'Give me a golden pen, and let me lean On heaped-up flowers--' "So wholly flooded is his heart with the memory of that young, frank face. She wore a pink dress, he recollects--all children should wear either pink or white--and her hair was in long, bright curls, and her eyes were diamonds, full of light. He thought the birds were envious of her singing, when she carolled clearly in the bright May morning. He wove her a garland of flowers for her hair, and she blushed as she took it from his hands. She had on a small gold ring, and a red bracelet; and since that time he has loved red bracelets more than all barbaric pearls and gold. In those times, the trees were greener than at present, the birds sang more sweetly, and the streams ran far more merrily. They thought so at least, as they sat under a large oak, and he read to her, with shadowy, loving eyes, nearly full of happy tears, old songs, that 'dallied with the innocence of love, like the old age.' And so the evening went into the west, and they returned, and all the night and long days afterward her smile shone on him, brightening his life as it does now." Who laughs? Is it at Verty going along with drooping forehead, and deep sighs; or at the unappreciated great poet, whose prose-strains we have recorded? Well, friends, perhaps you have reason. Therefore, let us unite our voices in one great burst of "inextinguishable laughter"--as of the gods on Mount Olympus--raised very high above the world! Let us rejoice that we have become more rational, and discarded all that folly, and are busying ourselves with rational affairs--Wall-street, and cent per cent. and dividends. Having become men, we have put away childish things, and among them, the encumbrances of a heart. Who would have one? It makes you dream on autumn days, when the fair sunlight streams upon the sails which waft the argosies of commerce to your warehouse;--it almost leads you to believe that stocks are not the one thing to be thought of on this earth--that all the hurrying bustle of existence is of doubtful weight, compared with the treasures of that memory which leads us back to boyhood and its innocent illusions. Let us part with it, if any indeed remains, and so press on, unfettered, in the glorious race for cash. The "golden age" of Arcady is gone so long--the new has come! The crooks wreathed round with flowers are changed into telegraph-posts, and Corydon is on a three-legged stool, busy with ledgers--knitting his brow as he adds up figures. Let us be thankful.