There might be people, somewhere, that would die some time; I did'nt know, but it would not be myself, or any one I knew. They were so well and so strong, so full of joyous hopes, how could their feet falter, and their smiles grow dim, and their fainting hands lay away their work, and fold themselves together! No, no--it was not a thing to be believed. Drifts of sunshine from that season of blissful ignorance often come back, as lightly As the winds of the May-time flow, And lift up the shadows brightly As the daffodil lifts the snow-- the shadows that have gathered with the years! It is pleasant to have them thus swept off--to find myself a child again--the crown of pale pain and sorrow that presses heavily now, unfelt, and the graves that lie lonesomely along my way, covered up with flowers--to feel my mother's dark locks fall upon my cheek, as she teaches me the lesson or the prayer--to see my father, now a sorrowful old man whose hair has thinned and whitened almost to the limit of three score years and ten, fresh and vigorous, strong for the race--and to see myself a little child, happy with a new hat and a pink ribbon, or even with the string of briar buds that I called coral. Now I tie it about my neck, and now around my forehead, and now twist it among my hair, as I have somewhere read great ladies do their pearls. The winds are blowing the last yellow leaves from the cherry tree--I know not why, but it makes me sad. I draw closer to the light of the window, and slyly peep within--all is quiet and cheerful; the logs on the hearth are ablaze; my father is mending a bridle-rein, which "Traveller," the favorite riding horse, snapt in two yesterday, when frightened at the elephant that (covered with a great white cloth), went by to be exhibited at the coming show,--my mother is hemming a ruffle, perhaps for me to wear to school next quarter--my brother is reading in a newspaper, I know not what, but I see, on one side, the picture of a bear: Let me listen--and flattening my cheek against the pane, I catch his words distinctly, for he reads loud and very clearly--it is an improbable story of a wild man who has recently been discovered in the woods of some far-away island--he seems to have been there a long time, for his nails are grown like claws, and his hair, in rough and matted strings, hangs to his knees; he makes a noise like something between the howl of a beast and a human cry, and, when pursued, runs with a nimbleness and swiftness that baffle the pursuers, though mounted on the fleetest of steeds, urged through brake and bush to their utmost speed. When first seen, he was sitting on the ground and cracking nuts with his teeth; his arms are corded with sinews that make it probable his strength is sufficient to strangle a dozen men; and yet on seeing human beings, he runs into the thick woods, lifting such a hideous scream, the while, as make his discoverers clasp their hands to their ears. It is