of great lamentation for Nelly; but, alas! she was left to a worse fate. There is no telling what Coquettes, or Canaries, or any of us may come to, if left to ourselves.

P.-AN EVERLASTING PEA.

AN EVER-LAST-ING PEA-the last of "Our Folks" to-day-a sweet thing to look at, but with no more breath than an Oyster, has been growing neglected beside the door for a long time. Several impudent Burdocks and saucy Pigweeds had grown over it and around it; and there it was without a frame, a staff, or even a thread to help itself with, and climb out of the way, up into the air, and be beautiful, and be admired.

There it was, struggling alone, and running all over the ground, and getting no where, when, one day, a bolder branch, that had gone out some where for succor, discovered the Lightning Conductor. There was a way up and out, indeed; and why shouldn't a PEA as well as a PEOPLE run on a Rail? And here was an aërial Railway, ready and in "running order," for the creeper and climber. So it encircled the cold iron, and swung itself up; and whither it might have gone, and what it might have done, is more than

any body knows; but a frame-such as it was-was built, and the truant tethered with a string. One thing it did was this: laid a blushing leaf close to the cold, dark iron. And what for? Why, claiming relationship, of a truth. Iron tinted that leaf to "the color of virtue." Iron makes those Roses glow in their new frames beside the path. Indeed, one could almost write poetry without inspiration, only give him plenty of iron:

The jarring of the iron wheels along the iron rails;

The anvils with their iron din beneath the iron flails;
The panting of the iron forge; the twang of iron wire;
The music of an iron age; of iron and of fire;
The netting of the iron nerve that's thrilling through the

world;

The iron bayonet to the bolt by glittering tempests hurled; The thunder of the iron loom; the shuttle's plunging steel; The weaving of the zones of earth-five ribbons round a

reel;

The couplet of the iron song, of which TWO BARS are sung, That makes as dear as "household words" the Anglo-Saxon

tongue;

The clanking of the iron Press, the echo of the Age,
While waking Thought, with iron tread, leaves foot-prints

on the page;

All sinews are of iron now; all breathings are of fire;

And engines with their iron hearts can toil and never tire;

The winds are lulled, but iron craft are panting round the

globe;

And iron needles ravel out old Ocean's seamless robe.

In calm Pacific's golden

but, 'tis a hard theme; and, printers permitting, I'll "mind my P's and Q's" again. There was something of almost classic beauty in the sight: a green, luxuriant vine encircling a rude bayonet, fixed by the fingers of Philosophy, against the lightnings of Heaven; the rusty route of the thunder-bolt wreathed in the beauty of Summer; a token of amity extended upon the "present arms" of Science to the tempest; an offering from the warm bosom of a June earth to the genii of the cloudy caverns of the air.

Does some body ask you what you think of "OUR FOLKS?" Pray, don't mind me; but utter it boldly, like a Jeffreys.

Jewelry.

NATURE was out in her Jewelry this morning, or, as some body's little Charley, or Molly, or Johnny would say, in her "Dewelry," and that's just the word wanted-glittering with the young rain that waits its wings.

By the way, that Nimrod in science who went hunting the DEw, and made a fame that shall last forever: Wasn't it a pretty idea when, placing the

bulbs of delicate thermometers in the bosoms of lilies and the hearts of young roses, he felt the pulses of the flowers as they grew? Wasn't it fairy-like work for a mortal man to be doing?

And then, when he found that the buds and the blossoms were all the cooler as they needed moisture the more; and the truth sparkled out that Dew is the invisible vapor floating in the air, which, chilled by the cool surfaces of the flowers, bursts into tears over the beauty that must fade; and when he found that this aërial, this gossamer-winged water, is the singing, and sighing, and cursing, and blessing of all day yesterday-the music of the Summer all written out in legible score-notes sparkling and beautiful, every one-do you think a civic crown could have made him greater or happier?

And when he found that in cloudy nights, when there was no Dew, it was because the heat radiated from the earth, was reflected down again from the clouds, and so, like a beautiful pendulum, it vibrated to and fro—the clods and the clouds, the clouds and the clods-and the earth could not grow cold, and its breath could not condense, and there, beneath the stars, like the pulses of a mighty breast, beating softly against the downy covering of cloud all the night

long!-would our Hunter, do you think, have changed fames with the tinker of the clock of Strasburg?

There is one little circumstance-most awkward word is that "circumstance"—which perhaps I should bid adieu to the Dews without noting that they have sparkled for decades of centuries, and every body, from the bards of a thousand years to the last scribbler for a scrap-book, has likened them to every thing, and every thing to them, that is lucent and lovely, and blessed and beautiful; and YET, all the while, until a few days or so ago, no body knew where they were born, whether they rose, or fell, or flew, or, as children say, "just come o' themselves." And YET philosophers, or "so they say," gurgled Hebrew before Remus was "naughty" to his brother, and leaped Rome's wall.

Few there are, who dream how blessed and beautiful, sad and solemn, are the components of Dew and here is a recipe therefor:

June Dews.

The breath of the leaves and the lyrics of dawn

Were floating away in the air;

The brooks and the birds were all singing aloud.

The violets looking a prayer,

With eyes that upturned so tearful and true,

Like Mary's of old, when forgiven,