in the soft grey light, we sat down on a tree trunk. Here we remained for upwards of a quarter of an hour without uttering a syllable; indeed, we had not spoken three words since we set out. My father was thinking, I presume, of ---- something; I, of the day of judgment--when these thick forests, and wide strong waters, like a shrivelled scroll, are to burn to ashes before the coming of God's justice. We were disturbed by a large white spaniel dog, who, coming down from among the cedar bushes, reminded me of the old witch stories, and Faust. We arose to depart, and took our way towards the Market Street bridge, along the banks of the river. The broken notes of a bugle-horn came at intervals across the sleeping waters from the opposite shore, where shone reflected the few lingering lights from the houses that had not yet shut up for the night. The moon, faintly struggling through the clouds, now touched the dark pyramids of the cedar trees that rose up into the grey sky, and threw our shadows on the lonely path we were pursuing, now cast a pale gleam through the rapid clouds that chased one another like dreams across the sky. The air was soft and balmy as the night air of mid August. The world was still; and, except our footfalls, as we trudged along, no sound disturbed the universal repose. We did not reach home till half-past twelve. As we walked down Market Street, through the long ranges of casks, the only creatures stirring, except some melancholy night-loving cat, my father said very calmly, "How I do wish I had a gimlet."--"What for?"--"What fun it would be to pierce every one of these barrels." For a gentleman of his years, this appeared to me rather a juvenile prompting of Satan; and as I laughingly expostulated on the wickedness of such a proceeding, he replied with much innocence, "I don't think they'd ever suspect me of having done it;" and truly I don't think they would. Came home, and to bed. That was a curious fancy of my father's. A PICTURE.