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All is shrunken in size, and the distances, too;

The pond at the wood is near by;
And the long fence I trembled to skirt in the night,

As I pass it, scarce catches my eye.

7. The old barn is gone, like the past with its dreams,

Which crowded, chaotic, my brain ;
All are gone --- all are gone! and yet often I wish

I could live in their Eden again.
Though the barn, low and dark, is a dwelling of

mark,
And the lane is a street wide and bright,
Yet I long to go back to that paradise track,

All flashing and living with light.

8. All are gone — all are gone! The soft pictures I draw,

Not one has Time's cruelty spared.
All are gone; and I wonder and smile to myself

That for such things I ever have cared.
Yet, somehow, they bear in their presence a glow

That the present can never display;
'Tis the light in the urn alabaster of youth

That soon fades forever away.

9. And in that sweet light the heart grows pure and

bright In the paradise smiling around; And we wish o'er and o'er we were children once

more,
And roaming that magical ground.
Its scenes, how grotesque, and how trivial and tame!

And yet, as upon it we dwell,
Like the pools of Bethesda, it freshens the heart,
And brightens our thoughts with a spell.

ALFRED B. STREET.

XXXV.-THE SHELL ON THE SHORE.

1. I had turned over the pebbles and the damp weeds, and sought with naked feet among the waves for some bright shell or colored stone to carry home, but I could find none.

2. Tired out, I sat down on a pile of stone to rest, and to watch the waves unroll themselves on the waiting sands. I heeded not the tide, but let it go and come without notice.

3. After a longer interval than I dare tell, considering I was without boots or stockings, and my coat damp with the spray of the last tide, I woke from my dreaming and renewed my search for a prize, and sure enough there was a shell glistening and gleaming, colored like sunlit crystal, just dropped from the white fingers of

some wave.

4. I did not hurry to possess myself of it, but sat still admiring it. It was mine; I was sure I could reach it at

any moment with my stick,- and who was near on this lonely beach to pick it up ere I could take full possession?

5. Splash, splash, and up rolled a huge wave, hissing and hurrying, rattling the stones, wetting my feet- and the shell; where is it? I looked around, I followed the receding water; dripping sea-grass, creamy lots of froth, only remained to meet me; the shell — the beautiful shell -- was gone. Old Neptune had altered his mind, and got back his pearl.

6. A little loss, this, but uttering a lofty lesson,- never to lose an opportunity of taking every gift of mercy or usefulness the tide of time may bring us. If unused -neglected - the wave that brought it will soon take it away.

XXXVI.–FIDELITY REWARDED.

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(KING, MILLER, COURTIER.) 1. King. (Enters alone, wrapped in a cloak.) No, no, this can be no public road, that's certain. I have

I lost my way, undoubtedly. Of what advantage is it now to be a king? Night shows me no respect; I can not see better, nor walk so well, as another man.

When a king is lost in a wood, what is he more than other men ? His wisdom knows not which is north and which is

his power a beggar's dog would bark at, and the beggar himself would not bow to his greatness. And yet how often are we puffed up with these false attributes ? Well, in losing the monarch I have found the man. But hark ! somebody sure is near.

What were it best to do? Will my majesty protect me? No. Throw majesty aside, then, and let manhood do it.

(Enter the Miller.) 2. M. I believe I hear the rogue. Who's there? 3. K. No rogue, I assure you? 4. M. Little better, friend, I believe. Who fired that

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gun?

5. K. Not I, indeed.
6. M. You lie, I believe.

7. K. (aside) Lie, lie? how strange it seems to me to be talked to in this style. (Aloud) Upon my word, I don't, sir.

8. M. Come, come, sirrah, confess; you have shot one of the king's deer, haven't you?

9. K. No, indeed ; I owe the king more respect. I heard a gun go off, to be sure, and was afraid some robbers might be near.

10. M. I am not bound to believe this, friend. Pray, who are you? What is your name?

11. K. Name?

12. M. Name! aye, name! You have a name, haven't you? Where do you come from? What is your business here?

13. K. These are questions I have not been used to, honest man.

14. M. May be so; but they are questions no honest man would be afraid to answer; so if you can give no better account of yourself, I shall make bold to take you along with me, if you please.

15. K. With you! What authority have you to

16. M. The king's authority, if I must give you an account. Sir, I am John Cockle, the miller of Mansfield, one of his Majesty's keepers in the forest of Sherwood; and I let no suspicious fellow pass this way unless he can give a better account of himself than you have done, I promise you.

17. K. Very well, sir, I am very glad to hear the king has so good an officer; and, since I find you have his authority, I will give you a better account of myself, if you will do me the favor to hear it.

18. M. You don't deserve it, I believe; but let's hear what you can say for yourself.

19. K. I have the honor to belong to the king, as well as you, and perhaps should be as unwilling to see any wrong done. I came down with him to hunt in this forest, and the chase leading us to-day a great way from home, I am benighted in this wood, and have lost my way.

20. M. This does not sound well; if you have been hunting, pray where is your horse? ?

21. K. I have tired my horse so that he lay down under me, and I was obliged to leave him.

22. M. If I thought I might believe this, now. 23. K. I am not used to lie, honest man.

24. M. What! do you live at court and not liel That's a likely story, indeed!

25. K. Be that as it may, I speak truth now, I assure you; and to convince you of it, if you will attend me to Nottingham, or give me a night's lodging in your house, here is something to pay you for your trouble (offering money), and if that is not sufficient, I will satisfy you in the morning to your utmost desire.

26. M. Aye, now I am convinced you are a courtier; here is a little bribe for to-day, and a large promise for to-morrow, both in a breath. Here, take it again ; John Cockle is no courtier. He can do what he ought with. out a bribe.

27. K. Thou art a very extraordinary man, I must own; and I should be glad, methinks, to be further acquainted with thee.

28. M. Prithee, don't thee and thou me at this rate. I suppose I am as good a man as yourself, at least.

29. K. Sir, I beg pardon.

30. M. Nay, I am not angry, friend; only I don't love to be too familiar with you until I am satisfied as to your honesty.

31. K. You are right. But what am I to do? 32. M. You may do what you please.

You are twelve miles from Nottingham, and all the way through this thick wood; but if you are resolved upon going thither to-night, I will put you in the road, and direct you the best I can; or, if you will accept of such poor entertainment as a miller can give, you shall be welcome to stay all night, and in the morning I will go with you myself.

33. K. And can not you go with me to-night?

34. M. I would not go with you to-night if you were the king himself. 35. K. Then I must

go
with
you,

I think.

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