withdrew his robe, and went on in his chariot. He flushed the red Missouri with a deeper glow; and he gilded again the sands of the Sacramento; and he drove on, like Neptune, over the calm Pacific; and the porcelain towers of China were a-blaze at his coming. He tarried among the palms, and he pressed the lips of the daughters of Circassia, and he kindled the cold bosoms of the beauties of the North, and he lingered in dalliance with the ivory

fingered women of Europe; and he did NOT forget the Vine, that waited for him the while in the cellar of the old homestead. But this morning, the chariot and horses of Phoebus waited without, while he descended the damp and slippery steps, and left a smile for the Vine that will last it all day and all night, and until he comes again in his glory.

"Movements" indeed! Why, the Farm is full of them. The leaves of the SILVER POPLAR, in breaths of air the faintest, go all day like little French clocks, with their "green and silver-silver-green; green and silver-silver-green," while the tall Elm swings slowly in the upper air, like the pendulums of old narrow-waisted, moon-faced clocks, wound up with a string, that used to "tick behind the door," from gray Grandam's infancy, to the shrill bell of the latest hour that sailed from the port of Time.

The STRAWBERRY is a great rover-in fact, the "RED ROVER" of the vegetable kingdom. It minds no more about fences than an English Hunter; never stops for bars or gates, but wanders about all over the Farm as it wills; it never tells where it will be tomorrow or next year, never leaves a line, and one is never sure he will have it Thursday because he possessed it Wednesday. As much a migratory creature