the trees. Now and then, a crimson or yellow leaf winnows its way slowly down, through the smoky light, and "the sound of dropping nuts is heard" in the still woods. The brook, that a little while ago, stole along in the shadow, rippling softly round the boughs that trailed idly in its waters, now twinkles all the way, on its journey down to the lake.

It is the Saturday night of Nature and the Year

'Their breathing moment on the bridge, where Time Of light and darkness, forms an arch sublime.'

There is nothing more to be done; every thing is packed up; the wardrobe of Spring and Summer is all folded in those little russet and rude cases, and laid away here and there, some in the earth, and some in the water, and some flung upon the bosom of the winds, and lost, as we say-but after all, no more lost than is the little infant, when, laid upon a pillow, it is rocked and swung, this way and that, in the arms of a careful mother. So the dying, smiling Year, is all ready to go.

"Ay, thou art welcome, heaven's delicious breath,

When woods begin to wear the crimson leaf,

And suns grow meek, and the meek suns grow brief, And the year smiles as it draws near its death,

Wind of the sunny South! oh, still delay,
In the gay woods and in the golden air,
Like to a good old age, released from care,
Journeying, in long serenity, away.

With such a bright, late quiet, would that I

Might wear out life like thee, mid bowers and brooks;
And, dearer yet, the sunshine of kind looks,
And music of kind voices ever nigh:

And when my last sand twinkled in the glass,
Pass silently from men as thou dost pass."

HERE I am, to-day, sitting by an open window, the wind, as gentle as June, playfully lifting the corners of the paper I write on, and letting them softly down again; while yesterday, or the day before, I was in perihelion, nestled close in the chimney corner; and the wind- -could it have been this same wind, now toying with the tassel of the curtain, that in such a mood, twisted up a little oak by the roots, that never did any harm, and hollow-voiced and frosty from the dim north-west, made penny-whistles of the huge, old-fashioned chimney-tops?

Nature is a good deal of a rhetorician; she loves rapid transitions and startling contrasts.

Time itself, all through the long-drawn past, is inlaid with day and night—night and day. Suppose it had been all day through the world; it would have

been 'all day' with us our happiness, our interests, and life would be "dull" at eighty cents on the dollar. Now, we are like those wandering at leisure from room to room, in some splendid suite of apartments, divided by the dark and marble walls of night. We enter some beautiful day, pearl for its threshold and crimson for its curtains. With what music they rustle, as unseen hands lift them to let us through! And what varied surprises keep us on the qui vive all along, as we pass through it! And how gorgeous the drapery let down behind us, as we enter the dark opening in the walls of night-those walls GOD built, and yet, through which, at a thousand points, shine divided days, yesterday, and to-morrow!

And what a lamp-no 'Astral,' but a true Lunar, is hung in the passage-way; and then, when we have done wandering through this great temple of Time, and pass the last door, and the veil closes down before the last day, and we find ourselves "out-doors" in the Universe, and free to go whither we willchildren again-aye, children "just let loose from school," how we shall scatter away over fields all flowers, and no frosts, where there is no such word as November, and no such thought as death. Life will be life still, but without its struggle, and ourselves still ourselves, but with windows all around the soul.

We shall see hearts beat as plainly then, as we now see the movements of delicate chronometers beneath their crystal cases - emotions will be visible-the footfalls of thought audible-the trickery of light and shade by-gone, and things will appear as they are.

And the pleasant surprises that shall meet us then; perhaps the trees will grow by music, and the streams murmur articulate; perhaps we shall meet and recognize those who had gone on before. New scenes, new beauties, new thoughts-every where 'plus ultra-more beyond.

THE glories of twilight have departed, and the gray night of the year has, at last, set in.

The tree by my window has thrown off the red and yellow livery it has worn of late, and with naked arms tossing wildly about, stands shivering in the gusts, dismantled and desolate. Strange to say, I love it better than when song and shadow met in its branches-better than ever; but it is not a love born of pity; it needs none, for its life is locked up safely in the earth beneath, and whistle as it will, the boatswain of a winter wind cannot pipe up a pulse or a

bud. Through its leafless limbs, I can see Heaven, now, and there are no stars in the trees in June.

The Sweet Brier creaks uneasily against the wall; the snow is heaped on the window-sill; the frost is 'castle-building' on the panes; the streams are dumb; the woods stand motionless under the weight of white winter.

It is Saturday-Saturday afternoon; the children "just let loose from school," and Clear Lake is swarming with juvenile skaters.

Grouped here and there in clusters, like swarms of bees or bevies of blackbirds in council, now and then, one and another and a third dash not in graceful circles, with motion as easy as flying.

Huge sixes and sweeping eights, and eagles with enormous length of wing, are "cut" upon the "solid water."

Presently, the whole cluster break and fly in every direction, like a flock of pigeons. There go a brace in a trial of speed; there, a Castor and Pollux, hand in hand; here, a game of goal is going on, and here, a game of "red lion."

Away there, lies a little fellow upon his back, taking his first lesson in Skater's Astronomy. Ask him, and he will tell you he saw stars' but a moment ago, that never were named.