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ALICE LAUDER.

I often stop when I come to this point and have a talk. I tell him of his forefathers’ home, where—

“‘Sweet fields beyond the swelling floods
Stand dressed in living green,’

and I whisper in his ear those stately lines written on his dynasty—

“‘Three centuries he grows; and three he stays
Supreme in state; and in three more decays.’

My young friend has nearly learned the verse by heart now, and he repeats it over and over to himself in prophetic murmurings. By-and-by I shall teach him—

“‘O muffle to thy knees in fern.’

And perhaps in years to come he will repeat the delicious words to some weary wayfarer who may take refuge under his shadow. And if my oak, too, should live a thousand years, and see all the chances and changes of this mortal life passing like the cloud and sunlight over this dim-storied island, what will that history be? Will the sun be grown a little paler by that time? And will the lark still pour forth his jubilant notes from the high altar as an almsgiving to the troubled world below? And shall we be anything nearer that ‘far-off divine event to

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