door, than it was to be carried in her coach a dozen miles and up some broad avenue to some brave flight of steps and shining door, it was no wonder she never found time for the visit, though if she could have done so it would have given her great pleasure, no doubt.

And so, indeed, it had. They were about to be separated for a long, long while. It had been decided at home that Henry should go away to a military school-go to be made a man of by trial and training-go to take about him new influences greater and better influences than home could give him. The parents could not understand that to bear the yoke of honest labor in his youth would be as well for him as any other discipline.

Jerry's mother was sad enough when she heard the news, and to keep the moisture from gathering to drops in her eyes, she rubbed the tin hoops of her blue teapot with the towel till they shone again.

Henry said he was sorry he was to go; but for all of his saying so he was not sorry as Jerry was. He had new boots and a new coat and hat, and a number of other things of which he was fully conscious all the while. Then, too, he would write every day, and it would be almost the same as seeing him, and he would come home often, for Henry had been used to having his own way, and could not think his will could be curbed at all. He did not know how much service he should have to see before he could arrive at any official dignity.

The next day Jerry climbed to the top of the

Henry from him, drive away. Through tears he caught a glimpse of his little friend, but his little friend did not once look toward him.

Mrs. Mason sat by the fire waiting for Jerry, who had gone to carry a fine yellow pumpkin of his own raising to Henry's mother, that Henry might have some just such pies as he was to have sat rocking and musing before the bright wood fire, wishing somebody would come in and cheer the lonesomeness a little, for the night was falling and the snow lay cold and smooth everywhere, far as she could see. The straw-roofed shed of the cow was beautified like a queen's chamber. No king could put such a roof on his house as the snow had put on that. The fences seemed made of pieces of snow; the trees to be trees of snow, and all so still and cold. The cock went early to bed and crew lustily before the time, fluttering the white showers from the limb of the tree that lodged him-fluttering it down as though he did not care for it at all, and turning his bright eyes to his mates that sat beside him, sober and uncomfortable enough. He was rather glad, for his part, that so cold and snowy a night was come; it brought out his gallantry and his fortitude. But generally the as-gate-post and watched the carriage, that took pect of things without, in spite of all the beauty, was cheerless. The tea, in the old teapot, cracked and bound with hoops of tin, had been simmering a good while, the fire began to make a little red light on the snow beneath the window, and a candle to be needed in the dim room where Jerry's mother sat, when she heard the creaking of the gate, and, rising, looked out of the window. It was growing quite dusky, and though she saw two boys coming toward the door, she could not at first believe it was Jerry and Henry, so quietly they came, arm in arm, and talking so low and so earnestly. What could it mean? Of all times this was the one to make them merry, for there is more exhilaration in snow than in wine, and birds and boys are alike fond of dipping into it, and chirping and chattering when it lies over the ground loose and white. Close came the young friends past rose bushes and lilacs all wrapped so prettily, and never once did they turn to look or dash the white weights from the bending twigs. Nor did they step aside from the open path and break their way, plowing off snow-furrows as they came, as boys love to do. No merry voices rang through the clear silence; but soberly and straightforward they came as if the snow had buried beneath it some great joy.

That was Jerry's first sorrow-no number of yellow goslings could have brought the old light into his red eyes that morning-no pinks nor daffodils, though the garden had been full of them, could have seemed to him bright as the smile of his playmate.

A letter was promised him by the first mail, and all the interval seemed to Jerry a blank, a time of nothing, that he would be glad to push right along and have done with-it would not be seeing his friend, but it would be something-it would be a great thing-he had never received a letter in his life, sealed and meant all for him. He wondered how it would begin and how it would end, and what, in fact, his friend would say, and how he would say it. One thing would be in it, that he knew, that IIenry was very lonesome and wanted to see him so bad. That would be in the letter, and he was not sure but that it would be in it a great many times; indeed it was not unlikely the entire letter would be made up of love for him and anxiety to see him. Henry knew so much and would have learned so much, even in three days, at a military school,

that he supposed the letter would be a modeland what an advantage to him! he would copy from his example.

and see what was in Henry's letter, he stifled his sobs and obeyed.

Mrs. Gordon looked up from her reading as Jerry went in, in a way that said plainly she was surprised disagreeably and annoyed, and when little Fanny Gordon ran from listening at her mother's knee and offered Jerry a chair at the fireside, she shook her head at the little girl, and afterward caught her roughly by the arm and whispered something which Jerry thought meant he was not her equal, and she must not ask him to sit down. Fanny half hid her face in her mother's lap, but she turned her eyes full of tears and sweet pity toward Jerry, and the frown of the mother lost its power on him, and for a moment he scarcely cared whether Henry had said any thing about him or not.

Every mail day all the winter, whether it were gusty or mild, freezing or thawing, Jerry went regularly to the post-office, but there was never any letter for him. Once little Fanny had spoken to him through the fence and told him that her brother Henry had written to know what he was doing nowadays, and said that he would write to him as soon as he found time. She said, too, that when she went away to school, as she was to do in the spring, she would write a letter to him, and she would not tell her mother nor no body else what she wrote.

And at last the day on which the mail was expected was come, and at last it went by and was time to go to the post-office, two miles from his mother's house. The snow was deep and it was cold after sunset, but little cared Jerry for that; he would run because he could not help it, and that would keep him warm; and, besides, if a boy thought much of a boy and wrote him so, he would feel bad to know a boy did not think enough of a boy to go after the letter because it was a little cold. So buttoning the old coat that was outgrown and a good deal worn, Jerry set out, never minding the still air that almost cut his face, as if it tried to thrust him back into the warm house, never minding the white, cold glimmer of the stars that seemed to say, "It's no use," never minding any thing, because he was a boy that liked a boy, and he foolishly supposed a boy liked him back, till he learned by experience, as most of us do, how preposterous such suppositions are. He was not long in walking the two miles. He did not once think he might have gone faster and with more comfort if Mrs. Gordon had offered him Henry's pony to ride, when she asked him to bring her letters. He did not think of any thing but the pleasure he would have in breaking the seal and reading to his mother every word Henry wrote. The two miles were a good deal longer when Jerry went home, not because he was going home, and not because it was more uphill; it was a good deal colder, too, and his coat seemed thinner; it nearly froze his hand to carry the bundle of letters and papers for Mrs. Gordon, and the sharp wind brought the water to his eyes-he had no letter from Henry. An ugly distrust came into his heart as he went along the moon might drop right down out of the sky, for all he knew, and he barely thought it unlikely that his mother should have set fire to the house and run away while he was gone-garden fence toward "Fanny's house," as Jerry if it was possible that Henry could have broken his "word and honor," his "double word and honor," what might not be possible?

Henry was not sick, for there in a fair, firm hand was a letter to his parents.

He could not stop at first and ask Mrs. Gordon if Henry were well, and when he said he could write to him; something choked him and he must go home.

An hour he sat on a stool in the corner and cried, and cried in spite of all his mother could say to soothe him; but at last when she told him to wipe his eyes and run over to Mrs. Gordon's

After this Jerry tried to make excuses for Henry-he was very busy, no doubt, and had as many letters to write home as he could find time to do, and as he worked spading the garden, he was trying to work out a letter in his brain. But he could not tell very well how to begin, nor how to end, nor what to say. To write as he felt was his impulse, but he could not quite make up his mind to do so: a boy at a military school might not feel much like a boy spading in his mother's garden.

The old goose brought out her troop of young goslings again, the flowers all looked over the

fancied; the heads of the cabbages were hardening, and their great, gray leaves lopping toward the ground again. Jerry could not go to school now as he used to do when he was smaller, but had to stay at home and work. Fanny was gone away to school now, and had kept her promise and written a letter to Jerry-a very little letter made up of very little sentences, and with a su perscription that made three very crooked lines all across and across the envelop. To Jerry's thinking, however, there never was a much better letter written. All the time he kept it in his pocket, reading it again and again as often as he

tossed at Jerry, as he passed along, a small piece of money, saying, "Take that, boy, and buy you a copy-book, and a pen or two."

Jerry did not speak; he felt as if he could never speak again; he could hardly persuade himself that it was indeed Henry Gordon who had stood but now before him, and as long as he could see gazed the way he was going. The very buttons of his coat seemed to mock him with their shining; and there lay the money on the ground at his feet, and the cabbage leaves wilting in the sun, for where the shadow had been an hour ago the sun shone hot and enervating now.

found leisure, though he knew every word from first to last. He could not bear to put it away with his few books; it seemed like a free ticket to the good will of every body; so he kept it, as I said, all the time in his pocket. He found the distrust that he had had in his heart since Henry went away growing rapidly less, and now and then he suspected that he had been very wicked in imagining the moon could fall, or his mother burn up the house and run away. Suddenly he stopped from his working, tired but looking well pleased; he had been very industrious and done a full day's work, though it wanted yet three hours of night. He had made up his mind to write to Henry; for since Fanny had written him, "I am very well; I hope you are very well. I don't like here so well as home. Do your gos-ble that his mother might set fire to the house lings grow? Have you heard from Henry?" etc., he had felt that every body he knew liked him, and would be glad to know how well he was getting along. So the happiness he thought he should give to another was all bright in his face as he hung his hoe in the pear-tree, and breaking three cabbage leaves, not crooked and deep green, but fair and gray with bloom, made his way to the brook-side, where the shadow of a maple lay thick and cool, and near where the stone bridge caused the water to stop and make some silver talk before it went over.

From the cherry-tree by the door he had brought some little withes, and having sharpened them with his teeth began the composition of a letter-using his hat crown for a desk, the cabbage leaves for paper, and the twigs for pens. Never was poet wrapped more happily in a dream than he in his work, when all at once he became conscious of footsteps and heard a voice, not unfamiliar, except in its derision, say, “Ha, boy! I say you ought to take out a patent for that sort of paper; how are you, though?" Jerry's senses were a good deal bewildered, and he could not believe at first it was Henry Gordon who stood before him, resting his polished gun on the ground, holding a cigar in one hand, and surveying him with contemptuous courtesy, if such a thing might be.

He tried to rise and return civilly the rude salutation of the young cadet, but as he advanced he saw that Henry was not alone, but accompanied by a youth whom he introduced as a classmate, naming Jerry as a boy he used to know. The two cadets made but a short pause-Henry, the good friend to whom Jerry was making up his letter, having manifested less pleasure than he would have felt on meeting a dog which had ever befriended him. To complete the insult he

All the world was changed, and it seemed for a little while not only possible but highly proba

and run away, and the moon drop out of the sky: if any thing could stay back such events it would be the letter from Fanny. He put his hand in his pocket to be sure that it was still there, and stooping picked up the piece of money and placed it in the opposite one to keep balance. Fanny's letter should teach him the world was not all bad; that piece of money that it was not all good. He would never spend it, even for bread, though he were starving; he would have felt mean and degraded to have taken it up from any motive of interest or selfishness, and yet it was after all a motive of intense interest and selfishness that prompted the deliberate examination of it, and its careful adjustment in his pocket. In itself it was but a harmless piece of money, and he would not have known it from a thousand others, but it had been in contact with the hand that shrunk away from him; it had been flung at him in charity-at him a boy as good as any other boy-as honest, and as honorable, and as wise-no, no, he could not say that, but he could say he would be, and that was what he did say. Adventitious circumstances had given the cadet some advantages; Nature, he was sure-and he drew himself up at the feeling-had been quite as liberal to him, and with her assistance he meant to subdue circumstances, and not wait till they should subdue him. He felt strong and full of courage as he walked straight to his mother's house, eager to begin the work of self-culture, though he had no method and no means. His heart misgave him almost when he reached the door and saw the tea-table spread in holiday style, and for three. Mrs. Mason had learned that Henry was come home, and was thinking what a pleasant time they would all have once more. It was hard to tell his good dear mother that he had already seen Henry, and

she will wear one on the most happy and inter- blue teapot were quite bright; nevertheless, Mrs. esting occasion of her life.

The young man feels proud and honored that she should even remember his poor flowers upon such an occasion, and hopes she may find in the gay world, into which she is going, as much happiness as he finds in solitude-he can not wish | her more. Her eyes are scarcely lifted, and her little hand scarcely touches his as she says goodby, and is turning away, feeling that she is baffled of her purpose, and has been gathering thorns and not flowers, when Jerry's mother calls, "Fanny, my dear." That sweet motherly voice is so full of real love and interest she can not deceive her, and when she adds, “Are you to be married, my sweet child? Stay and tell me all about it." The "poor child," for child she was, hid her face in the good woman's bosom and burst into a flood of tears. There was soothing and caressing, a whisper of encouragement, and Fanny sank to the ground, and with her cheek on the knee of her friend told her all-no, not quite all.

She had once loved-loved deeply and hopelessly. She was, therefore, without hope of happiness except in duty, and that which her mother and brother demanded of her now was the hardest of all-marriage with a rich man for whom she felt the most positive dislike. But her mother was proud, and her brother's dissipation and extravagance had brought them to poverty and disgrace. She could not increase her own sufferings much, and if she did, why, no mattershe felt she could lighten theirs, "and is it not my duty, O my dear mother," she said, lifting her eyes and hands appealingly, "to make this last sacrifice!" She saw Jerry, who, hearing her sobs, had, in spite of his assumed indifference, been drawn closer and closer till he stood beside her-she saw him, and for a moment her senses were bewildered into forgetfulness—the sudden I flushes turned white in her cheek-her eyes closed and her hands sunk powerless.

When she awoke her head was pillowed on the bosom of Jerry, his hand was smoothing her hair, and his voice assuring her that he whom she had loved so long was not worthy of her, but if she would condescend to pity and forgive him, all his future life should be an atonement. Of course Fanny had nothing to forgive-what woman has who truly loves? and when Jerry could not be quite satisfied of her sincerity without assurance made doubly sure, though Fanny said no, she bent her head down very low to say it, and what mattered it what she said!

Mrs. Mason was a long time in ending the preparation of that tea-the tin hoops of the old

Mason thought it due to the occasion to use the white china one, to give the silver an extra polishing, and to gather fresh strawberries by moonlight.

I need not describe the anger, the distraction and ultimate despair that fell upon mother and son when it was known that Fanny, the ungrateful and perverse young woman that she was, had not only gathered but worn the bridal roses.

Reduced to their last sixpence, and knowing not what was to become of them, they sat together, Mrs. Gordon and her son Henry, lamenting their hard fortune, and blaming each other, and blaining Fanny, and blaming every thing but their own foolish pride and perverseness for the ruin and degradation that was now impending before them.

Both started at the sound of a footstep; it was a creditor's, no doubt.

"What brought you here? I don't owe you any thing!" exclaimed Henry sullenly, when he saw that the visitor was Jerry Mason.

"No," replied Jerry, "but I owe you a great deal," and taking from his pocket the piece of money Henry had flung at him so long ago, he laid it down on the table before him. Henry trembled and blushed for shame; but when Jerry took his hand and said, "This piece of money has been a charm that has kept me from idleness and uselessness; it has added to my lands and built me a house, beautified my garden, clothed my mother, and made her old age happy and respectful, developed my own manhood and crowned me with the love of the best of women. For all this I owe you something, and I am come to pay you; take first this money and see what it can do for you-you are yet in the prime of life and can retrieve and achieve every thing; come with me with as hearty a good will as you came to look at my goslings, and we will devise the way"-Henry took the hand extended to him, and brushing the tears from his eyes, the first ones that had wet them for long years, said in accents that trembled with the sorrow that shook his whole frame, “Come, mother," and leaning on Jerry they went together to his house.

MEN AND WHEAT.

MEN are like wheat in a field, the emptiest heads are carried highest; but when they become well filled with grain, then they bend modestly down; however, we readily see vanity in others, yet think ourselves perfect, and would have others believe the flattering portrait to be just.