ng their old, rude, touching madrigals,
shouting, at times, to the horses of their teams, and not seldom
sending on the air the loud rejoiceful outburst of their laughter.

The moonlight slept upon the wains piled up with yellow sheaves--and
plainly revealed the little monkey-like black, seated on the summit of
the foremost; and this young gentleman had managed to procure a banjo,
and was playing.

As he played he sang; and, as he sang, kept time--not with the
head alone, and foot, but with his whole body, arms, and legs and
shoulders--all agitated with the ecstacy of mirth, as--singing "coony
up the holler," and executing it with grand effect moreover--the
merry minstrel went upon his way. Various diminutive individuals of a
similar description, were observed in the road behind, executing an
impromptu "break down," to the inspiring melody; and so the great
piled-up wagon came on in the moonlight, creaking in unison with the
music, and strewing on the road its long trail of golden wheat.

The moon soared higher, bidding defiance now to sunset, which it drove
completely from the field; and in the window of Apple Orchard a light
began to twinkle; and Redbud rose. She should not stay out, she said,
as she had been sick; and so they took their way, as says our friend,
"in pleasant talk," across the emerald meadow to the cheerful home.

The low of cattle went with them, and all the birds of night waked up
and sang.

The beautiful moon--the very moon of all the harvest-homes since the
earth was made--shone on them as they went; and by the time they had
reached the portico of the old comfortable mansion, evening had cast
such shadows, far and near, that only the outlines of the forms were
seen, as they passed in through the deep shadow.

They did not see that Verty's hand held little Redbud's; and that he
looked her with a tenderness which could not be mistaken. But Redbud
saw it, and a flush passed over her delicate cheek, on which the
maiden moon looked down and smiled.

So the day ended.

CHAPTER XLIX.

BACK TO WINCHESTER, WHERE EDITORIAL INIQUITY IS DISCOURSED OF.

Busy with the various fortunes of our other personages, we have
not been able of late to give much attention to the noble poet,
Roundjacket, with whose ambition and great thoughts, this history has
heretofore somewhat concerned itself.

Following the old, fine chivalric mansion, "_Place aux dames_!" we
have necessarily been compelled to elb