upon for a song, instead of singing about Ladies and moonlight, or shining blades and red fields, entertains us with an autobiographical sketch of an unfortunate gentleman who fell into a hogshead of molasses, and immediately upon getting out, encountered the lady whom he was about to marry. The improbability of the accident, the grotesque rhymes that ended every line, and the villainous puns with which the hero was forced to console himself, added to the exceeding gravity of the chant in which his adventures were narrated, produced an effect intensely ludicrous and our prejudice against interlopers is conquered proportionally.

But the great triumph of the evening is reserved for the little doctor, who, upon the conclusion of the song, inmediately volunteers to initiate any one so disFosed into a most honorable and ancient order of chivalry, whose members are known as knights of the whistle, on account of the peculiar nature of the entertainment their initiation affords. The offer is received with a great deal of favor, and everybody tries to persuade somebody else to enter this august society for the gratification of the company. When the eloquence of the party is thoroughly exhausted, and we have arrived at the state of despair, necessary to the proper appreciation of a condescension, the wood-sawing gentleman emerges from some dark corner, and declares a readiness to undergo whatever is desired.

He accordingly submits to be blindfolded, and, in that condition turned round, and lead about the room in various directions, until being properly confased, he is forced to kneel before the doctor, who makes a pompous address, and finally striking the candidate with a cane, by way of sword, assures him that bis probation shall be concluded when the whistle that sounds behind him shall be discovered.

Now the mystery is simply this. During the solemnity of the speech, a small whistle attached to a bit of ribbon, was pinned to the collar of the gentleman's cost. No sooner is the bandage removed from the eyes of the new brother, than the doctor runs behind him and blows a shrill blast upon the instrument that dangles at his back; this is soon repeated by different members of the company, and the poor knight commences his search. We pretend to pass the whistle from hand to hand, while the young gentleman first pursues one and then another,

and then wheels quickly round to pounce upon the person who has just whistled behind him. The fun consists in the complete confusion of the poor knight, who, at the very moment when somebody is caught, who has just blown the whistle, and has had no opportunity to pass it to his neighbor, hears it again sound clearly at his back. The probation of the knight did not end tili the appearance of the annual waiter of negus, which is handed round at intervals during the rest of the evening. The young gentleman is then released from his penance, and presented with the whistle, in token of the acceptable manner in which he has amused the company.

I cannot bear to leave the ruddy glow that hangs upon this scene, and pass on to the time marked in succeeding letters. The children that play so merrily, and in the sweet unconsciousness of youth grasped happiness, and were not palled with its possession, will soon enough pass out into the world. Something will be seen of men-a few books will be read-and our eyes suddenly open to the prejudices and narrowness of that domestic council, from whose decisions there was once no appeal. We shall believe in the natural right of man to smoke segars and drink whisky and water, notwithstanding what well-intentioned relatives say to the contrary. In short, we shall cease to value people for what they are, and to accept, with gratitude, the advice or information kindly offered, but an ideal standard (and that of a character low enough) will be erected, which, whoever fails to meet, is placed beneath our interest.

Let me, then, still linger among the pleasant memories of childhood, and summon not (at least to-night) those sombre images which may furnish mental illustrations to the text of other letters.

The last hour of Thanksgiving-day has come. All but the family have departed, and we gather round this very fire-place (then undisfigured by a grate) feeling the indescribable glow that lingers after a great deal of fun, and (it must be confessed) a little negus.

How erect sit the old people, the parents or grand-parents of every member of the party! We shall do well to find such figures in these days of sofas and fauteuils, that twist us into their own deformities. Who can say whether the luxury that has banished our stiffbacked chairs from the drawing-room, and their honest cousins, the settles (rast

ing places so uncomfortable it surely required something like genius to devise), from our more serviceable apartments, may not bend the character to match the form, moulded from the pleasant indulgences that succeed them?

The room is more quiet as the solemn tongue of midnight warns us from a solitary steeple. Uncles and aunts tell in subdued voices how they played about these rooms, which, to them, recall a generation one degree further removed than the oldest now represented. They, in their turn, are reminded by their parents of people and events whose existence is to them traditional, associated with the house. We hear the well-worn story of the room consecrated by the slumbers of some continental notability,

whose name it has since known.

A wedding-party that more than sixty years ago met in the room where we sitthe jests that were made-the stories told-all are called up by some trivial remark. And, finally, the conversation wanders to the other event of life, and we learn that three grandfathers (each with a goodly prefix of great) died very decently in the chamber above that which we occupy.

A certain chill comes upon the party at this reminiscence; but seized, nevertheless, with the awful propensity to dwell upon such matters when once introduced, there is a demand, met with a ready supply, for minute particulars concerning the last moments of these old gentlemen.

Well, the time for leave-taking has at length arrived, and becomingly serious we rise to depart. One annual custom remains to be fulfilled-a prayer-short and earnest, is simply offered by the head of the family. It was asked that all present might be preserved in health and unity another year, and meet again at its close.

The petition was not granted.

THE FEAST OF THE CRANBERRIES.

I.

Or all festivities at which it has been my fortune to assist, the annual merrymaking in the fine old mansion, given by Major Wherrey, in commemoration of the gathering in of the cranberries, appear to me the most rhoice and delectable.

I know that cavillers may try to invalidate this opinion by mentioning the fact, that this same Major Wherrey happens to be my uncle; or-what I confess would be more to the purposethat Mrs. Major Wherrey (Kate Lawton that was) is undoubtedly my aunt. But I firmly believe myself unbiased by family considerations, in the declaration just made; and so emphasize the matter by asserting that our Cranberry Party at Bearbrook, bears the same superiority over all other balls, pic-nics or clambakes that, in the opinion of Mr. Addison's Cato, an hour of virtuous liberty held and possessed over an eternity of bondage.

Eight years ago, when my uncle began to read upon the subject of cranberries, and favor all his friends with copies of a certain Agricultural Journal, containing lengthy dissertations going to prove the extreme practicability of raising bushels of this acid production upon land generally held profitless-at that time I say who could have anticipated that all this cogitation and scribbling was necessary to make way for a charming little note from a charming little aunt of two-and-twenty, that was left at my office (the note not the aunt) one sanny morning in October last. And thus ran this delicious document:

"DEAR TOM:-Your uncle and myself trust you will be able to visit us a week from next Thursday, when you will see me preside for the first time at the entertainment, which the major tells me, he has been accustomed to give for some years past.

Your uncle begs me to say that the men will begin to rake in the cranberries at seven A.M.; and that rakes will be provided for all visitors who may wish to take part. But I fancy it will be more interesting to you to know that Bessie Wacklestead is coming to stay with me. She paid you some great compliments, and as you like her so well, I don't see why you can't make up a match-it would be such fun quizzing you. There are going to be crowds of people besides-among them several old friends of yours. Please excuse the shortness of this letter. In great haste,

"Affectionately your aunt, "KATE "P. S.-I haven't had a good polka since you and Dick Horripitts were up here last June."

Perhaps it would be more delicate to represent the passage concerning Miss Wacklestead by a line of stars, but it was copied before I thought what I was about, and erasures so dreadfully dis figure a manuscript, and-on the whole it may remain. Well, my pulse quickened considerably as I thought of past feasts that had blessed this genial sea

son, and my shoulders experienced a ghost.y aching as I reflected upon the ceremony of “raking in," at which I had formerly assisted. My answer-of which I happened to take a pressed copy, by way of testing a newly contrived machine-was as follows:

"DEAR AUNT KATE:-It will give me great pleasare to come to Bearbrook next Friday week; though I can assure you there will be no stronger attrac tion than the satisfaction of visiting my amiable relative who is there resident. Pray make my respects to my uncle, and assure him of my deep regret that an unfortunate business engagement will prevent me from accepting his kind offer of the rake. I shall, however, be able to leave town by the eleven o'clock train, which will bring me to your table a little after the soup.

"Believe me very dutifully,

"&c., &c."

So much by way of introduction-for I can never give an account of anything without beginning a little way backthus taking, as it were, a gentle run, in in order to leap into the narrative with greater vigor. Not that any apology is necessary for the publication of these letters; which are conceived to be full as much to the purpose as the wellknown communications between committees and orators, which occupy the first page or two of the pamphlet containing their efforts-wherein the committee inclose a vote that somebody has passed respecting a chaste, elegant, and patriotic address, and the orator feigns to be taken by surprise, and says that his speech was hastily prepared amid the pressure of important business, and that no thought of publication had ever entered his fancy-from all which the reader is expected to perceive what knowing fellows the committee are, and what an uncommonly clever affair the orator could have produced, if he'd only tried.

The eleven o'clock train on the morning of that Thursday to which the attention of the reader is now invited, performed its journey with unusual dispatch, and brought me to the carryall, that plied between my uncle's honse and the station, full fifteen minutes before the hour anticipated.

Well. your honor's got in early today." remarked Mr. Netleswing, my uncle's farmer and right-hand man, who, to do me especial honor, had condescended to drive the carryall.

"Yes, we made a quick run of it.” "Well, now I tell you what it is, Squire, you ought to ha' been up here to see them cranberries took in! It was a

sight, now-I tell you. There was Deacon Smiler, who fetched his in day before yesterday. Well! says he-by gorry, says he, it does take you to raise cranberries, and that's a fact. What do you think o' them now?"

Thus saying, Mr. Netleswing produced a handful of the produce in question for my inspection.

My

"Well now," continued he, without waiting for an opinion, "your uncle's just the first man in this county! Why, he's a beautiful old feller. To see him out there to-day with his coat off, a raking in cranberries for dear life! wife, says she to me, says she, I never lived along with such a gentleman anywheres; and there's ma'am too, says she, treats people so well, and never comes round scoldin' and hinderin', and then there's Mr. Tom, that's you, sir, when he comes down here”—

"Well, well," said I, anxious to stop the stream of family compliments, “pray do not reveal what I trust Mrs. Netleswing did not mean to have repeatedbnt tell me what has become of old Esop, that always used to be driven between the house and the station? You have rather a sinarter beast in the shafts to-day."

“Well, now,” responded my driver, commencing with his usual exordium, "there's just-just a little story about this 'ere mare, that I should like to tell your honor. You know that bull the major had up here last spring-real Durham blood, and all that. Well, Squire Stebbins owned one that came from the same cow, and he turned out so dreadful ugly that he had to be killed for beef. Well now, bull-beef don't pay at all you know--leastways, 'cept when it's kinder young. So when the major told me how Stebbin's bull down here'd been actin', and how he wanted our'n killed too, I says, says I, don't you do no such a thing; that bull can be tackled up, come ploughin' time, and the work he'll do'll be worth a sight more'n his beef. Well! the major he was dreadful scarey, and thought he'd kill somebody, and it was 'bout a week 'fore he finally give in. Well, sir, I just went and put a ring through that feller's nose, and he ploughed for us just as pretty as a baby, sir-just as pretty as a baby, I tell you." "But what has this to do with the mare?"

Well now, I'm a-comin' to that business. As our bull was ploughin' one day, who should come up but Cap'en

Tolliwot, who goes in for stock like all time. Look here, cap'en, says I, just you look at that bull. Well, by thunder, says the cap'en, I never see a bull broke that way afore, no how-real Durham, too-will you take fifty dollars for him? No, cap'en, says I, that feller's worth his hundred and fifty if he's worth a cent-first rate stock for milk-kind in all harness-but I tell you what I'll do; we want another horse on the place, and I'll swap even for your bay mare. Well, the cap'en swore he wouldn't think of it; but I see him eyeing the bull, and knew he wanted him bad, so I stuck out. Well, sir, he came round the next day, and said he'd make the swap. Won't do, says I, there's been two men up here to look at him this morning-can't trade without twenty dollars to boot. Give you ten, says he. Split it at fifteen, says I. Done! says he. There! sir, that's the way we come by this 'ere mare. We meant to ha' sold the bull this fall, and I spose we'd ha' got-well! we might ha’ got sixty dollars for him. This mare's worth a hundred and fifty this minute. So, I call it-well-I call it a pretty fair trade."

Several anecdotes of this description, all going to establish the shrewdness and sagacity of the relator, pleasantly beguiled the time till we drove up to the venerable mansion.

My uncle was soon at the door, and my aunt too-you may be sure of that. They are not the sort of people to keep a guest standing in the porch till a servant answers the bell. Who would have guessed, by the major's hearty shake of the hand, that the "raking in' had begun at seven o'clock that morning? And my aunt, too-how fresh and blooming she looked! What mortal nephew could be content with expressing his respect toward so fair a relative merely by a shake the hand! If you can send me an athentic account of any such individui (properly sworn to before the nearest mayor), I may hereafter express contrition that I was not; but until such a document is received, I really cannot think of making an apology. Apology indeed! I regret having written the word. It is a wrong to the glorious liberality of a community that gives its wives and daughters to the polking embrace of any adventurer who may ask such favor, to suppose that a man could be required to gird himself with the sackcloth of a penitent, for the affectionate salutation of his own aunt.

No, no-rather let us be thankful that an enlightened popular sentiment requires no such ignominious squeamishness at the hands of those who would court its favor.

The company had not gone in to dinner, but were privately consulting their watches (at least the rakers were so doing), and stealing glances toward the screen of green baize that stood in the entry to cover the retreat of the platebearers. There were numerous additions-such agreeable additions as must always follow a lady-to the usual circle of guests that the season brought together, There was Harry Wittlepipes, the moustached, pensive, and interesting flirt --and Dick Horripitts, who knows how to lead a German, if ever a man did; and there too, was the young lady with the talent for crayon heads, and her sister with the talent for private theatricals, to say nothing of her brother without any talent in particular; there you might have seen Squire Tolliwot, the present possessor of the amiable bull, of whose barter the particulars have been written; beside, there was-but on the whole it is not worth while to trouble the reader with any more names just at present. And so the curtain shall be lowered for a minute or two, just to bring on the properties, and change the scene to the dining-room, where, having refreshed a little with soup, and stimulated a little with champagne, we will pursue this chronicle in good earnest.

II.

"THE American cranberry, gentlemen," observed my uncle, from the lower end of the table (after the soup before-mentioned had been removed, and the champagne just referred to had been opened)" the American cranberry has characteristics very different from the plant that bears the same name in England. It is larger, more upright, and has leaves of greater convexity. The best method that has come to my knowledge of raising the American cranberry in England, was the ingenious contrivance of Sir Joseph Barker. artificial bog was prepared by this gentleman, in a manner that I shall presently explain, and the cranberry plants, brought from their native situation with the earth carefully about their roots, throve wonderfully. But a very curious

An