It is not unlikely, grandmother, that you may have a few Highland families sent over to America, as they are now being carefully “weeded out” from their native places by certain landlords, who think it better and more Christian-like to turn their lands into sheep-walks than to suffer them to be tenanted by mere men, women, and children. “Weeding” is a nice word, isn’t it? it so capitally describes the worth of the thing rooted out. The poor man is, of course, the “weed;” the rich is the “lily,” that “neither toils nor spins.” And just now, it seems, certain places in the Highlands are overgrown with this rank, foul weed--this encumbrance to the soil--this one human thing, worse than thistle or nettle. What a beautiful world this would be, wouldn’t it?--if this weed of poverty was cut up, burnt, destroyed, got rid of any way! It’s a dreadful nuisance; and yet it _will_ spring up, like groundsel or any other worthless thing! And strange to say, the sun will shine upon it, and the dews of heaven descend upon it, all the same as if it was one of the aforesaid lilies, full of light and breathing sweetness. Odd, isn’t it, that the sky should shine so impartially on both?--Your affectionate grandson, JUNIPER HEDGEHOG. [Illustration] LETTER XV.--_To Miss Kitty Hedgehog, Milliner, Philadelphia._ DEAR KITTY,--If I haven’t written before this, it is because I’ve had nothing worth ink and paper to send you. I know that you’ve a mind above politics, and--may you be pardoned for the lightness!--can sleep like a cat in the sun, no matter how much the Church may be in danger. When, however, there’s anything stirring among silks and satins, why, then your woman’s spirit is up, and all the milliner is roused within you. Knowing this, Kitty, I shall treat you with a few lines about a Powdered Ball we’ve lately had at Court; when everybody, out of compliment, I suppose, to what is called the wisdom of their ancestors, went dressed like their great grandfathers and grandmothers. A huge comfort this to great people in the shades! Dear Queen Charlotte was once again at Court, very flatteringly represented by a fine piece of point-lace worn by the blessed Victoria herself. And dukes, and lords, and generals--all of ’em sleeping in family lead--were once more walking minuets and dancing “Sir Roger de Coverly.” Everybody, for a time, lived more than a hundred years ago; and, as I’m told, felt very happy at going backward even for one night. To go back is with many high folks the greatest proof of wisdom; and therefore, among such people, the Powdered Ball was considered a glorious stride in the right direction. Only imagine the rapture of a Duke of Newcastle, living, even in fancy, for a few hours, at any time from 1715 to 1745; a time when there was no Reform Bill, no steam-engines, no railways, no cheap books! Think of the delight of many old gentlemen believing themselves their own grandfathers; quite away from these revolutionary days, and