crevices,--the
cries and shrieks that rise and fall,--the roaring in the
chimney,--the slamming of distant doors and shutters? Well, all this
seemed to be suggested in the ringing of the iron cord. The very
leaves, green and dewy, and the delicate branches, seemed to quiver as
the dreary message passed.

I thought,--This is a little too much! This old tree is getting to be
a very lugubrious spot. I don't want to hear any more such messages. I
almost wish I had never touched the wire. Strange! one reads such an
announcement in a newspaper very coolly;--why is it that I can't take
it coolly in a telegraphic despatch? We can read a thing with
indifference which we hear spoken with a shudder,--such prisoners are
we to our senses! I have had enough of this telegraphing. I sha'n't
close my eyes to-night, if I have any more of it.

I had now fairly got my foot on the branch below, and was slipping
myself gradually down, when the wire began to ring like a horn, and in
the merriest of strains. I paused and listened. I could fancy the
joyful barking of dogs in accompaniment. Ah, surely, this is some
sportsman,--"the hunter's call, to faun and dryad known." This smacks
of the bright sunshine and the green woods and the yellow fields. I
will stop and hear it.--It was just what I expected,--a jolly citizen
telegraphing his country friend to meet him with his guns and dogs at
such a place.

And immediately afterwards, in much the same key, came a musical note
and a message babbling of green fields, from a painter:--"I shall
leave town to-morrow. Meet me at Bullshornville at ten, A.M. Don't
forget to bring my field-easel, canvases, and the other traps."

If there is more of this music, I said, I think I shall stay. I love
the sportsmen and the artists, and am glad they are going to have a
good time. The weather promises well for them.

There was a little pause, and then a strain of perfect jubilation came
leaping along the wire, like the flying song of the bobolink over
tracts of blowing clover and apple-blossoms. I expected something very
rare,--a strain of poetry at least. It was only this:--"Mr. Grimkins,
Sir, we shall expect rooms for the bridal party at your hotel, on the
side overlooking the lake, if possible. Yours, P. Simpkins."

Ah, I said, that's all Greek to me,--poor, lonely bachelor that I am!
I wonder, by the way, if they ever wrote their love-letters by
telegraph.--But what is this coming? I am clearly getting ba