“Surely this can’t be Portland,” he said to himself, as the towers and steeples of Boston met his view. “Where am I? What can have happened to me?” Turning from the window, his eye rested upon a letter lying upon the table, addressed to himself. He opened it hastily, and read as follows:— “MORTAL! be thankful; for to you, in return for your unquestioning faith, has been vouchsafed a favor which distinguishes you above your fellow-men. I who write to you am Aldabaran, the potent genie of the air. Last night, I snatched you from your couch, in the dead of night, and bore you hither. You are now at the Revere House, in Boston. In your pocket you will find gold, which I have placed there. It will defray all your expenses, and bear you back to Portland. But beware lest you divulge to any one the chance that has befallen you; for, should you be so indiscreet, I swear to you by Solomon’s seal, which glows with unapproachable splendor, that you will instantly be transformed into a gigantic jackass, and be doomed in that shape to walk the earth for ever as the penalty of your folly. “Farewell, and beware! “ALDABARAN.” As Peter Plunkett read this terrible missive, his hair stood on end with affright; yet, in the midst of his terror, he was filled with joy at the nature of the favor which had been granted him. That night, he returned to Portland. Many curious inquiries were made of him as to the object of his journey; for this was the first time he had left Portland for many years. To all these inquiries he preserved an impenetrable silence; merely shaking his head mysteriously, lest he should incur the dreadful doom denounced against him. Henceforth he deemed himself as one singled out from the great mass of mankind. Upon his fellow-mortals he looked with a pitying eye, as beings with whom the invisible spirits of the air had never deigned to hold communication. Happy in his innocent delusion, he would not exchange places with the most powerful monarch. Locked up in his trunk are the gold coins which he found in his pocket in accordance with the mysterious letter. He will never spend them; for he regards them as a fairy gift; and he fancies, that, while he holds them in his possession, Fortune will ever smile upon him. THE END. End of the Project Gutenberg EBook of Bertha's Christmas Vision: An Autumn Sheaf, by Horatio Alger