saw-log-an immense herd of unruly cattle driven by two or three men on horseback. No sooner did I become sensible of the approach of this tremendous looking cortége, the drivers cracking their whips and shouting wildly to preserve command of their riotous charge, than my newly-built fabric of fortitude crumbled into very dust, and I shrieked and cried like a naughty baby. We had none the less to go through the whole drove, and as they went stumbling and plunging by, their feet were often on a level with the top of our sleigh, as they trod on the crusts of the high banks at the side of the road; and although Mr. Sibthorpe and our Phaeton stood up and kept them from absolutely trampling on us, yet their too close neighborhood and their fierce threatening aspect finished the disgrace of your poor friend. I remember nothing more until I found myself stretched on the floor in Mrs. C.'s parlor, with half the household engaged in recalling my scattered wits. Tell it not, after all my boasting; but make all the charitable allowance you can.

* * *

We returned by the common road, you may be sure. My high aspirings were completely humbled, yet I did not the less enjoy the exquisite moonlight by which we came home; but in spite of past terrors, sang and laughed, and could, but for very shame, have screamed like a child, in ecstasy at the heavenly splendor of the scene.

Do not imagine I set Charlotte such a bad example as that of these riotous spirits that I describe to you. She, dear child! was enjoying the ride in her own way; lying fast asleep in her father's lap all the way home.

Write oftener. I thirst for letters. If you had ever spent a winter in the country, with frozen lakes lying between you and the busy world, you would need no urging, I am sure.

Yours in all affection,

F. S.

141

LETTER XI.

Mrs. Sibthorpe to Mrs. Williamson.

April 22.

ONCE more, with pen in hand, dearest Catherine; and oh, how glad and how thankful to find myself so well and so happy! I could have written you a week ago, but Mr. Sibthorpe, who is indeed a sad fidget, as I tell him every day, locked up pen, ink, and paper, most despotically, leaving me to grumble like Baron Trenck or any other important prisoner. To-day the interdict is taken off, and I must spur up my lagging thoughts, or I shall not have said forth half my say before I shall be reduced to my dormouse condition again.

I dare not begin with any other subject than the boy, lest the writing materials should be locked up for another month; but I shall leave all particulars to your imagination, or to Mr. Sibthorpe's indefatigable pen. I see in the new comer only a very hungry citizen, who bids fair to be robust enough not to discredit his birthplace, and who already claims the rule of the house - rather prematurely, as I think. He is well cared for, by a stout dame, who has had abundant experience; and I interfere very little with her management, being rather occupied in stealing lessons against the time when I may very likely be obliged to take the sole care of him. The spring has opened charmingly. The early bulbs are all fully blown, and a beautiful perennial, here called the Ohio bluebell, a far larger plant than the one we know by that name; - and the flowering currant, a climbing shrub, already strung with golden, clove-scented wreaths, looking at a little distance like miniature laburnum. Some of our neighbors have fruit-trees in blossom, and currants already formed, in distinct clusters. We must wait a year or two for ours. The wheat has already taken the hue of the richest emerald - the most beautiful green indeed that it is possible to conceive; and the grass is beginning to emulate it, in spots where that has been improved by cultivation. Wild grass does not spring so early, except in moist situations. The cows have been picking a little on the marshes, for a week or two past, but the pastures near us are still rather brown.

The trees do not yet begin to wear the least tinge of green, which rather disappoints me, as I had always supposed they kept pace with the grass. The fallows are silvered over with strawberry blossoms, rich promise for June. The asparagus beds of an old settler in the neighborhood have been in cutting order for ten days or more.

So much for the country chronicle for April, which I dare say will find you in deep deliberation upon spring ribbons or the last light mantilla. My preparations for enjoying spring have been a pair of very stout shoes, water proof; and a great bonnet braided of oat-straw by a good lady of my neighbors. These, with a pair of indescribable gloves, will furnish me forth for public appearance for some time to come.

I wish you could have been here this morning, when I had a visit from an old woman who is my adviser in perilous emergencies, such as the contumacious refusal of a turkey hen to sit still on her eggs, or the obstinacy of a caldron of soap, refusing to "come," and so justifying the opinion of some ingenious philologist that the term soap is a contraction of "so hap," betokening the uncertainty attending the manufacture. This good dame dabbles in half the circle of sciences, and when I ask for information on any particular point, I always get a vast deal of gratuitous information. This morning the matter in hand was Charlotte's wrist, which she scraped badly in falling out of her swing a day or two ago. The place looked so angry this morning that I sent for old Mrs. Lettsom in her surgical capacity.

"Land o' Goshen!" said the good woman, holding up both her hands, when Charlotte, with doleful eyes, unwrapped her arm, "why, that does look perfectly awful! I never see sich a one but once since I was born, and that was Miss Taylor's, and she came nigh hevin' to hev' her hand took off!" Charlotte looked at me, perfectly aghast, and began to cry sadly.

"Law me!" said Mrs. Lettsom, "don't you be