contending, kept up a most determined, desperate, and valorous dashing, until gasping, choking, and blind from the cataracts which his own hands scooped, and which dashed upon his own carcase, he turned at last to the shore, bawling lustily for “quarter, quarter!” yelling at the same time—“I yield—I yield—I yield!” By the time this worthy had reached the shore, the rest of us were dressed, and accordingly this victim to his own courage, was obliged to undergo the interesting ceremony of “mumbling the peg!” Plucking at last, with his strong teeth, the peg, driven fast and deep into the firm earth by the heels of certainly a half dozen, he dons his garments, and we all then join the ladies. By this time the pond is turning all colors in the sunset. There, in the middle of its glassy surface, is a blush as beautiful as ever crimsoned the cheek of beauty whilst listening to the whispers of the dearly loved—and near it is a space of golden water, lustrous as the shield of Galahad when approaching the “round table” of Arthur and his knights, (knight most blest,) he proclaimed he had found the “holy grail.” Purple is not wanting, rich as that around the neck of the wild pigeon—nor emerald either, bright as the hue that glitters on the body of the house-fly—nor glossy black, deep as the thunder-cloud’s bosom when coming to scathe and destroy. Ah, how the tints glow—ah, how they tremble, such as in the rainbow show, such do they resemble. Ah, how the tints glow, and mingle, and pulsate—now are they woven in one gorgeous robe that really makes plain Pleasant Pond look like some paradisiacal scene of “the reign of Haroun Alraschid.” But at last the colors fade—they die, alas! alas! alas!—they fade—they die—and now remains of all that brilliant Eden not one single gleam. All—all has departed.