About a week ago I had a letter from him, though, in which he recalled this circumstance and acknowledged that I had been in the right. "They are going to be married in the fall," he wrote. "I hope they may be happy, and I suppose they will be; but I don't think Mrs. Herbert ought to marry him unless she loves him; and I am fearful that she only thinks to reward long years of faithful affection. George deserves more than that." This was a good deal for Perry to manage to say. He usually keeps as far away from such subjects as he well can,--which is partly the reason, I think, that his opinion thereon is not greatly to be trusted. As for me, I am sure George's wife will love him as much as he deserves,--though this is almost an infinite amount,--and that she has not been far from loving him from the beginning. I have bought a pair of vases to send them; and I expect that Miss Lucretia Knowles will say, when she learns how much they cost, that I was very extravagant. Not that Lu is close or stingy at all; but she has promised to wait until I have made a start in life, and is naturally impatient for me to get on as rapidly as possible. FRANK PARKE. THE WOOD-THRUSH AT SUNSET. Lover of solitude, Poet and priest of nature's mysteries, If but a step intrude, Thy oracle is mute, thy music dies. Oft have I lightly wooed Sweet Poesy to give me pause of pain, Oft in her singing mood Sought to surprise her haunt, and sought in vain. And thou art shy as she, But mortal, or I had not found thy shrine, To listen breathlessly If I may make thy hoarded secret mine. Thy tender mottled breast, Dappled the color of our primal sod, Now quick and song-possessed, Doth seem to hold the very joy of God,-- Joy hid from mortal quest Of bosky loves on silver-moonéd eves, And the high-hearted best That swells thy throat with joy among the leaves. Like the Muezzin's call From some high minaret when day is done, Among the beeches tall Thy voice proclaims, "There is no God but one." And but one Beauty, too, Of whose sweet synthesis we ever fail: She flies if we pursue, Like thy swift wing down some dim intervale. For thou art lightly gone; Gone is the flute-like note, the yearning strain, And all the air forlorn Is breathless till it hear thy voice again. But thou wilt not return; Thou hast the secret of thy joy to keep, And other hearts must learn Thy tuneful message, ere the world may sleep,-- Sleep lulled by many a dream Of sylvan sounds that woo the ear in vain, While still thy numbers seem To voice the pain of bliss, the bliss of pain. MARY C. PECKHAM. A FOREST BEAUTY.