other knows his pear or cherry trees. It is more economical as well as more poetical to have a wood-lot, and cut and get your own wood from year to year than to buy it at your own door. Minott may say to his trees, "Submit to my axe; I cut your father on this very spot." How many sweet passages there must have been in his life there, chopping all alone in the short winter days! How many rabbits, partridges, foxes he saw! A rill runs through the lot where he quenched his thirst, and several times he has laid it bare. At last rheumatism has made him a prisoner, and he is compelled to let a stranger, a vandal it may be, go into his lot with an axe. It is fit that he should be buried there.
Dec. 12, 1837. There are times when thought elbows her way through the underwood of words to the clear blue beyond:—
"O'er bog or steep, though strait, rough, dense, or rare,
With head, hands, wings, or feet, pursues her way,
And swims, or sinks, or wades, or creeps, or flies."
But let her don her cumbersome working-day garment, and each sparkling dewdrop will seem a "Slough of Despond."
When we speak of a peculiarity in a man or a nation, we think sometimes to describe a mere mathematical point. But in fact it pervades the whole, as a drop of wine in a glass of water tinges the whole glass. Some parts may be fur-
