for, startling although the paradox may be, there are multitudes resident in rural parts who look ignorantly on rural sights, and have no knowledge of rural employments, and no sympathy with rural habits, and who know not in reality _how to live in the country_. Mr Stephens' work--or a better, if it can be got--ought, of course, to be in the hands of every factor and land-steward, otherwise they must be unfit for their business; and it ought to have a place in every parish library, that it may be accessible in the winter nights to the agricultural labourers. It is particularly, however, the tenant-farmer's manual, if he is to keep pace with the progress of his art. He may think it costly, but not with reason, if he considers that it comprises an agricultural library in itself. The thrifty and buxom housewives of our homesteads, too, will find admirable instruction in _The Book of the Farm_ regarding the important branches of duty that fall to their charge. Mr Stephens is copious regarding everything touching the management of the dairy. Indeed, our author seems somewhat _recherché_ on the matter of dairy produce. We acquiesce in his approval of the deliciousness of new-made, unwashed butter, churned from sweet cream--a luxury which our southern friends never tasted. "Such butter," says Mr Stephens, "on cool new-baked oatcake, overlaid with flower virgin honey, accompanied with a cup of hot strong coffee, mollified with crystallised sugar, and cream such as the butter is made from, is a breakfast worth partaking of, but seldom to be obtained." Most excellent sir! on such terms we shall breakfast with you on the morning of Saturday se'nnight, provided you add to your matutinal _cuisine_ a veritable "Finnan" and a mutton ham of the true flavour, (if possible, let it be from one of the Keillor four-year-old Southdowns;) for we have long conscientiously entertained the opinion of a late ingenious professor of Church History in our metropolitan university, "that Edinburgh eggs are not to ride the water upon!" AN EVENING WALK. BY THOMAS AIRD. The Patriarch mild, who mused at evening-tide, Saw blessings come: they who with ordered feet Go forth, like him, their blessings too shall meet,-- Beauty, and Grace, and Peace, harmonious side by side; Whether the down purpled with thyme they tread, Woodland, or marge of brook, or pathway sweet By the grave rustling of the heavy wheat, Singing to thankful souls the song of coming bread. The restless white-throat warbles through the copse; High sits the thrush and pipes the tree upon; Cloud-flushed the west, a sunny shower comes on; Up goes the twinkling lark through the clear slanting drops. In straight stiff lines sweet Nature will not run: The lark comes down--mute now, wings closed, no check, Sheer down he drops; but back he curves his neck; Look, too, he curves his fall just ere his nest be won.