t on his hand, given it a ride on his foot, and yet never
sang to it. I do not care a fig about melody of voice, or science in
quavering; I am not talking about sweetness of tone; what I mean to
say is, that I do not believe there is a man living, even though he
have no more voice than a raven, who is human, and yet never sang to
the baby, always assuming that he has one.

"A great institution," I repeated, half in soliloquy and half to my
wife.

"What in the world are you talking about?" said Mrs. H----, as she
took a pin from her mouth, and fastened the band that encircled the
waist of the baby. The nurse was looking quietly on, quite willing
that her work should be thus taken off her hands. Will somebody tell
me, if there ever was a grandmother, especially one who became such
young, who could sit by, and see the nurse dress her first, or even
her tenth grandchild, while it was a helpless little thing, say a foot
or a foot and a half long? The nurse is so unhandy; she tumbles the
baby about so roughly, handles it so awkwardly, she will certainly
dress it too loosely, or too tight, or leave a pin that will prick it,
or some terrible calamity will happen. So she takes possession of the
little thing, and with a hand guided by experience and the instincts
of affection, puts its things on in a Christian and comfortable way.

"A great institution!" I repeated again.

"I do believe the man has lost his wits," remarked Mrs. H----, handing
the baby to the nurse. "Who ever heard of a baby less than three
months old being called an institution?"

"Never heard of such a thing in my life," I replied, "though a much
greater mistake might be made."

"What then, in the name of goodness, have you been talking about?"
inquired Mrs. H----.

"The COUNTRY of course," I replied.

I had just returned from a business trip to Vermont--who ever thought
that Vermont would be traversed by railroads, or that the echoes which
dwell among her precipices and mountain fastnesses, would ever wake to
the snort of the iron horse? Who ever thought that the locomotive
would go screaming and thundering along the base of the Green
Mountains, hurling its ponderous train, loaded with human freight,
along the narrow valleys above which mountain peaks hide their heads
in the clouds? How old Ethan Allen and General Stark, "Old Put," and
the other glorious names that enrich the pages of our revolutionary
history, would open their eyes in astonishment, i