in search of flowers or berries, every child can testify. Who does not remember Columbine Hill, on the side of the valley through which we could see four of Peabody's spires? or the cranberry place, where of late years a signboard was put forbidding intruders? One of the delights of childhood was to stand at the great pasture gate when opened for the dismissal of the cows at night. How they marched out single file, red, white, black, fawn and mottled, casting glances at the little folk, with their kindly brown eyes, their bells chiming a pleasant music; while the monarch of the herd, sent to his nightly quarters, the town pound, protested against it with his deep bass voice.

But the greatest pleasure connected with the turnpike was to be allowed of a Wednesday or a Saturday afternoon to go to Ware's barn. We enjoyed the reality of the reverie of N. P. Willis's old man, for we hid in the fragrant hay and whooped the smothered call, and our feet slipped up on the seedy floor, and we cared not for the fall. The pitch of the barn was exceedingly high, and a strong swing dangled from the ridge pole. How breathlessly we watched the boys carry the swing up on a loft, and seating themselves, launch away until their feet reached the opposite wall and back and fro until the vibrations stopped. What a joy it was to feed the long row of cows standing in their stanchions and pat their heads! The large hay cart placed in the middle of the barn was a chariot in which we could safely ride. The old watch-dog joined us in our sports, and the afternoon passed all too quickly by,

when, laden with flowers or fruit, sunburnt and happy, we walked home with our mates, the long distance unthought of.

On opening the road a toll gate was established not far from the Salem entrance. The fine well of water near it has refreshed how many weary travellers! To how many has the old seat in front given a rest? Had a register been kept at the toll-house of its many visitors, how interesting it might be at this date. The hills round the Salem turnpike are noted for the extensive prospects which can be seen from them. It has been, and still remains, one of the favorite walks outside the city. One hill, from the fine view obtained from it, was called Lookout Hill. When the fight between the Chesapeake and the Shannon took place in the harbor these hills were covered with spectators, spyglass in hand.

But when the iron bands of the railroad entered Salem, when the stage-coaches ceased running, and the toll-house was given up, making it a free road, then the old turnpike ceased to be an object of interest to travellers. But it still remains a monument of honest labor, built substantially and well, a contrast to the work of the unfaithful contractors of our day, who lay their plans more with regard to their own gains than to the health, safety and lives of those who pass over their bridges or inhabit their houses.

But, Old Turnpike, thou hast still a claim to be remembered. When Spring sits upon thy hills, offering her blue and gold to the lovers of Nature and the little

children who seek them; or when summer winds blow back the locks of berry pickers; or when autumn spans each hill with her rainbow of colored foliage, and her golden grain gilding the fields gives earnest promise that springtime and harvest shall not fail; and also in the memories of those whose feet often wandered up the road in search of flowers, but whose steps have gone up higher.

AN ALLEGORY.

I saw an aged man mowing in a field. His strokes were quick and lusty, and he stopped not to wipe his brow or whet his scythe. And I said, "tell me, mower, are you never weary, and is your scythe never dull ?" He looked at me, pausing not, for the lusty strokes went on, his eye was keen as the hawk's when it swoops down on its prey, and said, "my work is the work of ages but my scythe is never dull." On swept the glistening steel; flowers, grass and wheat fell before it.

"Why," said I, "do you cut the flowers, grass and wheat at once? do you not harvest them at different times, and the flowers are so pretty, let them bloom on. He smiled a faint, cold smile, as the pale sun sometimes falls on a blighted oak, but answered not.

"Do you live alone, old man," I said, "all alone?" Then his smile grew brighter as he replied, "not alone,

four are with me by turns. (And now the old man "One is a little maiden who trips

grew garrulous). along, oh! like the wind. The birds follow her and she mocks their song. Her lap is always filled with flowers, and she brings them to me every day. Perhaps you think flowers are not becoming to an old man like me-but I love them, although I have to cut them down. But as I was saying, the little maiden is always busy. She unlocks the rills and they go dancing through the meadows. The little lambs all know her and come bleating after her. She makes friends with all the farmers; sometimes they call her late as she goes from one to the other, but they're always glad to welcome her. The grass looks greener when she's round, I tell you. She's my pet, but ah! she has to go away when the next girl comes. You know her don't you? When you've been resting in the fields after a long walk, did you never see her raising up the corn and wheat, sending the rain over the fields where the grain is drooping, or pausing to paint the poppies and the blue bells? She's strong and hardy (she isn't like my pet), her cheeks are like two ripe apples. My! don't the mowers like to see her coming through the fields, with her pitcher of cider and brown bread and cheese? Well, she's with me awhile, and then her brother comes a stout, hearty fellow, brown as the nuts he rattles from the trees. He's a worker, I tell you; no end to what that fellow does. Aint the farmers lively when he's round? I guess so. No end to the apple gathering, vegetable stowing, and hay stacking.

He puts the

gold on the pumpkin, and the purple on the grape. Aye, and he's an artist too! don't he paint the woods till they look like Joseph's coat? don't he bind Nature's volume with blue and gold when the golden rod and aster fringe the brook?

But the fourth child I have, he's white haired and old and crusty, and no mistake; but I have to put up with it. He comes growling and whistling, and killing the flowers and breaking the trees. No wonder the little birds fly from him, they know him! But then, he works hard. He has the contract for all the ice bridges, and when he don't make them strong enough, no end of complaints. But there, you can't satisfy everybody. And if he don't send snow enough to cover every one's plants and trees, then they find fault again. He's something of an artist, too; when folks look out of their windows some cold morning and gaze at his pictures, don't they admire their beauty? I guess so. He and I don't agree very well, but never mind, the little maiden comes after him. But now, stranger, I've two questions to ask you. The old man fixed his piercing eye on me and I knew there was no escape. "Say, stranger, where did you come from, and where are you going?" "The first question," I replied, is easier to ask than to answer. I and all my race

came from an unknown country. We have no recollection of it. We came to this land naked, helpless and poor. We were received by kind friends who awaited our coming and welcomed us. As to where I am going-some say to an Unknown Country! but I