"This day dame Nature seemed in love:
The lusty sap began to move;

Fresh juice did stir th' embracing vines,
And birds had drawn their valentines-

The showers were short, the weather mild,
The morning fresh, the evening smiled,
Ioan takes her neat rubb'd pail, and now
She trips to milk the sand-red cow;

Where, for some sturdy foot-ball swain,
Ioan strokes a sylabul or twain,
The field's and gardens were beset
With tulips, crocus, violet:"

The brothers arrived at the "Thatched house," where they tarry the night, to meet before sunrise on the morrow, at Amwell hill, God willing.

Beautifully on the morrow did the rising sun pour his golden light down Amwell-hill, over the dewy meadow, "chequered with water-lilies and lady-smocks," where, true to their engagement, Piscator and Venator met to enjoy the exciting sport of hunting Otter. The former seems unusually enthusiastic. He is determined that "no reasonable hedge or ditch shall hold him" Rare success too, have the huntsmen this day. Kilbuck, Ringwood and Sweet lips do bravely and when the chase is over, exultingly the whole party go to an honest Ale-house "to take a cup of good Barley-wine, and sing Old Rose, and rejoice together."

Soon, however, Piscator with his disciple leaves, being eager to free himself from uncongenial, and irreverent associates; and while journeying together toward that shaded hole, where the largest Chub with a white spot on his tail was skillfully caught, the time is not unimproved. Now, as ever, good Izaak Walton breathed out from his soul that gentle Christian piety, which adds such charm and warmth to his inimitable style. Listen as he thus answers Venator's question relative to the host they had just left. I quote the whole passage as a worthy lesson.

"And now to your question concerning your Host. To speak truly, he is not to me a good companion: for most of his conceits were either Scripture jests, or lascivious jests; for which I count no man witty; for the Devil will help a man that way inclined, to the first; and his own corrupt nature, which he always carries with him, to the latter; but a companion that feasts the company with wit and mirth and leaves out the sin which is usually mixed with them, he is the man. . . . . . . And let me tell you, good company and good discourse are the very sinews of virtue; but for such discourse as we heard last night, it infects others, the very boys will learn to talk and swear as they heard mine Host, and another of the company that shall be nameless: I am sorry the other is a gentleman, for less religion will not save their souls than a beggar's: I think more will be required at the last great day. Well, you know what example is able to do; and I know what the Poet says

in the like case, which is worthy to be noted by all parents and people of civility:

Many a one

Owes to his country his religion:

And in another world as strongly grow,

Had but his nurse or mother taught him so.”

Not only does the honest fisherman in this way give us at times direct and somewhat lengthy homilies, but every where throughout his book, with the happiest freedom, and choicest appropriateness, he teaches us the necessity of infusing into our recreations the spirit of Christian piety. When mine Hostess, both cleanly, and handsome, and civil, had cooked as directed that chub so skillfully caught, grace must be said before they fell to eating it. When there seems to be no way of using the cheven caught by the promising disciple in way of lesson, it must be given to the poor; for as Piscator says: "It is a good beginning of your art to offer your first fruits to the poor, who will both thank God and you for it." And when, after catching the trout with unmistakable mastery of the art, they are anticipating their joyful return to my hostess, there to meet Peter, "a good angler, and cheerful companion," they must find some harmless sport to content them, and pass away a little time without offence to God or Man." There is something refreshing to the spirit in all this; and we are not at all surprised, that such a writer, when referring to any of his friends deceased, can so reverently and almost uniformly add, "now with God." Time forbids our unfolding this peculiar characteristic of the "Compleat Angler" any further.

Along with such pious contemplativeness, as is conspicuous from what has been already quoted, there is a peculiarly fine appreciation of whatever is beautiful and lovely in nature. You find no florid language, no evident attempt to fit a thought to splendid and prepared drapery, no laborious effort to hunt out startling combinations, and far fetched analogies; but, on the contrary, you find the freshness and simplicity of Chaucer. There are no high flights of imagination, it is true; no impassioned bursts of poetic feeling; but you can see the pastoral beauties of nature, winding streams, dewy meadows, brook-sides with shady beeches and fragrant vines, indeed the all of gentle loveliness that the country gives, you can see sweetly imaged in the calm depths of a pious soul full of the love of it, as you may have seen the crimson and purple clouds of evening more softly tinted far down beneath the unruffled surface of a mountain embosomed lake. We cannot forbear quoting in concluding this article, one more passage, illustrating what has just been said.

"Look you, scholar, thereabout we shall have a bite presently, or not at all. Have with you, Sir! O my word I have hold of him. Oh! it is a great loggerheaded chub; come, hang him upon that willow twig, and lets be going. But turn out of the way a little, good scholar, towards yonder high honeysuckle hedge; there we'll sit and sing whilst this shower falls so gently upon the teem

ing earth, and gives yet a sweeter smell to the lovely flowers that adorn these verdant meadows.

Look, under that broad beech-tree I sat down, when I was last this way fishing, and the birds in the adjoining grove seemed to have a friendly contention with an echo, whose dead voice seemed to live in a hollow tree, near to the brow of that primrose hill; there I sat viewing the silver streams glide silently towards their centre, the tempestuous sea; yet sometimes opposed by rugged roots and pebble stones, which broke their waves, and turned them into foam; and sometimes I beguiled time by viewing the harmless lambs, some leaping securely in the cool shade, whilst others sported themselves in the cheerful san; and others craving comfort from the swollen udders of their bleating dams. As I thus sat, these and other sights had so fully possessed my soul with content, that I thought as the Poet has happily expressed it:

'I was for that time lifted above earth,

And possess'd joys not promis'd in my birth.'”

AN ORIGINAL PARABLE.

"Caw! caw! caw!"

BY THE EDITOR.

"What is that?" said one swallow to another, as they met each other on the meadow fence, happy and in good spirits. "What is that? The fellow that makes such a noise, must have some weighty thing on his conscience! His voice is hoarse from much croaking, or worried from some ill will to somebody."

"Caw! caw! caw!"

"Hear you that? What is it, pray?"

"That is," said the other swallow, "a crow! From the days of Virgil, and before, down to this present, he has been regarded as an unfriendly, ill-boding bird. The Latins called him cornix-and the very sound of his name grates like a file. If his Latin name were derived the first part from the English, corn, and the second part from the Pennsylvania German, nix-it would indicate clearly that no corn for anybody,' is his motto! though this derivation of his Latin name is not established."

"Is he a jealous bird?" called up the lark, who was enjoying himself amid the tall grass of the meadow.

"I verily believe that he is," said one of the swallows. "He seems to be troubled when he sees that we, other birds, are cheerful and happy. He is the bird that sees-or thinks he sees, everything that is going wrong. When we find a parcel of down, softer and better than any before found, he is ready to swear that it will degenerate the young birds that shall lie on it. When we find a

worm, larger and fatter than he ever saw, he is ready to give up the ghost from fear that the little birds will choke on it. If he had found it himself, the 'circumstance would have altered the case;' for then he would have swallowed it himself!"

"A queer fellow-but not so stupid after all"-said the redwinged starling, who was swinging himself near by, on the topmost twig of a poplar. "Perhaps he thinks we are idling our time away to no good purpose. He does not know that what may seem to him play, is only a little cheerfulness, coming in as interludes between graver duties and more profitable work."

"You are quite right," said the swallow. "When we are cheerful, he thinks we are idling, and when we work, he is fearful we shall do things wrong!"

"Let him do it himself, then," said the pewee, "for he is a good deal bigger than any of us, and no doubt thinks he is even larger than he actually is.'

"That's my view," said robin red breast. "If it troubles him that we do things, let him do them himself."

"But he could not do all we do, himself," said the hummingbird. "Let him come and try. Where is he!"

"Ha! ha!" said the cuckoo, "don't you see where he is?-the black old genius of ruin and bad luck? Very appropriately, and in accordance with the fitness of things, he sits yonder on the dryest limb of that dry old oak! He loves a clear, cold, dry position."

"A rotten, or rotting position?" said one of the swallows. "Why don't he get in among the green trees-it would be pleasanter there; or does he love a prominent position?"

"Don't you know?" said the lark. "Then he could not see us so well, and be sure that we are all behaving ourselves. Is he not generalissimo over us all ?"

"He thinks he is," said the humming bird. "But I do not like a Magnus Appollo that sits on such a dry throne. I think I have heard that he was partial to a dry limb, even in the days of Virgil He must be a 'dry stick,' and not in favor of life and progress.'

"But he is dolefully pious," said the cuckoo, somewhat ironically. "He shows his piety in the corn fields of his neighbors! He has no particular fondness for planting, but is a master in pulling up what others plant!"

"How is that pious?" said the dove, who had been sitting by in meek silence all the while. "I suppose the most charitable construction is, that he thinks it ought never to have been planted."

"Yes," said the cuckoo, "he could thus have enjoyed it all his own way, without the trouble of pulling it up. His piety-don't you see?-is in his voice, not in his habits. He has advanced so far in the art of piety, that he can even do very mean things piously! That, you see, verges close on to perfection!"

"But it is said," answered the charitable dove, "that he does not pull up the corn for the corn's sake, but that he is hunting worms at the roots."

"All right," said the cuckoo; "but he never cares to find at

which stalk the worm is; he cooly thinks it his duty to pull up any one he meets, suspecting there might be a worm at its root. He has little talent for discrimination, but great gift of destruction. He thinks, with Mephistopheles in Goethe's Faust:

"Was ensteht,

Ist werth dass es zu Grunde geht!"

Especially if it does not originate with himself, but can be made to contribute to his own advantage."

"Kaw! kaw! kaw!"

"What is that?" said the sharp little pewee. "That is not the crow-though it sounds much like him."

"Ha ha!" answered the cuckoo. "Ha! ha! that is the mocking bird in the thorn bush, yonder. Have you not heard how he has been mocking the crow all the while we have been conversing. He did not quite succeed in imitating him; but he comes pretty near it."

"Does he mean to ridicule the old fellow?" asked the humming bird.

"Of course he does. He makes fun of him. That is about the best way to meet the old croaker. It seems hardly genteel and respectful, but the mocking bird, you know, is a keen, queer bird, and his peculiar talent has its place. He has been instrumental in correcting many bad habits among the birds, by his good humored mimmickry. Just notice, and you will see that whenever the mocking bird imitates him, the crow turns on the limb as if half ashamed of himself; and he would no doubt cease his croaking, were it not it in his nature constitutionally, and had it not become so fixed a habit by long exercise."

"I heard the other day," said the snow bird, "that the old crow predicts a terrible winter ahead! He says there have been a few awful winters since the time of Virgil. Therefore, he thinks, there may be a very hard winter just before us. He thinks there is danger that all the birds will freeze!—-and things generally, are in danger of going to destruction. He thinks there is no use of laying up anything for future use, or plying any means for permanent benefit to the community of birds; for it may be possible that all will be lost!"

"Ha! ha!" said the cuckoo, "if anything freezes, I fear he will freeze first; for that dry limb must be a dreadfully cold place. Besides, dry limbs sometimes go to destruction too. This has been the case several times since the days of Virgil. Now if yon limb should fall-and it may fall-what will become of the old croaker crow. He will then, to say the least, have to change his position." "If the crow's prophecies are not fulfilled," said the humming bird, "then, and in that case, I suppose we may expect flowers again next summer! There is a tradition among us humming birds, that there have been flowers every summer, since the time of Virgil, even as there have always been dry limbs for crows to sit on. I shall, therefore, fondly hope, that what the prophet of the dry