life's MASTER, upon the Mount, have vested them both with a beauty immortal as the Spring.

Hard by the cellar-door, a POTATO had fallen, no body knows when. Potatoes were scarce and in demand;" potatoes were "like angels' visits;" in fact, potatoes were potatoes; but amid the darkness and damp, the individual tuber in question was not noticed. So, and if not "so," then any how, it determined to do something for itself, and, potato as it was, be something. So it sent out a Vine that crept here and there without a light-poor thing!-looking very pale indeed, in the darkness.

By and by, instead of rambling about like a truant, it set off all at once, and away it went along the damp, earthen floor; and what was its errand, and had it, in very deed, a mission? A stray beam or two of sunlight from the upper air had been in the habit, at a certain hour, of venturing down the cellar stairs, and struggling with the dim, and falling upon the floor.

And the VINE, like a mariner, was making for 'the light' that God had kindled there in the dark! Joy go with thee, pale Vine, on thy journey. Engineers cannot direct thy route; Contractors cannot build a way for thee. With a passport from the hum

blest deputy of the Universal Life, thou canst go around the world alone!

On it went, and yesterday it reached its destination, and with a raveled leaf of lightest green, it lies there beneath the sunbeam, the tint of a freer, fuller life in every fibre.

Like some low-born maiden in the " Morning Land," where dwell the worshippers of the Sun, this Vine has crept night after night, without a day between, to the place it had heard of afar off, where the SHAH for a while held audience. Arrived, it unfolds its gift, though 'tis of the humblest, and lying upon the earth, timidly lifts the border of his gorgeous robe, and covers its bended head, as if it had faltered, “I too am thy subject. Be thou my protector, as thou art my king." So said the Vine to the great Prince of Morning. But he withdrew his robe, and went on in his chariot. He flushed the red Missouri with a deeper glow; and he gilded again the sands of the Sacramento; and he drove on, like Neptune, over the calm Pacific; and the porcelain towers of China were a-blaze at his coming. He tarried among the palms, and he pressed the lips of the daughters of Circassia, and he kindled the cold bosoms of the beauties of the North, and he lingered in dalliance with the ivory

fingered women of Europe; and he did NOT forget the Vine, that waited for him the while in the cellar of the old homestead. But this morning, the chariot and horses of Phoebus waited without, while he descended the damp and slippery steps, and left a smile for the Vine that will last it all day and all night, and until he comes again in his glory.

"Movements" indeed! Why, the Farm is full of them. The leaves of the SILVER POPLAR, in breaths of air the faintest, go all day like little French clocks, with their "green and silver-silver-green; green and silver-silver-green," while the tall Elm swings slowly in the upper air, like the pendulums of old narrow-waisted, moon-faced clocks, wound up with a string, that used to "tick behind the door," from gray Grandam's infancy, to the shrill bell of the latest hour that sailed from the port of Time.

The STRAWBERRY is a great rover-in fact, the 'RED ROVER" of the vegetable kingdom. It minds no more about fences than an English Hunter; never stops for bars or gates, but wanders about all over the Farm as it wills; it never tells where it will be tomorrow or next year, never leaves a line, and one is never sure he will have it Thursday because he possessed it Wednesday. As much a migratory creature

is the Strawberry as the BIRD, that, all day long, fans the cold, thin atmosphere, from Southern Winter into Northern Spring-from Lake to Lagoon, from Champlain to the Chesapeake. A great Pendulum is that Bird too, swinging twice a year over the Farm, with the flowers or the frosts glittering beneath and behind it.

The WHEAT, that has been waving, and nodding, and rustling, for many a day, they are rocking to sleep in cradles of fingers, and to-night will conclude the Lullaby of the Harvest. And the Wheat on its way down, meets the CORN and the GRASS going up, and the SILK rising; and the BEES, murmuring along to the woods and the clover, meet the Cows coming home to the milking, and the Robins en route for the cherries; the pears and the apples are coming on; the setting Bantams and Cochin Chinas are coming off; the milk is running over the pails; the share is running under the fallow; the Hops running round and round.

The ROSES, red, white, and variegated, have been going down, by the leaf, one after another, until now

the last rose of summer" is "left blooming alone." Who would not grieve more to have them die, were not Roses among the few things of earth that are fra

grant when dead? "Brindle," and "Red," and "old Mooly" have come in; the Honeysuckle and the Lilies have come out; and so it goes, and so they all go.

Domesticated, and always in sight of the house, are trees of about five-and-twenty different characters, colors, and capabilities; and queerly do they actsome of them-in the down-coming rain, as it twinkles on the little buds, clatters on the Plantains, patters on the Lilac bushes, flutters on the Peaches. The Butternut just quivers and quakes; the Lilac dodges this way and that, and the Roses fairly dance up and down. The Peaches, all of a flutter, seem just ready to fly; the chuckle-headed Apple-trees keep nodding like "silent members;" the Mulberry swings lazily to and fro, as if it didn't mind it much; while the heaped-up Grape Vine shakes itself like a thorough-bred Newfoundland, and the Oak just stands. straight in the shower, and takes it as Oaks should. Down below, the White Clover twinkles, twinkles, like very dim stars very far off, and the little Mosses do nothing but look as green as they can. The Wheat bows and jostles, and turns this way and that, and breaks its neck-some of it-and betrays symptoms of a regular stampede, while the knightly Corn keeps