The fourth day was occupied in receiving counter instructions from the Lords Commissioners of Her Majesty’s Treasury in accordance with the Rotten Row Board’s minute, No. 2—and in communicating with the official carpenter. The result was, that this humble individual superseded in half an hour the threatened six months’ labour of the Ventilator-General. At its fifth meeting, the Royal Commission drew up a list of witnesses to be examined. The sixth day was wholly occupied in granting the summonses, and as the Board has not yet finished examining its first witness, the report will not, it is expected, be ready for the Exhibition of the Works of Industry of All Nations in May, 1851. A VILLAGE TALE. The rooks are cawing in the elms, As on the very day— That sunny morning, mother dear, When Lucy went away; And April’s pleasant gleams have come, And April’s gentle rain— Fresh leaves are on the vine—but when Will Lucy come again? The spring is as it used to be, And all must be the same; And yet, I miss the feeling now, That always with it came; It seems as if to me she made The sweetness of the year— As if I could be glad no more, Now Lucy is not here. A year—it seems but yesterday, When in this very door You stood; and she came running back, To say good bye once more; I hear you sob—your parting kiss— The last fond words you said— Ah! little did we think—one year, And Lucy would be dead! How all comes back—the happy times, Before our father died; When, blessed with him, we knew no want, Scarce knew a wish denied— His loss, and all our struggles on, And that worst dread, to know, From home, too poor to shelter all, That one at last must go. How often do I blame myself, How often do I think, How wrong I was to shrink from that From which she did not shrink; And when I wish that I had gone, And know the wish is vain; And say, she might have lived, I think,— How can I smile again. I dread to be alone, for then, Before my swimming eyes, Her parting face, her waving hand, Distinct before me rise; Slow rolls the waggon down the road— I watch it disappear— Her last “dear sister,” fond “good-bye,” Still lingering in my ear.