It is, however, an anxious time for the possessor, as the fairest prospect of a plentiful increase is often blighted. Shakspeare draws a pathetic comparison from this circumstance, to paint the delusive nature of human expectations: This is the state of man: To-day he puts forth The tender leaves of hope; to-morrow blossoms, And bears his blushing honors thick upon him; The third day comes a frost, a killing frost! And Milton beautifully uses the same simile: Abortive as the first-born bloom of Spring, Nipped with the lagging rear of Winter’s frost. Herrick indulges in the following “fond imaginings” to blossoms: Fair pledges of a fruitful tree, Why do you fall so fast? Your date is not so past But you may stay yet here awhile To blush and gently smile, And go at last. What! were ye born to be An hour and half’s delight, And so to bid good-night? ’Tis pity Nature brought ye forth, Merely to show your worth, And lose you quite! But your lovely leaves where we, May read how soon things have Their end, though ne’er so brave; And after they have shown their pride, Like you away to glide Into the grave. The poet of the Seasons gives delightful utterance to the aspirations of many a bosom at this inspiring season: Now from the town, Buried in smoke, and sleep, and noisome damps, Oft let me wander o’er the dewy fields, Where freshness breathes; and dash the trembling drops From the bent bush, as through the verdant maze Of sweetbriar hedges I pursue my walk; Or taste the smell of daisy; or ascend Some eminence, Augusta, in thy plains, And see the country far diffused around, One boundless blush of white empurpled shower Of mingled blossoms, where the raptured eye Hurries from joy to joy, and hid beneath The fair profusion, yellow Autumn spies. The farmer is busied in sowing early sorts of grain and seeds for fodder, for which purpose dry weather is most suitable, though plentiful showers, at due intervals, are desirable for feeding the young grass and springing seeds: “The work is done, no more to man is given, The grateful farmer trusts the rest to Heaven; Yet oft with anxious heart he looks around, And marks the first green blade that breaks the ground; In fancy sees his trembling oats uprun, His tufted barley yellow with the sun, Sees clouds propitious shed their timely store, And all his harvest gathered around his door.” * * * * * KATE LORIMER: OR THE PEARL IN THE OYSTER. BY MRS. EMMA C. EMBURY.