amiliar woods and dreamed of the happy long ago,
until a gang of blackbirds, spluttering in a neighboring treetop woke
me. And when I rose from the log and threw myself into the shape of an
interrogation point, and touched the trigger, at the crack of my rifle
old bullfrogg shot into the pond; the hoot-owl "scooted" into his castle
in the trunk of an old hollow tree; the blackbirds cut the "asymptote of
a hyperbolical curve" in the air; the squirrel fell to the ground at my
feet, with a bullet through his brain, and there was silence--silence in
the frog pond; silence in the trees; silence in "Sleepy Hollow;" silence
all around me.

I shouldered my rifle and wended my way back to the old homestead on the
bank of the river and silence was there. The voices of the happy long
ago were hushed. The old time darkies were sleeping on the hill, close
by the spot where my father sleeps. The moss-covered bucket was gone
from the well. The old barn sheds had "creeled." The old house where
I was born was silent and deserted.

As I looked upon these scenes of my earliest recollection, I was
softened and subdued into a sweet pensive sorrow, which only the
happiest and holiest associations of by-gone years can call into being.
There are times in our lives when grief lies heaviest on the soul; when
memory weeps; when gathering clouds of mournful melancholy pour out
their floods and drown the heart in tears.

Oh, beautiful isle of memory, lighted by the morning star of life! where
the roses bloom by the door, where the robins sing among the apple
blossoms, where bright waters ripple in eternal melody! There are echoes
of songs that are sung no more; tender words spoken by lips that are
dust; blessings from hearts that are still. There's a useless cradle,
and a broken doll; a sunny tress, and an empty garment folded away;
there's a lock of silvered hair, and an unforgotten prayer, and _mother_
is sleeping there!

DREAMS OF THE YEARS TO COME.

[Illustration: AMBITION'S DREAM.]

There, under the shade of the sycamores, on my father's old farm, I used
to dream of the years to come. I looked through a vista blooming with
pleasures, fruiting with achievements, and beautiful as the cloud-isles
of the sunset. The siren, ambition, sat beside me and fired my young
heart with her prophetic song. She dazzled me, and charmed me, and
soothed me, into sweet fantastic reveries. She touched me and bade me
look into the wondrous future. Th