e in which it
stands. The fallen man shrinks from further association with those who
have witnessed his fall. Not but that he will leave behind many
friends, faithful and true. Still to begin life again in their midst--
to be seen humbly struggling at the bottom of the ladder on whose top he
once proudly reposed--that would indeed be unendurable.

He prefers to carry out the design, he once thought only a dreamy
prediction--migrating to Texas. There, he may recommence life with more
hopeful energy, and lesser sense of humiliation.

The moving day has arrived, or rather the eve preceding it. On the
morrow, Colonel Archibald Armstrong is called upon by the exigency of
human laws,--oft more cruel, if not more inexorable, than those of
Nature--to vacate the home long his.

'Tis night. Darkness has spread its sable pall over forest and field,
and broods upon the brighter surface of the stream gliding between--the
mighty Mississippi. All are equally obscured--from a thick veil of
lead-coloured cloud, at the sun's setting, drawn over the canopy of the
sky. Any light seen is that of the fire-flies, engaged in their
nocturnal cotillon; while the sounds heard are nightly noises in a
Southern States forest, semi-tropical, as the wild creatures who have
their home in it. The green _cicada_ chirps continuously, "Katy did--
Katy did;" the _hyladae_, though reptiles, send forth an insect note;
while the sonorous "gluck-gluck" of the huge _rana pipiens_ mingles with
the melancholy "whoo-whooa" of the great horned owl; which, unseen,
sweeps on silent wing through the shadowy aisles of the forest, leading
the lone traveller to fancy them peopled by departed spirits in torment
from the pains of Purgatory.

Not more cheerful are the sounds aloft: for there are such, far above
the tops of the tallest trees. There, the nightjar plies its calling,
not so blind but that it can see in deepest darkness the smallest moth
or midge, that, tired of perching on the heated leaves essays to soar
higher. Two sorts of these goatsuckers, utter cries quite distinct;
though both expressing aversion to "William." One speaks of him as
still alive, mingling pity with its hostile demand: "Whippoor-Will!"
The other appears to regard him as dead, and goes against his marital
relict, at intervals calling out: "Chuck Will's widow!"

Other noises interrupt the stillness of a Mississippian night. High up
in heaven the "honk" of a wild gander leading