eddies of wind and dust, whispered that winter was at hand.

Wolfert gradually awoke from his dream of wealth as the year declined. He had reared no crop for the supply of his household during the sterility of winter. The season was long and severe, and for the first time the family was really straitened in its comforts.

By degrees, a revulsion of thought took place in Wolfert's mind, common to those whose golden dreams have been disturbed by pinching realities. The idea gradually stole upon him that he should come to want. He already considered himself one of the most unfortunate men in the province, having lost such an incalculable amount of undiscovered treasure; and now, when thousands of pounds had eluded his search, to be perplexed for shillings and pence was cruel in the extreme.

Haggard care gathered about his brow; he went about with a money-secking air, his eyes bent downwards into the dust, and carrying his hands in his pockets, as men are apt to do when they have nothing else to put into them. He could not even pass the city almshouse without giving it a rueful glance, as if destined to be his future abode.

The strangeness of his conduct and of his looks occasioned much speculation and remark. For a long time, he was suspected of being crazy, and then every body pitied him; at length, it began to be suspected that he was poor, and then every body avoided him.

The rich old burghers of his acquaintance met him outside of the door when he called, entertained him hospitably on the threshold, pressed him warmly by the hand at parting, shook their heads as he walked away, with the kindhearted expression of "Poor Wolfert!" and turned a corner nimbly, if by chance they saw him approaching as they walked the streets.

Even the barber and cobbler of the neighborhood, and a

attered tailor in an alley hard by, three of the poorest and merriest rogues in the world, -eyed him with that abundant sympathy which usually attends a lack of means; and there is no doubt but their pockets would have been at his command, only that they happened to be empty.

Time rolled on, and with it the tide of population. Wolfert's table was covered with deeds, plans of streets and building lots.

Wolfert Webber was one of those worthy Dutch burghers of the Manhattoes whose fortunes have been made, in a manner, in spite of themselves; who have tenaciously held on to their hereditary acres, raising turnips and cabbages about the skirts of the city, hardly able to live from year to year, until the corporation has cruelly driven streets through their abodes, and they have suddenly awakened out of their lethargy, and, to their astonishment, found themselves rich.

men.

Finally a great bustling street passed through the very centre of the Webber garden, just where Wolfert had dreamed of finding a treasure. His golden dream was accomplished; he did indeed find an unlooked-for source of wealth; for, when his paternal lands were distributed into building lots, and rented out to safe tenants, instead of procuring a paltry crop of cabbages, they returned an abundant crop of rents, insomuch that on quarter-day, it was a goodly sight to see his tenants knocking at his door, from morning till night, each with a full bag of money, a golden produce

of the soil.

W. IRVING.

PENSIVELY; thoughtfully, with gloomy seriousness. PALTRY; mean, low, worthless. REVERY; loose, irregular train of thought, extravagant conceit of the fancy or imagination. CORROBORATION; the act of strengthening or confirming. REMONSTRATE; to exhibit or present strong reasons against an act.

11*

FROM THE GERMAN OF RUCKERT.

EVER; er as in her. AYE, is pronounced like long a. AGAIN; ai like short e. NOTHING; o like й.

CHIDHAR, the prophet ever young,
Thus loosed the bridle of his tongue :

I journeyed through a noble town,
With many a mansion fair and good,
And asked of one who sat him down

To rest," how long the town had stood."
He roused himself; 'twas but to say,
"The town has stood for many a day,
And will be here forever and aye."

A thousand years went by, and then
I went the self-same road again.

No vestige of that town I traced,

But one poor swain his horn employed;
His sheep unconscious browsed and grazed:
I asked, "When was that town destroyed? "
He spoke, nor would his horn lay by,
'One thing may grow and another die,
But I know nothing of towns- not I.

A thousand years went by, and then
I passed the self-same place again.

There, in the deep of waters, cast
His nets one lonely fisherman;
And, as he drew them up at last,
I asked him," how that lake began."

I found a country wild and rude,
And, axe in hand, beside a tree,
The hermit of that solitude:

I asked, "how old that wood might be."
He spoke, "I count not time at all;
A tree may rise, a tree may fall;
The forest overlives us all."

A thousand years went on, and then
I passed the self-same place again.

And there a glorious city stood,

And 'mid tumultuous market cry,

I asked, "When rose the town, where wood,
Pasture, and lake forgotten lie?"

They heard me not, and little blame;
For them the world is as it came,
And all things must be still the same.

A thousand years shall pass, and then
I mean to try that road again.

MILNES.

VESTIGE; the mark or remains of something. SWAIN; a youth employed in husbandry, or tending flocks. BROWSE; to eat the ends of branches of trees and shrubs, or the young shoots. GRAZE; to eat grass, to feed on growing herbage. HORN; a wind instrument.

SORROW FOR THE DEAD.

SORROW; ow like long o. SOLITUDE; long u, not oo. MOTHER; er as in her. MOST TENDER; do not blend the final t, in most, with the initial t in tender. CONSOLATION; o long as in so. AGONY; long o. BURST; Sound rst.

THE sorrow for the dead is the only sorrow from which we refuse to be divorced. Every other wound we seek to heal, every other affliction to forget; but this wound we consider it a duty to keep open, this affliction we cherish and brood over in solitude. Where is the mother who would willingly forget the infant that perished like a blossom from her arms, though every recollection is a pang ?

Where is the child that would willingly forget the most tender of parents, though to remember be but to lament? Who, even in the hour of agony, would forget the friend over whom he mourns? Who, even when the tomb is closing upon the remains of her he most loved, when he feels his heart, as it were, crushed in the closing of its portal,

who would accept of consolation that must be bought by forgetfulness? No; the love which survives the tomb is one of the noblest attributes of the soul.

If it has its woes, it has likewise its delights; and when the overwhelming burst of grief is calmed into the gentle tear of recollection, when the sudden anguish and the convulsive agony over the present ruins of all that we most loved, is softened away into pensive meditation on all that was in the days of its loveliness, who would root out such a sorrow from the heart? Though it may sometimes throw a passing cloud over the bright hour of gayety, or spread a deeper sadness over the hour of gloom, yet who would exchange it even for the song of pleasure or the burst of revelry?

No; there is a voice from the tomb sweeter than song.