branches fan our feverish cheeks, fold back the dim, misty curtains of the past, the silent past, and hold communings with the years that are gone. Listen to the murmur of yonder rippling stream, that breaks like far off music upon the ear, and although half a century of years have passed since I first stood upon its margin, and listened to its dirge-like hum, no trace of age is left upon it. The silent years that have swept over its surface, bearing away the generations of men, have left this stream sporting and dancing on in all the freshness of youth and beauty.

Here is the grassy knoll where we have stood tiptoe and reached our tiny hands a little higher to catch the gorgeous butterfly that floated through summer air on silken wings, and then clapped them with joyous glee at our own disappointment, as it sailed higher up into the blue air.

Then came the song of the warbling bird, the hum of the mountain bee, and the rustling of the leaves as they were stirred by the gentle summer breeze,--all making sweet melody in Nature's many voiced harmonies.

Here we have sat for hours, wrapt in dreamy reverie, wondering why the long, fleecy clouds that chased each other over the sun, should cast such deep, broad shadows over so fair a landscape; little heeding that they were emblematical of the shadows that coming years would cast upon our pathway as we passed on in the journey of human life; but oh, how often has the sun of hope been dimmed by the shadows of disappointment.

But let us leave this sequestered spot and wander over other scenes familiar to childhood's years.

Beneath yon large reservoir of water that flashes in the sun beams as the summer winds heave its troubled bosom, formerly stretched out an extensive meadow, where we used to stroll for amusement; or to gather the rich, ripe strawberries that lay concealed beneath the thick, tall grass that sighed before the breeze like the bosom of the ocean, fanned by the winds of heaven. Here, too, we gathered sweet blue violets, yellow buttercups, Ladies' traces and London pride, with all the beautiful variety of simple meadow flowers, and entwined them into pretty wreaths, or fragrant boquets. But the touch of time has rested upon this spot, and his finger has left a deep impress upon it. The sloping hills that surround it remain the same. The trees bear some traces of decay, but here stand the thorn bushes that used to scatter their showers of white blossoms around us like descending snow-flakes, still filled with green leaves and small red apples, surrounded by the prickly thorns that to all appearances are the same that we grasped fifty years ago.

The sand-hills where the juvenile part of the neighborhood used to congregate to celebrate the happy twilight hour in merry sports, have literally passed away; having been shovelled up and transported to the various places for many miles around, where the multiplicity of chimnies mark the increasing population of the village, that passing years have added to it.

As we pass the antiquated moss-covered bars that admit us into the dear old orchard, and cross the little brook that bubbles on forever in the same monotonous sound, requiring but one smooth round stepping stone for a bridge, we sigh and feel that the change of years is upon us, for here almost every thing speaks of decay. True the hills, the ponds, the rocks (and I had almost said the speckled tortoise that has crawled up to sun itself on their summit), remain the same.

Sit down on this dilapidated trunk, for the burden of years is upon us; and as I glance upon this frame, I can scarcely realize it is the same form that used to impress this spot with childish footprints. This trunk was then a beautiful, stately tree, bearing its leafy honors thick upon it, and laden with delicious golden fruit. But the glory of the orchard has departed, and why should we linger any longer in its confines, as it only awakens sad memories, and says in an audible voice,

"Chance and change are busy ever."

The carriage road that passes through it, almost blinding us with dust, was formerly a well beaten foot-path for the accommodation of the neighborhood as they walked from one part of it to the other. Let us follow the road up this steep aclivity, and enter the large capacious door-yard which contained several rods of land, and was surrounded by an old fashioned stone wall, which has been beaten by at least seventy-five winters' storms; and the thick covering of green moss upon it bespeaks its age.

The west end was crossed by a fence containing a small strip of land for the purpose of raising early summer vegetables. Here now is erected the splendid dwelling house of one of the wealthiest citizens of the village, and the garden is converted into front yard, building spot and back yard, containing all the usual necessary appendages to a dwelling place, so that here all traces of former days have passed from the spot, and only live inscribed upon the retentive tablet of Memory. On the east end was another small enclosure where we used to spend our leisure hours in the cultivation of flowers and medicinal plants. Here the tall lilac waved its graceful head beneath our bed-room window, and the morning sun, as he parted the rosy curtains of the eastern sky and came forth rejoicing to run his glad race, and pour a flood of golden light upon the earth, shot his first crimson rays upon the thick curtains of morning glories that hung clustering over our window, fragrant with their verdant leaves, and rich purple blossoms, and causing the dew-drops to glisten like sparkling diamonds, while the sweet odors of many scented flowers were borne upon every passing breeze. But could we now recognize this spot? oh no! the destroyer has been there, and there remains no trace of herb or flower; an ell has been built on to that end of the house, and the barn has been moved, so that our beautiful garden has been transformed into a door yard, and all traces of beauty are obliterated. Crossing the garden you next entered upon a large level lot covered with the richest grass that annually used to fall before the sythe of the mower, and descended by sloping hills to the above mentioned luxuriant meadow; through which ran a quiet winding stream that used to afford us an abundance of speckled trout and shining pickerel, to say nothing about the many play hours spent upon its margin; but now the stream is lost beneath the vast reservoir, and has washed away all traces of flowers, strawberries and verdant grass that used to mark its serpentine wanderings, by assuming a deeper green.

The west end of this enclosure was intersected by what used to be called Virginia fence, then crossed into two separate places dividing one into a sheep-pasture, the other into a large garden for the cultivation of winter vegetables. In the pasture used to graze a large flock of sheep, and the snowy lambs sported over the rocks and ran down the hillside; does this remain the same?

The rocks have been removed out of their places, and in their stead dwelling houses have been erected, and the busy hum of active life there resounds, and the prattling of children is heard instead of the bleating of lambs.

Crossing the stream upon the remains of an old dam, and passing the extent of meadow, we entered upon a rich clover field, adjoining which was the corn field, that in autumn used to be laden with yellow corn and golden pumpkins. Contiguous to this was a delightful grove composed of thrifty walnut trees, carefully cleared from under brush and covered with verdant grass, and ornamented here and there with a grassy hillock, that rendered it a pleasant retreat from the scorching rays of the summer sun. The air was filled with the notes of the feathered songsters that built their nests and warbled in their branches, mingling their music with the rustling leaves and the murmur of the distant spring that rippled near, for a gradual descent brought us down to the spring lot, which, with the grove and the swamp that lay