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I HEAR the echoing tread of Time
Down the dim galleries of the Past,
And in the funeral train of years,

I follow where my way was cast:
And pausing where October's moon
Hangs pale above the setting sun,
I gather up the golden hours,

And count them over, one by one:
I hush my heart's low wail, and keep
The record only with my tears,
As in the graves of banished joys
I bury all my hopes and fears.

I see October's yellow moon

Climb higher o'er the misty hills:
And where the woods are swart and brown,
I watch it nightly, as it fills:

Its shimmering light lies braided thick,
With shadows, checkering all the way;
Where underneath the chestnut boughs,
I weave sweet fancies, as I stray.

The NIGHT and I are all alone:

And gathering up the moon-light sheaves,
We follow in the South Wind's wake,

Among the drifts of yellow leaves:
I lock sweet dreamings in my heart,
And smile, as lightly up and down,
Hunting the silver nuts,
Among the wood-paths, crisp and brown.


Two shadows in the moon-light lie,

Where only mine was lately shown:
And 'mong the beds of rustling leaves
I hunt the white nuts not alone.
No more I list the south wind's call,

As 'mid the eddying leaves they hide :
For all my soul is hushed to hear,

The low voice whispering by my side.

No more I see the moon-light face

In white drifts where the hedges rise:
For like sweet sun-shine lies in mine
The love-light of two earnest eyes.
And silently the night has put

Her snowy fingers from my own:
While locked within another clasp,

My hand more tremulous hath grown.

O sweetest of all twilight moons!

Born 'mid the cloud-rifts of the west:
And cradled like a thing of love,
Upon the young October's breast:


As night by night thy slender bow
Grew large, and red, and wondrous bright,
I pushed aside the bars of care,

That shut my spirit from the light:
And underneath thy guardian smile
I wandered with the night apart,
Feeling a wild and wondrous joy

Lifting the shadows from my heart.
And when thy waning beams at morn
Fell slant and pale across my face,
My heart, grown yet more full of hope,
Held all of heaven in its embrace.
And yet it trembled, half in fear,

Lest light might deepen into shade:
For is there not 'a happiness

That makes the heart afraid?'

Too soon, alas! the warning fear

Foretold the dark and dreadful doom:
For o'er my brief, bright day of bliss,
Gathered a night of fearful gloom.

Beneath the twilight's ashen hood,

Three slender moons since then have peered,
Thrusting their sickles through the rifts

Of clouds up-gathered, wild and weird :
The nights are dismal - and the winds
Along the lonesome valleys moan;
And where the woods are chill and dark,
I watch their filling, all alone.

Oh! with the sweet October moon,

Bright hopes like meteors came and went:

But now, the darkness of my heaven

Is deeper for the light they lent.


WHEN years elapse,

It may, perhaps,

Delight us to review these scraps:

And live again 'mid scenes so gay,

Which TIME's rough hand had swept away:

For when the eye, bedimmed with age,

Shall rest upon each treasured page,

Those pleasant hours,

That once were ours,

Will come again, like autumn flowers,

That bloom and smile upon us here:

When all things else seem sad and drear,

We'll tune our hearts, and make them sing,
And turn our Autumn into Spring.

Buffalo, (N. Y.,) 1857.




FIFTY years ago, more or less, the Scribe' was a flaxen-headed, knock-kneed, gray-eyed boy, just big enough to scare the crows away from his paternal ancestor's corn-field, and from the young turkeys, which were the delight of his mother's heart. This, to the best of his knowledge and belief, as they say in court, (which is tantamount, we suppose, to saying that it is a solemn fact, for we presume the courts do not compel a man to testify to what he has no knowledge of, or belief in,) was his earliest occupation. And he well remembers that it was a glorious one, inasmuch as it earned for him no small amount of the birch, as well as sugar-candy.

These glossy little 'varmints,' the crows, were very destructive to the young poultry, as they went forth, day by day, in pursuit of grass-hoppers, and to the tender shoots of corn, as they peeped out of the earth in the early spring, to seek the genial rays of the sun, and regale themselves in the cooling zephyrs.

Now, by what right the aforesaid sable gentry claimed a large share of his mother's and father's property, or won for him so many introductions to the rod, the Scribe could never gather from the law-books-and he has studied them profoundly for knowledge on this point, even to Chitty on Bills, and the learned Hooker upon Laws in general, and ecclesiastical laws in particular, without arriving at a satisfactory conclusion. It is a source of irritation and mortification to the present day, that the books are silent on the subject. He has never indeed been called upon to plead a cause of the kind and he hopes never to be for without more light from the books, he could hardly expect, in such a cause, to rival the speech of Pinkney in the case of the Nereide!

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But not to dwell on particulars, we sum up the cause in these words: The crows surely had a right, or they would not have trespassed so glaringly, in the face of day, upon the rights and property of another."

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Now, the reader, we trust, will not get up the idea, that the early experiences of the Scribe' in crow-scaring, were overresplendent with noble exploits; for as they are a wise folk, it must be related to their honor and fame, (which it is said from 'no conditions rise') that they often proved to be too smart for him. His weapon, offensive and defensive, was a long stick, which he bore with a defiant and triumphant air, upon his shoulders, and which, ever and anon, as time and chance permitted, he pointed at one of his crafty little enemies, and screamed at the top of his voice: 'B-a-n-g g-a-w!' But it was no gun! there was no smoke! and the feathers flew away with the meat!' His crowship as emphatically replied, 'C-a-w, c-a-w!' as he bore off, in his pride and naughtiness, a young turkey, or plucked up a grain of corn.

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Years added to the Scribe's stature; he got tired of shams and pretensions, and has ever remained of the opinion that they are too insignificant to pay. A genuine gun was introduced, and though 'the Scribe' was wholly unable to see straight enough to shoot one of them, yet, as they were not aware of the fact, you may rest assured that their 'sable majesties' had no desire of trifling with that instrument. They understood powder too well, to be caught a-napping. But it saved the corn and turkeys; the Scribe was minus the birch, and plus the sugar-candy!

In the course of events, it so happened that our friend 'the Scribe,' having graduated with many marks of honor in this profession, was sent to school. That, I consider, was the grandest epoch of his life, as it marked his entrance upon the theatre of that great world in which he has played so important a part.

His débût was made in a full suit of home-spun, as red as sumach and sundry other compounds could make it. The boys called him the 'Red Fox,' which was the occasion of three fights the first day, (the Scribe was not as wise then as he grew afterward,) and two or three bit thumbs, and several black eyes, not to name the floggings. However, as all novitiates at school, have to go through the mills' to be ground into something like decency and commonsense, the Scribe passed through his probation, was ground, and ground, and re-ground, until he finally became one of 'em,' and was ready to play his part in grinding over all new-comers.


We write not this for the benefit of philosophers, or those learned in the law and natural sciences, but for the comfort of all boys who have a rough road to travel, on entering a school as novices. They must submit to be ground over. It is a universal law, from which there is no escape. We pity the petted, chicken-hearted fellow, who has all his life been only Mamma's darling son,' and had his own way, even to the kicking over of the table, and breaking all the china, when we behold him gathering up his books and his limbs for an entrance upon the dread realities of that life yclept 'school-boy days'! Many a knock and punch in the ribs art thou destined to wince and groan under, my pet lamb'! But we will add no more, lest we alarm the tender nerves of some of the great ones yet to be !

It must be told, as we pass along, that the institution into which we have seen our young friend introduced, was a neighborhood affair, composed of boys and girls-the best sort of a school, we must remark, by way of episode for we cordially believe, that more great men, not to speak of women, are manufactured at them than at any other.

And now, Sir, with your permission, I will ask you a question. Did you ever know of a country institution, devoted to the scholastic interests of the young, composed of boys and girls, that was minus another institution, which, whatever may be said against it, can at least boast the sanction of age, namely, the institution of SWEET-HEARTS? If you did, you are wiser than most folks. Be this as it may, we are bold to assert, that every boy, who was not

too abominably ill-favored, at the aforesaid school, not even excepting the Scribe, hard-looking and unprepossessing as he was, (we cannot answer for other schools of similar ilk,) had his sweetheart.

Our 'Scribe,' we have no doubt, thought, and still thinks, that his little lady-love was 'the flower of the flock.' Her dark, sparkling, hazel eyes, and long raven locks, falling gracefully over her plump, alabaster shoulders; her soft and gentle voice, and coy but winning manners, made an impression upon his heart, not easily effaced. It is no wonder, then, that the youthful Scribe fell desperately in love; but he never had the courage to reveal the story, nor did he ever give the slightest intimation of the passion that consumed his vitals,'

at any other period than the cherry season whereby hangs a story, which proves that 'the course of true love never did run smooth.'

This joyous period- the time of ripe cherries-brought with it a seasonable opportunity of revealing his passion to his fair little companion. But whether she ever took the hint, the Scribe' of the present day 'saith not.'

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Six stately 'red-hearts' spread their majestic proportions around the rude log school-house superb trees they were, and bore abundantly the most delicious fruits. When they were ripe, and in their glory, it was the youthful 'Scribe's delight to explore the highest branches, and cast down in profusion the fullest boughs of the tempting fruit to the fair Imogene, thus making tongues of cherries to tell the story of his love! Ah! those were halcyon days full of love, full of life, full of joy! But alas! alas! for human joys! the best, the brightest are too often dashed with the wormwood and the gall!'


One day, long to be remembered, the 'Scribe' and Bob Jones both essayed to secure the same tempting bough, and in the struggle the limb that bore the aforesaid Bob, gave way, when down, down went Bob; and alas! 'the Scribe'

'Çame tumbling after him ;'

and great indeed was the fall and its consequences!

Bob reached the ground first, feet foremost, and 'the Scribe' landed exactly on the top of Bob's head, by which catastrophe, Bob's neck was not broken, but dreadfully crooked and twisted, insomuch that ever after he bore, and rightly, the soubriquet of 'Crooked-necked Bob Jones!'

It was a dreadful affair! The master's bell rang and forthwith a coup d'etat was issued to the effect, that henceforth and forever, no boy was to dare to ascend a cherry-tree at the hazard of the ratan! That fixed the matter. We knew the virtue of that ratan too well, to be over-prone to test it!

The jays, robins, cat-birds, etc., thereafter derived all the benefits of the cherries, saving only the few that we could 'club down.'

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