'IN the motion of the very leaves of spring, in the blue air there is found a secret correspondence with the heart. There is eloquence in the tongueless wind, and a melody in flowing brooks, and in the whistle of the reeds beside them, which, by their inconceivable relation to something within the soul, awaken the spirit to a dance of breathless rapture, or bring tears of deep mysterious tenderness to the eyes-like the enthusiasm of patriotic success, or the voice of one beloved singing to you alone.'

SHELLEY'S LETTERS.

'THE feet of the avenging deities are shod with wool,' says the old Greek proverb, and its truth is never more deeply felt than when the sounds and shows of spring, the voices and occupations of little children, become the plummet to stir the dark waters of remorse that underlie almost every human experience.

We, in our wisdom, forgetting that we are but children of older growth, are accustomed to speak of the joys and sorrows of childhood as slight and transitory; things of little note. But is it so?

Let each one look into his own heart; let him ask himself what memories bring the brightest flush of pleasure to the cheek, or the keenest pang of remorse to the heart, and he will find them those which stretch up from these mis-judged and slighted days.

At least I have found it so, else the laughing voices of those children yonder would have no power to bring up reflections like these. Years lie between the present and the hour they recall, yet its shadow has followed fast on my foot-steps, and will never be lifted from my path until it is lost in the darker one from the valley of death, and I am able to say, in the language of the blessed land that lies beyond, the words I have so oft repeated here- Forgive!'

And yet it is a pleasant scene- those children on the massive old horse-block yonder, (famous in the annals of my own childhood as the seat of many a mighty consultation; the citadel of retreat when wet floors or any other domestic operation made our presence de trop in the house,) with the old knife,' theirs in virtue of its dulness ever since they have been old enough to use such an article, busy in the manufacture of whistles from the golden branches of the willow, whose pale-green catkins lie scattered at their feet, while the chenille-like tassels of the maples above them droop idly in the warm sun-shine, and the air around is filled with the slumberous hum of a pioneer-company of yellow-coated bees, who are already rioting on the blossoms of the maples.

The old house-dog lies near them, in a warm nook, with his nose thrust between his out-stretched paws, lazily watching their proceedings from under his half-shut eye-lids. He evidently considers himself a judge of such matters; (well he may, old Bruno, for he has seen more years than either of those brown heads above him ;) for as they spring to their feet, sending down a whole shower of chips and twigs, and blow a surill

blast of triumph in proof of their success, he rouses up and gives a short bark, as much as to say, 'Pretty well done!' then, shaking himself, and turning round in his steps two or three times, he again resumes his watchful posture, while the golden oriole, glinting about among the white blossoms of the plum-tree, like a moving flame, nods his shining head as he utters his note of approval, which is caught up by the bobolinkums in the apple-trees, who, doubtless, utter many a wise and witty criticism on willow-whistles and musical instruments in general; but, unfortunately, they are poured forth with such volubility, that neither the children nor the dog, nor myself, are any the wiser for them.

This is what is visible to the casual eye; but, under the influence of that mysterious law of correspondences of which Shelley speaks, I see through the fast-gathering tears more, much more; and feel again the touch of little fingers that I know have long, long since lain still beneath the grave-sod; and we arrange again, as of old, our tea-sets of acorncups and saucers, our bits of broken china, in the great knot-hole beneath the second steps of the old horse-block that for years served us as a cupboard.

Anne E. and I were play-mates from infancy; our babies, toys, and tools (tool perhaps I should say, our whole possession consisting in a Barlow-knife) were joint-stock; together we threaded the woods in spring to gather flowers or winter-green, and in the smoky autumn-days made nutting-expeditions to the hills.

We were neighbors-country-neighbors our homes being nearly a half mile apart; and though the old E house has long since been levelled to the ground, and naught remains to mark its site save a sunken spot of deeper green than the surrounding meadow, and here and there a straggling red rose-bush and a patch of yellow lilies or 'live-for-ever,' I can see the quaint old bui'ding as plainly as if it stood there now, with its sharp roof slanting on the east and north almost to the ground; its little narrow windows stuck in here and there without any reference to order or regularity; the deep-green yard, with its clumps of snow-balls and lilacs by the front gate; the tall laurels and damask roses beneath the windows; the striped grass' on each side of the low door-step; the 'entry-way,' with its fresh, crispy mat of braided corn-husks; the great front room, with the white sand drawn in zig-zag patterns over the floor; the green branches of asparagus, with its red berries, in the great open fire-place, and above the small, dark-framed mirror; the high-backed, capacious chairs, with their cushions of patch-work in stars and diamonds of all sizes and colors. That great armed-chair with the blue and buff cushion was old Captain E- -'s: that I know well, for the cushion had been made from what the moths had left of the coat which he had worn at the taking of Stony Point under General Wayne.

The door-yard was our favorite place of resort. Here, in one corner, was Anne's garden, and hither from the gardens and the woods we brought in our aprons

'DAFFODILS,

That come before the swallow dares, and take
The winds of March with beauty; violets dim,
But sweeter than the lids of JUNO's eyes,
Or CYTHEREA's breath: '

fragile anemones and bashful liver-leaf; spotted adders' tongues, and dandelions, and butter-cups,

The child's inheritance from GOD;'

together with handfuls of daisies,

"The emprise and the flour of flouris all;'

the darling of the poets, that with

'SILVER Shield and boss of gold

Doth spread itself, some fairy bold
In fight to cover:'

sweet, fresh, fragrant, beautiful things, but, as we gathered them, rootless, and too often stemless, which scarcely had we planted in our wee borders, ere they drooped and died beneath the ardent rays of

'Bright PHŒBUs in his strength.'

Saturdays were our only holidays, and we usually spent them together. One day it was about this time of year-I went up to see Anne and finish some gardening operations which we had planned on our way home from school the evening before. It was just such a lovely spring-day as this: the swallows twittered on the ridge of the barn, and made sudden, side-long dives into the yard, as if drunken with joy; the house-martins, in their glossy, blue-black livery, flew back and forth into their miniature dwelling beneath the eaves, and chattered as noisily as so many politicians in convention; a wood-pecker, with a scarlet cowl, was drumming away upon a decayed limb of the old 'pound-sweeting' apple-tree by the garden-gate, quite unmindful of our childish speculations as to how he contrived to stand with his back downward, while from the hill-side woods' came the mournful note of the ring-dove. The air was full of fragrance from the lilacs and apple-blossoms, and murmurous with the droning hum of insects; the black-birds circled in flocks about the cornfields, while a sentinel-crow sat perched upon the top-most branch of a tall white-wood that over-looked the field where Mr. É- - was planting corn, and at intervals sent forth his hoarse cry to notify his companions that he did not sleep at his post.

Some how, our work did not progress very well that day. Several things occurred to try our patience, of which we had neither of us any great share. We were told that we could not have the nice white shingles which we had selected from a pile in the cow-house, to build a fence around our garden a feat which we intended to perform with the aid of our 'Barlow-knife'-because Mr. E. -wanted them to patch the roof of the barn; and we were obliged to carry them back, and take up with some old, brown, mildewed things which lay in the yard; then, when we had, at last, got our pickets all up, little Willie, Anne's brother, in his haste to escape from a belligerent turkey-cock of which he stood in no small fear, pitched head-long into our garden, and demolished one whole side of our fence.

Willie was a delicate little boy, never very strong, with hair as flossy

and soft as the milk-weed down, and eyes like the blue violets by the brook-side in spring. We loved him dearly, very dearly-yes, we did love him, and sometimes made quite a pet of him, decking him out with chains and curls of dandelions, or wreaths of wild-roses, and carrying him all around the yard, and even down to the brook, in a 'lady-chair' made of our crossed hands, while his little clinging arms encircled our necks; but- but there came times, and not unfrequently, when the little fellow's company was any thing but agrecable to us, and we made him, young as he was, feel it. Perhaps we wanted to go after rasp-berries, or flowers, or down to the brook after 'cat-tails' to make beds for our babies, or to hunt for young birch in the woods; and many and wondrous were the reasons we gave why he could not accompany us.

There were more lions in the way than ever troubled poor Christian on his road to the Celestial City; bears and snakes and foxes; and what if we should meet the terrible wolf that ate up little Red Riding-Hood and her grand-mother.' Certainly there was Mr. Ford's old black dog on the way, who had been known to snap at old Ham Asher, to say nothing of the black heifer that had shaken her head at us once, as we peered through the fence at her calf.

But, some how, whether we had not learned well the story-teller's art, or lacked faith in our own words, they did not make a very lasting impression on Willie; his eyes would grow very large and round while we were speaking, but before we were half way through the lane at the back of the house, we were almost always sure to see him following slowly on our tracks; stopping every time we stopped, and keeping just such a distance in our rear, until we were forced to permit him to go with us, or return to the house.

He

Poor little fellow! we knew he was very sorry for the mischief he had done to our garden that day, but we were out of temper and cross; so we scolded him severely, telling him to 'Clear out; you're always where you're not wanted!' with many other harsh, unkind words. did not cry—he seldom did — but he looked up a moment at us with his great, dewy blue eyes, and turning very red, went and sat on the low door-step, watching us stealthily from under the brim of his little strawhat.

We had put the finishing-touch to our garden, and were admiring our skill, when two of our school-mates came along, driving a flock of geese and goslins before them, to the music of willow-whistles. They paused a moment by the gate, and scarcely bestowing a glance upon our garden, vaunted the merits of their instruments, coupled with pretty broad hints that such wonderful things were altogether beyond our reach.

We, in return, spoke with a good deal of disdain of willow as a material for whistles, and lauded chestnut to the skies. 'Ours would be of chestnut!' and as soon as their backs were turned down the street, we began to debate the propriety of going after some chestnut, and devoting the rest of the day to the construction of whistles.

Of course we did not wish Willie to accompany us on this expedition; so, slipping our sun-bonnets under our aprons, we walked very demurely

around the corner of the house, then ran down the lane at the top of our speed. Our stratagem was successful: when we reached the bridge, he was still seated on the door-step, for his little red dress and straw-hat were plainly visible.

We were gone much longer than we thought, for some of the sprouts were too large, some crooked or had knots in them; beside, we made rather slow progress in severing them with our old knife. When we returned, we found Willie fast asleep in the meadow, a little way from the brook. It had been raining the day before, and the ground where he lay was low and very damp.

By this time we had got quite over our vexation about the fence, and rousing him up, showed him our sticks, and promised him a whistle; but he was feverish and fretful, and we were glad to take him to his mother. The next day was Sunday, and I wondered all sermon-time why none of Mr. E's family were at meeting. As we came home at noon, we overtook old Mrs. Ford, and I heard her tell my mother that little Willie E- had got the scarlet-fever.

'He ha'n't been well for some days,' she went on, 'and yesterday he took a dreadful cold by sleeping on the wet ground. Here's your slip of a girl,' she continued, turning to me; I guess she knows something about it, for I saw Anne and her flying about like bees yesterday.'

Then, how guilty I felt! The harsh words we had spoken to the little boy the day before, seemed choking me. I knew that if we had staid at home and played with him, he would not have fallen asleep on that wet ground; so I followed on slowly behind my mother and Mrs. Ford, longing to hear them say that he would get well, but not daring to ask.

I never saw little Willie again. For four or five days I watched the Doctor's sulky as it came down the street, and followed my mother out to the gate, to hear what reply he made to her queries after his patient; then, one morning when mother came into the room to call us up, sat down on the side of the bed, and told us that little Willie E―― was dead.

she

In spite of her dread of bringing the disease among her own flock, our good mother had watched with him the night before; and she told us how he did not know her, nor even his own father and mother: but once in the evening, when, yielding to Anne's cries and entreaties, they had permitted her to see him a moment, he had seemed to recognize her for a brief second, and had whispered, as she bent down to kiss him: 'Willie sorry, Sissie!'

The very words he had said, or tried to say to us, that day we scolded him so severely for disturbing our garden; words which neither she nor I ever forgot.

They would not let me attend the funeral, but I watched the procession as it came down the street. I could see the little coffin, for they did not put him in the heavy, black, gloomy hearse, but old 'Squire A took it in his open carriage; and when they came opposite our house, I sobbed bitterly, and longed to go out and whisper in the closed ears of my little playmate :

'O Willie, Willie!-I, I too am sorry!'