hin the sparkling ripples;
now, how proudly they plume their feathers, and float with head erect
so gracefully down the silver stream. Do you see yonder old
farm-house, so old that it seems bending under the weight of years?
Look at its low, brown eaves, its little narrow windows, half-hidden
by ivy and honey-suckle; see the old-fashioned double door, and the
porch, with its well-worn seats. Do you see the swallows skimming
around the chimney; and don't you hear the hum of the bees--there,
under that old elm you may see their hives, filled, too, with luscious
honey. There is the well, with its old sweep, and the "moss-covered
bucket," too; and look at the corn-crib, and the old barn--and what a
noisy set of fowls around it, cackling, clucking and crowing, as if
they owned the soil; and how the pigs are scampering through the
clover-field; ah! the little wretches, they have stolen a march, or
rather a caper; at them, old Jowler, at them, my fine fellow, you will
soon turn them back to their pen, obstinate as they are.

Do you not admire those venerable trees which seem to shelter the old
house from the rude assaults of the tempest, and to keep out the glare
of the sun-beams from its chambers. Through what a thicket of
currant-bushes, and rose-bushes, and lilacs, and snow-balls, the path
winds from the porch to the little gate--is it not a most charming
spot? Now look over the brow of the hill--there, you can see the spire
of the village church; and if you will walk a few paces further to
yonder green knoll, you will see a cluster of pretty dwellings, and
comfortable farm-houses, scattered through the valley.

"Hark! don't you hear a merry laugh? so merry and joyous that it can
only proceed, I am sure, from a happy heart. Keep still--for here
comes two laughing country-girls--no, as I live, one of them is--no,
it can't be--yes, it is, the rich young heiress, Ursula Lovel! quick,
draw behind the tree, and let us hear what she says.

"And so, Hetty, your mother thinks I am the most awkward child she
ever saw, and wonders where I was brought up, not to know how to knead
bread, and churn, and milk;" and again that merry laugh goes ringing
through the air.

"Yes, Miss Ursula; and she wishes--I declare I can hardly keep from
laughing--she wishes you would stick to your cap-making, and not
attempt to bake again, for you burned up three loaves."

"Yes, and burned my fingers, too. Well, it is too bad; let me see,
yesterday I