nd moor and hill,
His noisy song was lost.
Upon the pillow, soft and white,
I nestled down once more,
To think about this Postman, who
Goes singing all the dark world through,
And beats a noisy, wild tattoo
On every winter door.
And when again with joy I saw
The frosty sunshine glow,
I quickly drew the blind aside,
And through the frosty window spied
The letters he had scattered wide
In drifts of dazzling snow.
The leafless trees stood mute and still
By snowy field and lawn;
Each twig was graced with whiteness new,
And everything that met the view
Showed how the Storm, the Postman true.
Had done his work and--gone.

THE HOOF-MARK ON THE WALL.

A German Legend.

If you visit the Castle of Nuremberg, in South Germany, you are certain
to be shown a mark, said to be that of a horse's hoof, on the top of the
outer wall; and the following story will be told to you, to account for
its presence.

Some four hundred years ago there was constant war between the Count of
Gailingen and the citizens of Nuremberg, and, after numerous encounters,
the Count had at last the misfortune to fall into the hands of his
enemies, and was at once imprisoned in one of the gloomy dungeons of
Nuremberg Castle.

This was bad enough, but worse was to follow, for, on the meeting of the
magistrates, the young Count was sentenced to be beheaded, and the
sentence was to be carried out on the following day.

First of all, however, according to an old Nuremberg custom, the
condemned man was allowed to have a last request granted--whatever that
request might be.

'Let me.' said the Count, 'once more mount my faithful charger, and ride
him round the courtyard of the castle.'

No sooner said than done! The beautiful black steed, that had so often
carried his master to victory, was saddled, and horse and master met
once more under the open sky.

The Count patted the horse's arched neck, and leapt into the saddle; the
horse began to prance and kick up his heels, as he had been taught to
do. This made such a dust that the attendants were glad to shelter
themselves in the guard-room.

'Let the Count enjoy himself; it is his last chance,' said his jailers.
'Our walls are too high for escape, and we can take things easily.'

So they troubled themselves but little over either horse or rider, and
the Count felt that now or never was his chance.

The walls were very high, and beyond