The silvery leaves that rustled in the light Sent their winged shadows o’er his cheek entranced; The constellations wandered down the night, And whispered to the dew-drops where they danced Endymion. Lo! there he slept; and all his flock at will Went, star-like, down the meadow’s azure mist:— What wonder that pale Dian, with a thrill, Breathed on his lips her sudden love and kist Endymion! * * * * * =THE VINTAGE.= =BY A. B. REACH.= [WITH AN ENGRAVING.] Let us to the joyous ingathering of the fruits of the earth—the great yearly festival and jubilee of the property and the labor of Medoc. October is the joyous “wine month.” For weeks, every cloud in the sky has been watched—every cold night-breeze felt with nervous apprehension. Upon the last bright weeks in summer, the savor and the bouquet of the wine depend. Warmed by the blaze of an unclouded sun, fanned by the mild breezes of the west, and moistened by morning and evening dews, the grapes by slow degrees attain their perfect ripeness and their culminating point of flavor. Then the vintage implements begin to be sought out, cleaned, repaired, and scoured and sweetened with hot brandy. Coopers work as if their lives depended upon their industry; and all the anomalous tribe of lookers-out for chance jobs in town and country pack up their bag and baggage, and from scores of miles around pour in ragged regiments into Medoc.