That is what I thought this young fellow might have come to; and now I have let him go off into the country with my certificate, that he is fit to teach in a school for either sex! Ten to one he will run like a moth into a candle, right into one of those girls'-nests, and get tangled up in some sentimental folly or other, and there will be the end of him. Oh, yes! country doctor,--half a dollar a visit,--ride, ride, ride all day,--get up at night and harness your own horse,--ride again ten miles in a snow-storm,--shake powders out of two phials, (_pulv. glycyrrhiz., pulv. gum. acac. aa: partes equates_,)--ride back again, if you don't happen to get stuck in a drift,--no home, no peace, no continuous meals, no unbroken sleep, no Sunday, no holiday, no social intercourse, but one eternal jog, jog, jog, in a sulky, until you feel like the mummy of an Indian who had been buried in the sitting posture, and was dug up a hundred years afterwards! "Why didn't I warn him about love and all that nonsense?" Why didn't I tell him he had nothing to do with it, yet awhile? Why didn't I hold up to him those awful examples I could have cited, where poor young fellows that could just keep themselves afloat have hung a matrimonial millstone round their necks, taking it for a life-preserver? All this of two words in a certificate! ANDENKEN. I. Through the silent streets of the city, In the night's unbusy noon, Up and down in the pallor Of the languid summer moon, I wander and think of the village, And the house in the maple-gloom, And the porch with the honeysuckles And the sweet-brier all abloom. My soul is sick with the fragrance Of the dewy sweet-brier's breath: Oh, darling! the house is empty, And lonesomer than death! If I call, no one will answer; If I knock, no one will come;-- The feet are at rest forever, And the lips are cold and dumb. The summer moon is shining So wan and large and still, And the weary dead are sleeping In the graveyard under the hill. II. We looked at the wide, white circle Around the autumn moon, And talked of the change of weather,-- It would rain, to-morrow, or soon. And the rain came on the morrow, And beat the dying leaves From the shuddering boughs of the maples Into the flooded eaves. The clouds wept out their sorrow; But in my heart the tears Are bitter for want of weeping, In all these autumn years. III. It is sweet to lie awake musing On all she has said and done, To dwell on the words she uttered, To feast on the smiles I won, To think with what passion at parting She gave me my kisses again,-- Dear adieux, and tears and caresses,-- Oh, love! was it joy or pain? To brood, with a foolish rapture, On the thought that it must be My darling this moment is waking With tenderest thoughts of me!