silvery bark, shedding a cool green light around, and casting a thousand dancing shadows on the mossy flowery path, pleasant to the eye and to the tread, a fit haunt for wood-nymph or fairy. There is always much of interest in the mystery of a wood; the uncertainty produced by the confined boundary; the objects which crowd together, and prevent the eye from penetrating to any distance; the strange flickering mixture of shadow and sunshine, the sudden flight of birds-oh, it was enchanting! I wandered on, quite regardless of time or distance, now admiring the beautiful wood-sorrel which sprang up amongst the old rootsnow plucking the fragrant wood-roof-now trying to count the countless varieties of woodland-moss, till, at length, roused by my foot's catching in a rich trail of the white-veined ivy, which crept, wreathing and interlaced, over the ground, I became aware that I was completely lost, had entirely forsaken all track, and out-travelled all landmarks. The wood was, I knew, extensive, and the ground so tumbled about, that every hundred yards presented some flowery slope or broken dell, which added greatly to the picturesqueness of the scenery, but much diminished my chance of discovery or extrication. In this emergency I determined to proceed straight onward, trusting in this way to reach at last one side of the wood, although I could not at all guess which; and I was greatly solaced, after having walked about a quarter of a mile, to find myself crossed by a rude cart-track; and still more delighted, on proceeding a short distance farther, to hear sounds of merriment and business; none of the softest, certainly, but which gave token of rustic habitation; and to emerge suddenly from the close wood, amongst an open grove of huge old trees, oaks with their brown-plaited leaves, cherries covered with snowy garlands, and beeches almost as gigantic as those of Windsor Park, contrasting, with their enormous trunks and majestic spread of bough, the light and flexible stems of the coppice I had left. I had come out at one of the highest points of the wood, and now stood on a platform overlooking a scene of extraordinary beauty. A little to the right, in a very narrow valley, stood an old farmhouse, with pointed roofs and porch and pinnacles, backed by a splendid orchard, which lay bathed in the sunshine, exhaling its fresh aromatic fragrance, all one flower; just under me was a strip of rich meadow land, through which a stream ran sparkling, and directly opposite a ridge of hanging coppices, surrounding and crowning, as it were, an immense old chalk-pit, which, overhung by bramble, ivy, and a hundred pendent weeds, irregular and weather-stained, had an air as venerable and romantic as some gray ruin. Seen in the gloom and stillness of evening, or by the pale glimpes of the moon, it would have required but little aid from the fancy to picture out the broken shafts and mouldering arches of some antique abbey. But, besides that daylight is the sworn enemy of such illusions, my attention was imperiously claimed by a reality of a very different kind. One of the gayest and noisiest operations of rural life-sheep-washing was going on in the valley below - "The turmoil that unites Clamor of boys with innocent despites Of barking dogs, and bleatings from strange fear." WORDSWORTH. All the inhabitants of the farm seemed assembled in the meadow. I counted a dozen, at least, of men and boys of all ages, from the stout, sunburnt, vigorous farmer of fifty, who presided over the operation, down to the eight-year old urchin, who, screaming, running, and shaking his ineffectual stick after an eloped sheep, served as a sort of aid-de-camp to the sheepdog. What a glorious scene of confusion it was! what shouting! what scuffling! what glee! Four or five young men, and one amazon of a barefooted girl, with her petticoats tucked up to her knees, stood in the water where it was pent between two hurdles, ducking, sousing, and holding down by main force the poor, frightened, struggling sheep, who kicked, and plunged, and bleated, and butted, and, in spite of their imputed innocence, would certainly, in the ardor of self-defence, have committed half-a-dozen homicides, if their power had equalled their inclination. The rest of the party were fully occupied; some in conducting the purified sheep, who showed a strong disposition to go the wrong way, back to their quarters; others in leading the uncleansed part of the flock to their destined ablution, from which they also testified a very ardent and active desire to escape. Dogs, men, boys, and girls were engaged in marshalling these double processions, the order of which was constantly interrupted by the outbreaking of some runaway sheep, who turned the march into a pursuit, to the momentary increase of the din which seemed already to have reached the highest possible pitch. The only quiet persons in the field were a delicate child of nine years old and a blooming woman of forty-five a comely, blooming woman, with dark hair, bright eyes, and a complexion like a daisy, who stood watching the sheep-washers with the happiest smiles, and was evidently the mother of half the lads and lasses in the mélée. It would be, and it was, no other than my friend Mrs. Bond, and resolving to make myself and my difficulties known to her, I scrambled down no very smooth or convenient path, and keeping a gate between me and the scene of action, contrived, after sundry efforts, to attract her attention. Here, of course, my difficulties ceased. But if I were to tell how glad she was to see her old neighbor, how full of kind questions and of hospitable cares how she would cut the great cake intended for the next day's sheep-shearing, would tap her two-year-old currant wine, would gather a whole bush of early honeysuckles, and finally would see me home herself, I being, as she observed, rather given to losing my way if I were to tell all these things, when should I have done? I will rather conclude in the words of an old French fairy tale : "Je crains déjà d'avoir abusé de la patience du lecteur. Je finis avant qu'i me dise finir." - DAVID MACBETH MOIR. MOIR, DAVID MACBETH, a Scottish novelist and medical writer; born at Musselburgh, near Edinburgh, January 5, 1798; died at Dumfries, July 6, 1851. He contributed to "Blackwood's" and other magazines under the pseudonym "Delta." Before the com. pletion of his college course he had published anonymously a volume entitled "The Bombardment of Algiers, and Other Poems." In 1824 he put forth "The Legend of Genevieve, and Other Tales and Poems;" and in 1828 a novel, "The Autobiography of Mansie Wauch," which had previously appeared in "Blackwood's." His other publications are "Outlines of the Ancient History of Medicine" (1829); "Practical Observations on Malignant Cholera" and "Proofs of the Contagion of Malignant Cholera" (1832); "Domestic Verses" (1843), and "Sketches of the Poetical Literature of the Last Half Century" (1851). CASA WAPPY. AND hast thou sought thy heavenly home, The realms where sorrow dare not come, Pure at thy death as at thy birth, Thy spirit caught no taint from earth; Despair was in our last farewell, Tears of our anguish may not tell Words may not paint our grief for thee; Of our unfathomed agony; Casa Wappy! Thou wert a vision of delight Beauty embodied to our sight, A type of heaven! So dear to us thou wert, thou art Thy bright, brief day knew no decline, Sunrise and night alone were thine, This morn beheld thee blithe and gay; Gem of our hearth, our household pride, Could love have saved, thou hadst not died, Humbly we bow to Fate's decree; Yet had we hoped that Time should see We mourn for thee when blind, blank night We pine for thee when morn's first light The sun, the moon, the stars, the sea, All to the wall-flower and wild-pea,- And though, perchance, a smile may gleam It doth not own, whate'er may seem, We miss thy small step on the stair; Snows muffled earth when thou didst go, Down to the appointed house below- But now the green leaves of the tree, |