The Stage is Coming.

"PORT" dashed into the house yesterday, overturned two chairs and the clothes-horse, and panted out, 'the car-a-van is coming! Right on the hill!' Caravan coming! What could a caravan be thinking of, to wander away into this quiet neighborhood? Yielding to the little fingers that tugged at my coat-sleeve, I repaired to the door, PORT's tongue busy the while with, 'do you think it'll stop and show here?' and 'may I go?' and 'goody! goody to a provisional affirmative.

And there it was, a huge coach, and no caravan, red as the setting sun, rocking over the hill, like a ship on a swell. Down it came, rolling and pitching into the valley, thundered over the little bridge, splashed through the little brook, till its wheels. ground slowly and gratingly in the yellow sand.

It was an event-indeed the event of the season. No body remembered when a stage passed here before The driver knew it, for he sat bolt upright on the box, and handled the ribbons with an air. The

'leaders' knew it, for they tossed their glossy heads, and curvetted gaily enough.

Memory put her name on the Way Bill, and Thought took a journey, a dozen years or so, into the past.

"Bright Improvement on the car of time" and steam, has caused the old coaches to disappear altogether, in many parts of the country, and with them, a chief remembrancer of other days. Time was, when the stage, like the Crocus, was yellow-brightened with the rain or splashed with the mud, always and for ever yellow as a Sunflower. But the hand of Innovation has dared to make them a fiery red or a jealous green-to dwarf their dimensions-to turn off "the leaders," and propel the puny craft with a pair of wheel-horses.

That old yellow coach! With what notes of preparation, it entered the little villages on the old "State Road"" How that immemorial horn drawn from its sheath, was wound and wound again, till the surrounding woods rang again, and all the town were at the doors, and every lower pane of glass was a juvenile face in a frame, to see who had come, and who was going, and all about it. How the old coach rattled and plunged down the hill-how it thundered over the bridge-with what professional skill, the

driver drew his long whip from the top of the coach and made its Alexandrine lash ring again, to the leaders' right and left-with what a sweep he whirled up before the Stage House, and reined them in, till the coach rattled and rocked like a ship ashore!

It is early morning. The Landlord comes shuffling out in slippers-the maid stays her hand at the well, to see who gets out, and smile at the Palinurus of the craft the Post Master comes across the street for the mail-a cloud of steam rises from the glittering coats of the panting team-the relay comes filing out from the adjoining stable-some body in a green veil takes the back seat, to the great discomfiture of two drowsy aldermanic personages-the mail-bag is swung up beneath the driver's feet-the door is flung to, with a slam-a short, sharp note or two upon the horn-an instant's handling of the ribbons-a draw ing of the lash through the fingers, as a surgeon feel, his scalpel-an "all right" from the drowsy Boniface. and crack, smack, clatter, swing, away rolls the coach, and with it, the day's excitement.

Then the acquaintances one used to form in the stage, whose memory will outlast the old coachesSome body-perhaps the lady in the green veil, whom a lurch of the stage threw into your lap two or three

times as you sat v ́s-à-vis, occasioning two or three apologies, until you felt quite acquainted, and wished the coach would move slower, the mud grow deeper, or the hours longer, lut the time of parting should come too soon. And in ad come, and though years have passed, and you are a Benedict these lustrums of years, you remember where you left her, and just what sort of a house, and what tree grew before the door. It was a maple, or a pop'at—which was it?— you meant to go that way again, but you never did. And she--what's become of her? Why, she weare a mob-cap, perhaps, and those blue y hers lock through green spectacles.

So runs the world away!

A Summer Day in Hayirg.

V o'clock and a summer mortung! A lev minutes ago. I witnessed one of the most beautifi зpectacles ever presented to mortal eye: the opening of the GATES OF DAY, and the Sun standing upon the threshold, looking forth, like a prince in oright armor, pon his kingdom.

The blue walls of heaven, built up in the heavy masonry of night, parted, without a crash, nay, even without the soft and silken rustle of a curtain. The lights aloft, were put out, one after another, to give effect to the scene; the gates of red gold swung back, noiselessly as the parting of soft lips in dreams, and a threshold and hall inlaid with pearl, were disclosed.

There was a flush, a gleam, and a glow over the lake, and there, paused the Sun, as if enchanted with the scene he smiled on. A moment, and he stepped forth, but there was no jar; a moment more, and cloud, and wood, and hill, were all of a glory. And there was song, sweetest song; the deep, blue Heaven was full of voices of unseen birds, that fluttered at the pale portal of morning.

Five o'clock and a summer morning! A silver mist hangs along the streams, a few downy clouds are afloat, and the landscape is heavy with dew.

The cows turned out from the milking, are tinkling their way along the winding path to the woods; the robins are calling to each other in the orchard, and an enterprising hen in the barn, is giving "the world assurance of”-an egg. Some how, earth, in such a

morning, looks as if it were just finished, the coloring