BUT see, the setting sun
Puts on a milder countenance, and skirts
The undulated clouds, that cross his way
With glory visible. His axle cools,
And his broad disk, though fervent, not intense,
Foretells the near approach of matron Night.
Ye fair, retreat! Your drooping flowers need
Wholesome refreshment. Down the hedge-row
path

We hasten home, and only slack our speed
To gaze a moment at th' accustom'd gap,
That all so unexpectedly presents
The clear cerulean prospect down the vale.
Dispersed along the bottom flocks and herds,
Hay-ricks and cottages, beside a stream,
That silverly meanders here and there;
And higher up corn-fields, and pastures, hops,
And waving woods, and tufts, and lonely oaks,
Thick interspersed as Nature best was pleased.

Happy the man who truly loves his home, And never wanders further from his door Than we have gone to-day; who feels his heart Still drawing homeward, and delights, like us, Once more to rest his foot on his own threshold.

A SKETCH.

THE rush-thatch'd cottage on the purple moor,
Where ruddy children frolic round the door;
The moss-grown antlers of the aged oak,
The shaggy locks that fringe the colt unbroke;
The bearded goat, with nimble eyes that glare
Through the long tissue of his hoary hair,
As with quick foot he climbs some ruin'd wall,
And crops the ivy which prevents its fall;
With rural charms the tranquil mind delight,
And form a picture to th' admiring sight.

land, and from a considerable portion of it being under water, the shepherds have recourse to stilts, as represented in our illustration, and the dexterity which is manifested in their management, has often elicited wonder and admiration from the passing traveler, who may happen to encounter one of these wanderers of the wild in his progress. It, however, seldom occurs that any one, save the stilted shepherd of the Landes, breaks upon the appalling solitude of these melancholy regions. Except in the immediate vicinity of the rye-farms, the traveler would encounter but few traces of life or civilization; no living forms would brighten the gloominess of the prospect but the slow movements of the herdsman, and no sounds greet his ear but the subdued lowing of the herd. All around is "flat, stale, and" literally "unprofitable." The shepherds of Les Bas Landes are particularly careful of their flocks, whose docility is remarkable. Not less so is the good understanding subsisting between the sheep and the dogs. The celerity with which the shepherds draw their scattered flocks around them is not more astonishing than the process by which they effect it is simple and beautiful. If they are at no great distance from him, he gives a peculiar whistle, and they leave off feeding, and obey the call; if they are afar off and scattered, he utters a shrill cry, and instantly the flocks are seen leaping over the swamps, and scampering toward him. When they have mustered around him, the shepherd sets off on his return to the cabin, or resting place he has secured, and the flock follow behind, like so many welltrained hounds. Their fine-looking dogs, a couple of which are generally attached to each flock, have nobler duties to perform than that of chasing the animals together, and biting the legs of stragglers. To their protection is confided the flock from the predatory expeditions of wolves and bears, against whose approach they are continually on the watch, and to whom they at once offer battle. So well aware are the sheep of the fatherly care of these dogs, and that they themselves have nothing to fear from them, that they crowd around them as if they really sought their protection, and dogs and sheep may be seen resting together in perfect harmony. Thus habituated to scenes of such gentleness and magnanimity, the shepherds themselves are brave, generous, and hu

mane, and though, as may be imagined, for the most part plunged in the deepest ignorance, are highly sensitive among themselves to the slightest dereliction from the strict paths of true morality.

THE BOUQUET OF VAN HUYSUM.
HE

setting sun was gilding the windows of a little cottage in the outskirts of one of the suburbs of Amsterdam. In a gallery, which opened upon a parterre decked with anemones, tulips, roses, and carnations, there was a man whose pallid features, stooping form, and scattered white hairs, announced a premature decrepitude.

It was Van Huysum, the celebrated flower painter, whose pictures, found in the collections of Spain, Switzerland, and the Low Countries, were distinguished from all others by a peculiar softness and richness, the secret of which he alone possessed.

Before him were spread a pallet filled with colors, some scattered pencils, and several partially finished sketches. He held one of the latter in his hand, but, overcome by weakness, he had fallen into an arm-chair, and with his head thrown back and his eyes closed, he appeared half swooned away. Just then a young girl appeared at the end of the gallery, who ran to him and inquired what had happened.

"Nothing, nothing," muttered Van Huysum, raising his head slowly, "a mere faintness, but it is over. I was vainly hoping for ability to return to my labor, to finish these pieces so long since promised, but my strength fails me."

"The physician warned my father that it would require some time for it to return," said the young girl gently.

Van Huysum made a violent gesture of impatience.

"And when will it return?" demanded he, with a feverish accent; "do you not see that I have been waiting, Gotta ?" "Patience, my dear father," replied she; 'see, the pleasant season is returning."

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"Yes," said the sick man, sitting up, "the flowers bloom, the birds sing, the butterflies sparkle in the sunlight, but what matters all that if I am not able to paint them ?"

"A few weeks more, and you will resume your pallet," suggested Gotta. He interrupted her bitterly. "A few weeks! But, poor child, have

Gotta's form remained quiet. "Have confidence in God," said she sweetly; "I am sure that he will not forsake you."

struggling with the involuntary satisfaction which the perfection of this work afforded him.

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Ah, yes," he continued, in a low tone,

"Still," he continued, after a moment, in a low voice, as if speaking to himself, "still if I could get any assistance. Other painters are fortunate; they have scholars who second the efforts of their pencil." "My father could have scholars whenever he wished," remarked Gotta.

"So that they could filch away my secrets," interrupted the painter with glaring eyes, "so that no one could distinguish my pieces from those of the plagiarists! No, no; the bouquets of Van Huysum shall stand alone of their kind."

Then, as if he suddenly took courage, he quickly opened his box of colors, drew the curtain aside from the piece on which he had just been at work, and casting a suspicious look on his little girl, he said: "Perhaps you spoke that word for yourself. Perhaps you wish me teach you that which patience has enabled me to discover. No indeed! if you please! Presents which are too costly make ingrates. Seek it, my brave daughter, as I did. Since my illness you have painted more than usual. Have you made any progress? Let me see, Gotta. Show me your latest pieces." "It is too small a matter to deserve your attention," said the young girl, slightly embarrassed.

"Show them, show them!" replied Van Huysum persistently; "it is not my intention to refuse you all counsel. You have sufficient talent for making a good painter, Gotta. Let me observe your style; I look well to my own."

Gotta decided, as she ought, to satisfy her father. She left the room and soon returned with a little frame, in the midst of which she had painted a bouquet of the snowdrop and the azure campanula. Van Huysum examined it attentively, and at first his brow darkened.

"Just what he has given for the preceding ones, I suppose, father, five ducats." “Very well,” returned Van Huysum with a smile, “I should get fifty ducats for one of the very same size. Decidedly I am still quite alone in my style; no one has yet discovered my secret, and there is no one but myself that can make the flowers unfold beneath their pencil." Then, as if the last words had recalled his former thoughts, he added, in a tone of chagrin, But what avails this beautiful superiority if I cannot profit by it? Unhappy man! The mine of gold is there, and strength fails me to draw it out. How far along in the month are we, Gotta ?"

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"To the twenty-ninth, my father."

"The twenty-ninth is it possible? So in two days Van Bruk will come! in two days! Ah, God has abandoned me; I am lost without hope!"

The old painter threw himself back, and Gotta, while soothing him with sweet words, prepared a cordial for him which she had often tried with good effect. At this moment the door opened and the Jew Solomon appeared. On seeing him Gotta could not restrain an exclamation, and made a motion as if to prevent his entrance; but it was too late, Van Huysum had perceived him.

"There," he cried out with a feverish accent of despair, "he has come for his pictures. See, see! he has brought me the money for them!"

"In good Portuguese coin, master," said the Jew, clinking the gold in his leathern purse; "I know what money you prefer." The painter writhed in his chair.

"Take it away," stammered he. "Do not come to increase my regrets by showing me this sum ! Take it away, I tell you, Solomon; I do not wish to see it.” The Jew took off his spectacles with an air of stupefaction.

"What is the matter ?" said he. "Do you not want my money?”

"No!" cried Van Huysum, distractedly,