The squire, although not usually rated as a prophet, predicted rightly for once; for the very next day saw young Walter Willie at Sweetbriar Lodge, with a face as handsome and happy as the morning. Hortensia was ill, and must not be disturbed; and at this information his features suddenly became overcast, as you may have seen a spring sky by a thick cloud, springing up from nobody knows where. However, the squire entered directly after, and whispered a few words to his guest, which seemed to restore in a measure the brightness of his look. "And you really think, then, that I may hope?" "Nay, my friend, you may do as you like about that. All men may hope, you know Shakspeare says. But I tell you that Hortensia has fallen in love with your foolish face--it's just like her!--and that's all about it. Come in and take some breakfast. Oh, I forgot--you've no appetite. Of course not. Well, you'll find some nice fresh dew in those morning-glories yonder, and I will rejoin you in a minute. We 'll make a day of it." That evening the moon shone a million times brighter, the sky was a million times bluer, and the nightingale sung a million times sweeter than ever before. At least so thought the beautiful Hortensia and her artist-lover, as they strolled, arm-in-arm, through the woody lawn that skirted the garden of Sweetbriar Lodge, and held sweet converse of immortal things by gazing into each other's eyes. And so ends our veracious history of the Pic-Nic in Olden Time. TO THE VIOLET. BY H. T. TUCKERMAN. Sweet trophy of life's morning, fresh and calm, Dropped from the gleanings of relentless time, How from thy dainty chalice steals the balm That hung like incense o'er its dewy prime! The lily's stateliness thou dost not own, Nor glow voluptuous of the damask rose, Thou canst not emulate the laurel's crown, Nor, like the Cereus, watch while all repose. And these gay rivals of parterre and field May freely drink the sunshine and the dew, But only unto thee does heaven yield The pure reflection of her cloudless blue. Thy tint will sometimes darken till it wear A purple such as decked the eastern kings, And yet, like innocence, all unaware Its tribute to the wind thy blossom flings. Symbol of what is cherished and untold, Thy fragrance oft reveals thee to the sight, Peering in beauty from the common mould, As casual blessings the forlorn requite. Thy image upon Laura's robe was wrought, O'er which her poet with devotion mused, And gentle souls, I ween, have ever caught From thee a solace that the world refused. The Tuscan flower-girls delight to cheer Each pensive exile with thy scented leaves, Fit largess of a clime to fancy dear, Which a new blandishment from thee receives.