A TALE OF TERROR.

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11. At the end of a long quarter of an hour, I heard some one on the stairs, and, through the crack of the door, I saw the fäther with his lamp in one hand, and in the other one of his large knives. Up he came, his wife after him, I behind the door: he opened it; but, before he came in, he put down the lamp, which his wife took. As he entered, bârefoot, from outside, the woman said to him, in a low voice, shading the light with her hand, "Softly, go softly."

12. When he got to the ladder, he mounted it, holding his knife between his teeth. Approaching the head of the bed, where my poor young friend, with throat bâre, was lying-with one hand the monster gråsped the knife, and with the otherah! couşin―he seized a ham which hung from the ceiling, cut a slice, and retired as he had come. The door closed again, the lamp disappeared, and I was left ålōne to my reflections.

13. As soon as day dawned, all the family came bustling to waken us, as we had requested. They brought us a věry clean. and a very good breakfast, I assure you. Two chickens formed part of it, of which we must, said our hostèss,1 eat one, and take ȧway the other. Seeing these, I at length understood the meaning of those terrible words, "MUST WE KILL THEM BOTH?” And I think now, cousin, you too will have penetration enough to guess what they signified.

14. Cousin, oblige me by not telling this story. In the first place, as you can not fail to see, I do not play a věry enviable part in it. In the next place, you would spoil it. Truly, I do not flatter; that face of yours would ruin the recital. As for myself, without boasting, I have just the countenance one ought to have in relating A TALE OF TERROR. COURIER.1

1 Hōst'ess, å woman who receives and kindly entertains guests at her house; a female innkeeper.

?Paul Louis Courier, an able French scholar and writer, born in Paris, Jan. 4, 1772, and mûrdered by his game-keeper, Frémont, near his

country-seat, at Veretz, April 10, 1825. Courier's pamphlets are måsterpieces of style. They were pub lished, together with his translations from the Greek, and other works, in Paris, 1834, in four volumes, and since reprinted in one volume.

DAY: A PASTORAL.

Briskly crows, (the shepherd's clock !)
Jõeund that the morning's nigh.

2. Swiftly from the mountain's brow,
Shadows, nûrsed by night, retire;
And the peeping sunbeam now
Paints with gold the village spire.
3. Philomel2 forsakes the thorn,

Plaintive where she prates at night:
And the lark, to meet the morn,
Soars beyond the shepherd's sight.
4. From the low-roofed cottage ridge,
See the chatt'ring swallow spring;
Darting through the one-arched bridge,
Quick she dips her dappled wing.
5. Now the pine-tree's waving top
Gently greets the morning gale;
Kiddlings now begin to crop
Daisies on the dewy dale.

6. From the bälmy sweets, uncloyed
(Restless till her tåsk be done),
Now the busy bee's employed,
Sipping dew befōre the sun.

7. Trickling through the creviced rock,
Where the limpid 5 stream distills,
Sweet refreshment waits the flock,
When 'tis sun-drove from the hills.

8. Colin's for the promised corn
(Ere the harvest hopes are ripe)
Anxious-while the huntsman's horn,
Boldly sounding, drowns his pipe.

9. Sweet, oh sweet, the warbling throng,
On the white emblossomed sprāy!
Nature's universal song

Echoes to the rising day.

1 Joc'und, lively; merry.

? Phil'o měl, the nightingale.

3 Plaint❜ive, serious; sad.

44

different shades of color; spotted.
5 Lim'pid, transparent or clear.
6 Cŏl'in, the name in pastoral

Dǎp'pled, marked with spots of poetry for a farmer or shepherd.

II.

11. DAY: A PASTORAL.

F

PART SECOND-NOON.

ERVID1 on the glittering flood,
Now the noontide radiänce? glōws;
Drooping o'er its infant bud,

Not à dew-drop's left the rose.

2. By the brook the shepherd dines-
From the fierce meridian heat
Sheltered by the branching pines,
Pendent o'er his gråssy seat.

8. Now the flocks forsake the glade,

Where unchecked the sunbeams fall—
Sure to find a pleasing shade

By the ivied abbey 4 wall.

4. Echo, in her airy round,

O'er the river, rock, and hill,
Can not catch å single sound,
Save the clack of yonder mill.

5. Cattle court the zephyrs bland
Where the streamlet wanders cool,
Or with languid 5 silence stand
Midway in the marshy pool.

6. But from mountain, dell, or stream,
Not a flutt'ring zephyr springs;
Fearful lest the noontide beam
Scorch its soft, its silken wings.

7. Not a leaf has leave to stir;

Nature's lulled-serene 6-and still:
Quiet e'en the shepherd's cûr,"
Sleeping on the heath-clad hill.

1 Fer' vid, very hot; bûrning; boiling; zealous.

2 Ra'dĭ ance, vivid light; brilliancy; brightness.

3 Glāde, an open or cleared place in a forest or wood.

4 Ab'bey, ȧ society of persong of

either sex, shut out from the world, and bound to remain single, and devote their time to religion; the building used for such a society.

5 Lănʼguid, heavy; dull; weary. • Se rene', clear and cälm; bright. 'Cur (ker), å worthless dog.

1

9. Now the hill, the hedge 1 are green;
Now the warbler's throat's in tune:
Blithesome 2 is the verdant 3 scene,
Brightened by the beams of noon.

1 Hědge, thorn bushes, or other shrubbery, planted as a fence.

2 Blithe'some, merry; cheerful. 3 Ver'dant, green; fresh.