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the two and a half in it, of a Saturday Night, and then read this paragraph by the light of your wife's eyes, and thank God and take courage.

The dim and dusty shops are swept up; the hammer is thrown down, the apron is doffed, and Labor hastens with a light step, homeward bound.

“Saturday Night,' feebly murmurs the languishing, as she turns wearily upon her couch,' and is there another to come ??

• Saturday night, at last,' whispers the weeper above the dying,' and it is Sunday to-morrow and to-morrow.'

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The Year has paused to remember, and beautiful her memories are. She recalls the Spring; how soft the air! And the Summer; how deep and warm the sky! And the harvest ; how pillar'd and golden the clouds! And the rainbows and the sunsets; how gorgeous are the woods !

Indian Summer is Nature's' sober, second thought,' and to me, the sweetest of her thinkings. A veil of golden gauze trails through the air; the woods, in dishabille, are gay with the hectic flushes of the Fall; and the bright Sun, relenting, comes meekly back

again, as if he would not go to Capricorn. He has a kindly look; he no longer dazzles one's eyes out, but has a sunset softness in his face, and fairly blushes at the trick he meditated. Round, red Sun! rich ruby in the jewelry of God! it sets as big as the woods; and ten acres of forest, in the distance, are relieved upon the great disc—a rare device upon a glorious medallion. The sweet south-wind has come again, and breathes softly through the woods, till they rustle like a banner of crimson and gold; and waltzes gaily with the dead leaves that strew the ground, and whirls them quite away sometimes, in its frolic, over the fields and the fences, and into the brook, in whose little eddies they loiter on the way, and never get 'down to the sea' at all.

Who wonders that, with this mirage of departed Summer in sight, the peach trees sometimes lose their reckoning, fancy Winter, pale fly-leaf in the book of Time, has somehow slipped out, and put forth theij rosy blossoms, only to be carried away, to-morrow oi to-morrow, by the blasts of November? And with the sun and the wind, here are the birds

A bluebird warbles near the house, as it used to do; the sparrows are chirping in the bushes, and the wood-robins flicker like flakes of fire through 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.

once more.

It is the Saturday night of Nature and the Year

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• 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.

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“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.”

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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 will children 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 ser?


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