And is it less that the backwoods maiden spins flax and wool; makes the fields and woods her flower garden; washes the freckles from her face in Aurora's rosiest dew; romps like a wild doe in the valleys; brings apples from the orchard, and berries from the hills; and like Lavinia, gleans Palemon's fields? But your heart imbibes the lovely simplicity; your voice falls into tune with voices around you; and more and more do you love that rural little home, and all its verdant views. Happier and purer are you made by the wise words of Major Fabens and his wife. Kindly and more free-hearted you grow in the sphere of Julia Fabens, whose innocent, womanly nature breathes in unison with all that is joyful and pure; whose presence is the life and smile of the place. If you have in your soul one sympathy that takes to children, you must also love that rosy miniature Fabens, the idolized Clinton, as he vies in his sports with the birds and squirrels; gives chase to butterflies and bees; and races around the house drawing smiles on his antics; darting from sight now and then like a spirit, and making house, and fields and woods resound with his merry warble and glee. A month goes away so pleasantly, you conclude to spend the summer with them; and a bright and blissful summer it is as your young heart has ever enjoyed. You cannot stand idle, despising labor. You catch the impulse of the place and people, and none are more ready than you for tasks that test courage and strength, and make the warm sweat flood the glowing face. You are up and away in the morning before the whippoorwill closes her song; and are breathing the fragrant air, and enjoying the brisk exercise that gives the best sauce for breakfast. You would hunt the stray cow, but you fear being lost, or devoured by wild beasts. You are out on the fallow as they prepare to burn it; and you carry fire to a dozen brush heaps, while Fabens and his father fire the rest; and behold, the flames meet together in a curtain, and run and roar like the waves of a burning sea. You count the ages of the trees by the rings on the stumps, and say, here is a walnut that flourished with Washington; there is a maple of Milton's age; and this old oak was a brave young tree when Columbus was born. This ring records a dry season, and that a wet season; this a warm one, and that a cold. What made this elm so stocky and firm and high, and gave it such mighty roots and massive limbs? It grew quite alone on the hill, took the storm with the sunshine, and battled the blast while others slept in peace. What made this poplar so weakly? It grew in the thicket, and was sheltered from sun and storm. You see in the trees fine types of human life.