of the money, and laughed at me so much for my folly that I cried
with vexation; and the reflection gave me more chagrin than the
_whistle_ gave me pleasure.

This, however, was afterward of use to me, the impression continuing on
my mind, so that often when I was tempted to buy some unnecessary
thing, I said to myself, _Don't give too much for the whistle_; and I
saved my money.

As I grew up, came into the world, and observed the actions of men, I
thought I met with many, very many, who _gave too much for the whistle_.

When I saw one too ambitious of court favor, sacrificing his time in
attendance on levees, his repose, his liberty, his virtue, and perhaps
his friends to attain it, I have said to myself, _This man gives too
much for his whistle_.

When I saw another fond of popularity, constantly employing himself in
political bustles, neglecting his own affairs, and ruining them by that
neglect, _He pays, indeed_, said I, _too much for his whistle_. . . .

If I see one fond of appearance or fine clothes, fine houses, fine
furniture, fine equipages, all above his fortune, for which he
contracts debts and ends his career in a prison, _Alas_! say I, _he has
paid dear, very dear for his whistle_. . . .

In short, I conceive that a great part of the miseries of mankind are
brought upon them by the false estimates they have made of the value of
things and by their _giving too much for their whistles_.

Yet I ought to have charity for these unhappy people, when I consider
that with all this wisdom of which I am boasting, there are certain
things in the world so tempting, for example, the apples of King John,
which happily are not to be bought; for if they were put to sale by
auction I might very easily be led to ruin myself in the purchase, and
find that I had once more given too much for the _whistle_.

PHILIP FRENEAU.

THE INDIAN BURYING-GROUND.

In spite of all the learned have said,
I still my old opinion keep:
The posture that we give the dead
Points out the soul's eternal sleep.

Not so the ancients of these lands:
The Indian, when from life released,
Again is seated with his friends,
And shares again the joyous feast.

His imaged birds and painted bowl
And venison, for a journey dressed,
Bespeak the nature of the soul,
Activity that knows no rest.

His bow for action ready bent,
And arrows with a head of stone,
Can only mean that life is spent,