coffin; you dug a grave. The chicken was borne out beneath the apple-tree, and we buried it there, and sang, as well as we could,

"Hark! from the tombs a doleful sound."

That done, you remember one of us wrote upon the fragment of a slate, 'SACRED to the memory of' and there was a difficulty; it had no name. But this was disposed of, and we wrote on- a little BIDDY, drowned to death, July 10th, 18-'-I've forgotten the year; and then drew over the top, a distant resemblance of a weeping willow, very drooping and sad, and set it up at the head of the grave. That afternoon there was a shower, and at night, when we went out to see the little grave again, the inscription was gone; the drops of rain had washed it all away! Strange, we never thought of it then, but we have since slate, marble, or brass; pencil, graver, or gilding, it is all the same. The world weeps away its griefs, and with those griefs, the memory of the wept.

Since then, we have both stood by other graves, times too many, doubtless with deeper, but never with truer sorrowing, than when, beneath the old appletree, we paid our childish tribute to the dead NEST

LING.

Happiness "at Cost."

THIS morning, a wagon, laden with wheat, went by, going to town; nothing strange in that, certainly And a man driving the team, and a woman perched on the load beside him, and a child throned in the woman's lap; nothing strange in that, either. And it required no particular shrewdness to determine that the woman was the property—“ personal," of course- -of the man, and that the black-eyed, roundfaced child was the property of both of them.

So much I saw; so much, I suppose, every body saw, who looked. It is a fair inference that the wife was going in to help her husband 'trade out' a portion of the proceeds of the wheat, the product of so much labor and so many sunshines and rains.

The pair were somewhere this side-a fine point of observation, isn't it?—this side of forty, and it is presumptive, if blessed like their neighbors, they left two or three children at home, 'to keep house' while they came to town-perhaps two girls and a boy, or, as it is immaterial to us, two boys and a girl.

Well, I followed the pair, in thought. until the

wheat was sold, the money paid, and then for the trade. The baby was shifted from shoulder to shoulder, or set down upon the floor, to run off into mischief like a sparkling globule of quicksilver on a marble table, while calicoes were priced, sugar and tea tasted, and plates "rung." The good wife looks askance at a large mirror that would be just the thing for the best room, and the roll of carpeting of most becoming pattern; but it won't do; they must wait till next year. Ah! there is music in those

next years that Orchestras cannot make!

And so they look, and price, and purchase the winter supplies, the husband the while eying the little roll of bank-notes, "growing small by degrees and beautifully less." Then comes an 'aside' conference, particularly confidential. She takes him affectionately by the button, and looks up in his face-she has fine eyes by the by-with an expression eloquent of "do, now; it will please them so.” And what do you suppose they talk of? Toys for the children, John wanted a drum, and Jane a doll, and Jenny a little book all pictures, "just like Susan so-and-so's." The father looks "nonsense;" but he feels in his pocket for the required silver, and the mother, having gained the point, hastens away, baby and all, for the

toys. There acts the mother-she had half promised, not all, that she would bring them something, and she is happy all the way home, not for the bargains she made, but for the pleasant surprises in those three brown parcels And you ought to have been there, when they got home; when the drum, and the doll, and the book were produced—and thumped, and cradled, and thumbed-wasn't it a great house!

Happiness is so cheap, what a wonder there is not more of it in the world!

Aerial Rehearsal.

LAST night, the moon, with a new coat of silver, rode high in the west, while in the north and northeast, pure, pearly white overlaid the blue-then deepened to an orange-then turned to a crimson, till it looked like the pillar of fire in the wilderness, or a Daguerreotype of sunset.

Anon it changed; the crimson was pink; the blue, a blush; and the pearl, a delicate green.

What they were doing up aloft, is more than I know; whether rehearsing sunset or sunrise, 'shifting

scenes' for the never-before-performed drama of 'Tomorrow,' or spreading out rainbows on the upper decks to dry, is to me a mystery.

Now and then, white, silvery-looking spars were lifted up from the northern horizon, and converged in the zenith; and it occurred to me, that, may be, they were repairing this great blue tent we live under, and that I saw the bare spars and the red linings of the curtains that were thrown up, to keep them out of the way of the aerial craftsmen.

And then again, as it crimsoned, and pearled, and clouded so exquisitely, I fancied it might be Heaven's grand pattern for sea-shells to tint by, discovered at

last.

And once more, ere I had quite made up my mind on this conjecture, such a beam, nay, cloud of red light streamed out into the night, and over the stars, one would be sure it must come from Heaven's painted window, and that some body-perhaps some body we once knew and loved, and love still-was passing to and fro, giving us, without the walls, a glimpse or two of the glory within.

As I kept looking, I kept fancying, and who knew that it might not be the evening of some forgotten and long-past yesterday, thus revisiting the glimpses