A WINTER RIDE.

An invitation for a winter ride, and we cannot resist it. So donning as much clothing as we can bear, kid jacket included, and taking an extra shawl besides, we set out. Not riding every day, a few faint premonitions of taking cold or getting "the creeps" like Mrs. Gummidge, steal over us; but we say to such thoughts, "Get ye behind me," and ride on. Our friend obligingly says, "Go anywhere you like;" so we choose an old country road we have much travelled on, but which is new to her, and go prepared to act the part of a Tourjée in pointing out the beauties. Why is it that owners of horses put them out to board in winter and defer their rides till spring? A winter ride brings the blood to the surface, especially if the mind is wide awake and ready to seize everything on the way, interesting, comical or meditative.

We pass through Peabody and come to the square, or common, as it is sometimes called. It has always a pleasant appearance, with its white church facing it, the depot with its pretty fountain in front, the new soldiers' monument, alike creditable to the designer and the town. One cannot help wondering what the effect would be if the large granite globe on which stands the statue were to fall in the midst of the many teams and pedestrians. It is not a pleasant thought, and we dismiss it. Across thence through Lowell Street, where there are many fine residences, three or four built the past year, we reach a spot called Kingdom, from several brothers called King residing there. Two of them still remain.

Farther on is the King Burying Ground, where several of the brothers rest, among them Hon. Daniel P. King, who was well known and much respected. In the centre of Kingdom, beneath tall elms, is a large triangular trough where a stream of pure water is always running; it looks inviting to man and beast, especially of a hot day in summer. Would there were more on the roads!

The hills and fields look rather brown, the greenest parts in the swamps and low meadows being covered with ice, where the frog operas have ceased and the tired singers repose after their labors as securely as the Czar Peter in his ice palace of old, and more so than the present czar, free from dynamite and Nihilists. Large heaps of some orange-colored substance near the railroad track excite our attention, and prove to be the pressings from a cider mill in the vicinity. A few years ago the road on each side for some distance was lined with scrubby apple trees, the original crab that sprang up from these deposits; most of them have been cut down. We miss the tender green of the spring, the ripened harvest fields and the beautiful autumn foliage. But what a fine opportunity we have for studying the formation and branching of the trees-the birch, the lady birch, as it has often been termed, standing in graceful groups arrayed in its silvery bark; the ash with its close textured covering; the American elm, also called the weeping elm ; some have given the preference to the English elm, but we prefer the downsweep of those bending branches to the stiffness of the latter.

An orchard of moss covered apple trees attracts my companion's artistic eye (we suppose the farmer does

not see this beauty). They bring us many pleasant thoughts and fancies; more, methinks, than the expressed juice of their earlier and larger crop of fruit could bestow on the imbiber. A little squirrel runs gayly along the stone walk. What a beautiful sky is above us! deep blue, and across it fine, white shirred clouds. The day is perfect, and seems more like summer than a few days before Christmas. Where are the old-fashioned snowstorms once prevalent at this time, when we were obliged to cut arches across Essex street, and around was one field of dazzling white? Truly the seasons have changed. We are either moving on to meet the tropics or the tropics are moving on to us. Why is it that people are so ready to find fault with the weather. They must certainly forget for the time that it is in His keeping who doeth all things well. There are some exceptions. A tradesman calls at our door daily, who resembles the shepherd of Salisbury Plain, who, on being asked what weather it would be, said, "It will be just such weather as pleases me." The questioner was astonished, but the shepherd added, "It will be just such weather as pleases God, and whatever pleases God pleases me." Our tradesman always has a good word for the day and the weather. In a pouring rain"What a beautiful rain to make the crops grow!" On a biting cold day-"Fine healthy weather," etc. It is a pleasure to hear him, and to know that one, at least, is satisfied.

The green of summer has faded, but the white pines

stand out as if to compensate us for the loss, greener than ever. We always envy a grove of pine treesindeed, every one we see - and think how much good one would do us if we had it in our garden, to gaze at and admire in the winter season. We cannot carry home one of these stately trees, so we pull up two or three of the grandchildren or great-grandchildren, hiding their roots from the sun behind the buffalo robe, and wondering if the small amount of life they contain will remain in them, and take kindly to their new surroundings. It is said that the mandrake when torn from the earth, utters a cry like that of a human being in distress. Whether these little pinelets made any remonstrance I know not, but they ought to feel flattered to be taken to the city and planted at the foot of a grassy hill, beneath tall locust trees, in a spot I have dignified by the name of Central Park; there, among their country cousins from the woods of Kennebunk, Berwick and Beverly, to live and grow and be admired.

Before us, in the road, are country teams, the one in advance of us driven by a boy of fourteen. He guides his horses one side to let us pass. As I thank him, my companion says, "Boys of that age love to be praised."

Another wagon in front, the horses taking their own time, and the tired driver lying full length on the seat, apparently asleep. After some time he rouses and begins to move to one side, when we stop him, with thanks, telling him we are not going far.

We reach the end of our journey at a farmhouse. Here this year have been sadly realized the words, "The one shall be taken and the other left." One of two brothers, who have worked side by side for twentyfive years, ploughing, sowing, reaping, has passed from earth. Spring will come with its cares and duties and find him not, and the place that knew him so long shall know him no more. But he has gone where are green pastures and living waters, and the loneliness and the sadness are the legacy of those who remain longest on earth.

We turn back, finding still some new thing in the old places. The red alderberries are as beautiful as ever, with their red cheeks glowing in the cool air. Near the alder are graceful bunches of delicate whiteberries trembling in the air; they resemble the mistletoe and we think what a pretty contrast they would make to the red berries arranged with green. On near inspection we recognize the dogwood and think the temperance motto touch not, taste not - is the best. A small troop of guinea hens in front, with their gray gowns speckled with white, enliven the way with their sharp piping and clucking.

The sun shines on the little ponds by the road where the pond lilies, like the Sleeping Beauty of old, are reposing. Some one has advertised for a receipt to destroy these lilies. I think it would be more in keeping to get a receipt for activity and thrift which would cut down the noxious weeds before their seeds are ripened. And yet even these very weeds, which are the farmer's