After these preliminary remarks, I shall proceed with the discussion of the subject in my next letter. R.J. WALKER. VOICELESS SINGERS. A bird is singing in the leaves That quiver on yon linden tree; So soft and clear the song he sings, The roses listen dreamily. The crimson buds in clusters cling; The full, sweet roses blush with bloom; And, white as ocean's swaying foam, The lily trembles from the gloom. I know not why that happy strain That dies so softly on the air, That perfect utterance of joy, Has left a strange, dim sadness there. Perchance the song, so silver-sweet, The roses' regal blossoms shrine: Perchance the bending lily droops, And trembles, 'neath its thrill divine. It may be that all beauteous things, Though lacking music's perfect key, Have with their inmost being twined The hidden chords of melody. So pine they all, to hear again The song they know, but cannot sing; The living utterance, full and clear, Whose voiceless breathings round them cling. Yet still those accents waken not; The bird has left the linden tree; A summer silence falls once more Upon the listening rose and me. A DETECTIVE'S STORY. The following is a true story, by a late well-known member of the Detective service, and, with, the exception of some names of persons and places, is given precisely as he himself related it. Late one Friday afternoon, in the latter part of November, 18--, I was sent for by the chief of the New York Police, and was told there was a case for me. It was a counterfeiting affair. Notes had been forged on a Pennsylvania bank; two men had been apprehended, and were in custody. The first, Springer, had turned State's evidence on his accomplice; who, according to his account, was the prime mover in the business. This man, Daniel Hawes by name, had transferred the notes to a third party, of whom nothing had been ascertained except that he was a young man, wrote a beautiful hand, and had been in town the Monday before. He was the man I was to catch. It was sundown when I left the superintendent's office. I had not much to guide me: there were hundreds of young men who wrote a beautiful hand, and had been in town last Monday. But I did not trouble myself about what I did not know: I confined myself to what I did know. Upon reflection I thought it probable that _my man_ had been in intimate relations with Hawes for the last few days, probably since Monday last, although it was not known that he had been in town since that day. He might not be a resident in the city; but I decided to seek him here--since, if he had not left town before the arrest of Springer and Hawes, he would not just now run the risk of falling into the hands of the police by going to any railroad station or steamer wharf.