quiring look.

Mr. Roundjacket returned this look for some moments, preserving a
profound silence.

"My young friend," he said at last, "how old are you?"

"Eighteen, _ma mere_ says."

"Who's _mommer_, pray?"

"Mother."

"Oh," said the poet, with some confusion, "the fact is, your
pronunciation--but don't let us discuss that. I was going to say, that
it is impossible for you to have reached your present period of life
without making love to some lady."

Verty looked bewildered, but smiled.

Mr. Roundjacket was astounded at finding such savage ignorance in his
companion;--he revolved in his mind the means of enlightening Verty,
in vain.

At last he placed the end of his ruler upon his waistcoat, and said,
mysteriously:

"Do you see me?"

"Yes," replied Verty.

"Well, sir, I made love to a young woman when I was six."

Verty looked interested.

"At twelve I had already had my heart broken three times," continued
Mr. Roundjacket; "and now, sir, I make it a point to pay my
addresses--yes, to proceed to the last word, the 'will you,'
namely,--once, at least, a year."

Verty replied that this was very kind in Mr. Roundjacket, and then
rising, stretched himself, and took up his bow.

"I feel very tired," he said, "I wish I was in the woods."

And Verty turned his back on Mr. Roundjacket, strolled to the door,
and leaning on his bow, gazed languidly out upon the busy street.

He presented a strange appearance there, at the door of the dingy
office, in the middle of the busy and thriving town. He seemed to have
been translated thither, from the far forest wilds, by the wave of
some magician's wand, so little did he appear to be a portion of the
scene. Verty looked even wilder than ever, from the contrast, and
his long bow, and rugged dress, and drooping hat of fur, would have
induced the passers-by to take him for an Indian, but for the curling
hair and the un-Indian face.

Verty gazed up into the sky and mused--the full sunlight of the bright
October morning falling in a flood upon his wild accoutrements.

By gazing at the blue heavens, over which passed white clouds,
ever-changing and of rare loveliness, the forest boy forgot the
uncongenial scenes around him, the reality;--and passing perforce of
his imagination into the bright realm of cloud-land, was again on the
hills, breathing the pure air, and following the deer.

Verty had always loved the clouds; he had dreamed of Redbud often,
while gazi