sters of rosy, happy children, clambering about its
crumbling top; little knots of men too in the road beyond--evidently
expecting something. Even this is in keeping with the poet's grave,
which should not be sombre and melancholy, like other graves; and what
could better embellish and enliven its aspect than young, blushing life
clustering around it? We linger awhile among the boisterous children
playing on the churchyard wall, and then we hear a confused sound of
voices and music in the distance.

"What is this we hear, my friend?" we inquire.

"It is the harvest-home; if you wait you will see the procession."

We turn out upon the high road, and soon come upon the first signs of
this Danish festival. An open gravelled space of some extent stretches
out before an imposing mansion of modern appearance; a plantation of
trees on each side shapes the space into a rude semicircle. This mansion
is the manor house, and in front, in the midst of a confused crowd, some
dozen young men in gay sylvan costumes are standing in a circle, armed
with flails, and vigorously threshing the ground. Jolly, hearty young
fellows they are, and a merry chant they raise. One eager thresher in
his zeal breaks his flail at the bend, and a shout from the bystanders
greets the exploit.

Now they thresh their way from the great house to a hostelry where the
remaining portion of the pageant is awaiting their arrival. Let us stand
a little on one side and view the procession. The threshers lead the
way, singing and plying their flails as they advance, thus effectually
clearing the road for the rest. A merry group of other threshers, each
with his lass upon his arm, and his flail swung across his shoulder, come
tripping after, singing the harvest song and dancing to their own music.
Now a rude wooden car comes lumbering on, and within sits a grave man in
old German costume, who from a large sack before him takes handsful of
grain, and liberally casts it about him. This is the sower, but the
grain is in this instance only chaff. Now follow heavy instruments of
husbandry--ploughs and harrows--while rakes, scythes, and reaping-hooks
form a picturesque trophy behind them. A shout of laughter greets the
next figure in the procession, for it is no other than the jolly god
Bacchus. And a hearty, rubicund, big-bellied god he is, and very decent,
too, being decorously clad in a brown suit turned up with red, and cut in
the fashion of the time o