s it is the same with me! How old DEIDRICH
would frown, if he heard such an admission from those who boast as we do
the pure _Deutchen-blut_, the true Dutch blood!

What! two o'clock so soon! They have hung the ten-pail kettle that
contains the thick syrup upon a pole between two slender crotches, and
have already kindled a fire. How it bubbles and 'blubbers' up, like thick
hasty-pudding, with a dignified slowness that is inimitable. Now it rises
to the top of the kettle and will boil over! O, you needn't turn up your
nose at the slice of clean fat pork that Joe has just thrown in, for that
has saved our sugar. See, it gradually subsides till it rests a third way
down. You have heard that oil will still the surface of the sea; and the
oily part of the pork answers the same purpose with the boiling syrup. Now
it begins to granulate, swing it off. Here, drop some of it into this
bucket of cold water, and then poke it out with that pine stick, while I
run up on the side-hill yonder and get a pail of snow, which will cool it
faster. Ha, ha, ha! you do look handsome; suppose Meeta could see you with
your jaws stuck fast together with the candy, and your face looking like
the head of Medusa. While you are getting over the lock-jaw, I will trail
some on this snow to take home to little Sue, who begged me to bring her
back some maple candy. Now let us ride down home on the ox-sled, with the
huge tin pails full of the hot syrup, which wont get half cold before it
is safe in the farm-house pantry, in a half dozen well-buttered milk-pans
to harden for future use.

Once more in bed after a hearty supper; and once more out of it, too, for
the stage horn is blown. We must hurry or we are left; for it stops only
fifteen or twenty minutes to change the mail.

* * * * *

Yes, Peter, this Brookline _is_ a little cleaner than Broadway.

RELIGIOUS CONTROVERSY.

BY FLACCUS.

'Tantae ne animis coelestibus irae?' VIRGIL.

When the full-throated people of the air,
Harmonious preachers of the sweets of love,
That midway range, as half at home with heaven,
Are quiring, with a heartiness of joy
That the high tide of song o'erbrims the grove,
And far adown the meadow runs to waste;
How would the soul, there floating, loathe to mark
Sudden contention; sharp, discordant screams,
From throats whose single duty is a song!

Not with less sure revolting--a