The village of Ziegelhausen, up the Neckar, with its grim old convent, gardens and cascades, and the delightful arbors of vine, reaching down to the very brink of the river, is another favorite place of resort. The pastor of its church, who was familiar with our German friends, would frequently join us in an afternoon walk, followed by a cup of tea in the garden of the inn, and frequently by a share in the games of the village children. The pastor was a most jovial, genial character; he sang very finely—indeed, he was brother to the _primo tenore_ in the Opera at Brunswick—and his wit was inexhaustible. His religion was as genuine as his cheerfulness; it was no gloomy ascetism, which looked on mirth as sin, but a joyous, affectionate and abounding spirit, bright as God’s sunshine and as unconscious of its blessing. How happily passed those September afternoons, warmed by such true social feeling, and refreshed by all the kindly influences of nature! If a return like this to the simple joys of the child’s heart be but obtained by the mature age of a nation, I could almost wish this country might grow old speedily. The restless energy of Youth is still upon us. The nation overflows with active impulses, which fear nothing, and yield to nothing. We have not yet felt the need of Rest. I have said nothing of my struggles with the perverse German language—my daily sieges, advancing from trench to trench, till the strong fortress was stormed and all its priceless stores in my possession. I have not spoken of my blunders arising from ignorance and inexperience, nor the novelty of customs and life so different from ours. These would be tedious, nor are they necessary to give some impression of Heidelberg in its most delightful season. The most romantic and picturesque of all German cities, and therefore most thronged by romance-hunting tourists, its good old social character is still happily preserved. The last Revolution has fortunately spared it, and in spite of railroads beside its mountains, and steamboats on the Neckar, it will be for many years to come one of the pleasantest spots in Europe. * * * * * THE GRASS OF THE FIELD. BY CAROLINE MAY. The grass of the field shall be now my theme, For when winter is past, and the snow Has melted away from the earth like a dream, No flowers that in loveliness grow More dear, or more beautiful ever can be Than the simple grass of the field to me. It springs up so quick, when showers call aloud For every thing glad to come forth; And when the sun bursts from his rainbow-cloud, As the rain passes off to the north— It shines in his glory, and laughs in his light, The green grass of the field, so glistening and bright.