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The two individuals that we have been speaking of in contrast-kith and kin by birth-apparently living the same lives, made up of the same hours, months and years, time ticks alike to both of them, yet one, practically, is the minute, and the other the hour-hand on the dial-plate. The one does not wish to lengthen out the year for the sake of gain, nor to curtail it for the sake of speculation, as the other does. He has time in abundance and never hurries. Nothing would give me more exquisite pleasure than to see a real Southron in WELLINGTON's situation at Waterloo. I verily believe instead of exclaiming with that hero, "Oh! that night or BLUCHER would come !" he would say something about putting off the issue of the battle till Friday week, and beating Napoleon at his leisure.

After I had been in the South some over two months on expense, and when I began to consider myself as WALTER-the-penniless on my kind friends' hospitality, without employment, I finally secured a situation as teacher; and on my speaking about commencing my school, a Southern friend remarked, "O, I wouldn't take in school yet, I would visit a couple of months or so longer!"

Their clime is so genial, companionable and indulgent that I think a Northerner that goes there needs a sharper spur to prick the sides of his intent. Nature is unloosed of her stays there; she is not crowded for time; the word haste is not in her vocabulary. In none of the seasons is she stinted to so short a space to perform her work as at the North. She has leisure enough to bud and blossom-to produce and mature fruit, and do all her work. While on the other hand, in the North right the reverse is true. Portions are taken off the fall and spring to lengthen out the winter, making his reign nearly half the year. This crowds the work of the whole year, you might say, into about half of it. This is the spur of labor to

the different seasons, and this is the Northerner's, and this makes the essential difference between a Northerner and a Southerner. They are children of their respective climes, And this is why Southrons are so indifferent about time; they have three months more of it in a year than we have.

CHAPTER XIX.

STRAY LEAVES.

"Full many a gem of purest ray serene,
The dark, unfathomed caves of ocean bear;
Full many a flower is born to blush unseen,
And waste its sweetness on the desert air."

GRAY.

TO JENNIE B.

"Little JENNIE, haste, we'll go

To where the white-starred gowans grow,
Wi' the puddock flower o' gowden hue,
The snaw-drap white and the bonny vi'let blue.

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Down the burnie wirks its way
Aneath the bending birchen spray,

An' wimples aroun' the green mass stane,

An' mourns, I kenna why, wi' a ceaseless mane."

"These lines," says HUGH MILLER, "were addressed to a docile little girl of five years, my eldest sister, and my frequent companion, during my illness, in my short walks."

We have written them here because they are so appropriate to a little JENNIE

"The bonniest little girl in all the border,"

about the same age, and with.whom we have taken many a pleasant-remembered walk to school.

In regard to whether you would find the poetry true, to be read along our walk, I would say, that the white-starred gowans, nor the puddock flower o'gowden hue, nor lilacs. grew along it. But the poetry is just as true and appropriate. It took no time at all to substitue in the place of the above-named flowers those that grew along our walk. To put ours in might have changed the measure of the verse some, but the poetry would have been just as lovely, only it would be fragrant with Southern, instead of Highland flowers, and have the "hum" and "wirk" and wimple" of Southern "bees and burnies," instead of those it has. The burnie, though, was the willow-skirted Yazoo, that

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"Wimpled roun' the green mass stane,

An' mourns, I kenna why, wi' a ceaseless mane.'

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Few people, it is said, know how to take a walk. But if birds know how to sing, and brooks to tinkle, little JENNIE knew how to take a walk. And I'm sure the "how" never occurred to me in these walks of ours.

The morning was a delightful one. As I walked out in the garden the sun was just rising. His first beams came struggling through a hazy mist, which soon began to glow with their hues, till it became a lovely, golden robe, hanging about the morn. It was AURORA in dishabille.

At the usual hour little JENNIE and I started out for school, a walk of some three-quarters of a mile.

On our going out of the yard, a mocking-bird and oriole were singing from the China-trees, as we passed under them. But every note that the latter poured forth the former caught and re-sung it, till the oriole got provoked and stopped singing. The mocking-bird then went on, but its notes were fitful—he did not finish a single strain. I soon saw the cause: he was angry because we had stopped and were listening to him, and would now and then give a note by way of taunt at us, then, imitating the catbird, he would look at us, ruffle up his feathers, and give a "squall."

We then sauntered out the gate. The road to school first passed a beautiful open wood on our left, the murmuring Yazoo on the right. I really thought nature had studied her toilet with more than usual taste this morn. Had the birds babbled it out that JENNIE and I were going to play truant to-day, and ramble about in the woods, instead of going to school. The forest was in its autumnnal robe, and

Like a rich beauty when her bloom is lost,
Appeared with more magnificence and cost."

In many places beautiful bowers were formed along our walk, by the muscadine and trailing vines that clambered from branch to branch of clustering trees, making a thick thatch-work over head, then fell down in green and graceful festoons, to the ground all around you.

"Oh, what a pretty place to keep school in!" shouted little JENNIE, as we passed one of uncommon beauty. Then she would run on ahead of me-her bonnet in her hand—and snatch a mossy ringlet from the lower limb of a tree, put it around her neck and run on again, as light as a little fairy. Coming to a radiant cluster of crimson leaves in the center of a green bower of grapevines, she stopped, and clapping both her little hands in ecstasy, shouted

“Oh how pretty-how pretty! isn't that pretty?” “I wish I had it to carry to school to stick in the wall over my seat." Then again seeing a squirrel run across our path or up a tree, she would clap her hands and shout at the little fellow, who, as if in play with her, would, as he scampered off, raise his tail by way of huzza. We then told her about the Lapland squirrels crossing the river. How they came in large numbers to the bank, where each would get a piece of bark as large as he could carry"tote" it down to the water's edge, get on it-launch it off from the shore, and trust to wind and wave to drift them on their little crafts to the other side. Hundreds crossed in this way, and hundreds got drowned.

Thus finding topics in scenes and sights around us, we chatted our way to school, little JENNIE as happy and joyous as a bird. Now and then a steamer would come splashing along up or down the Yazoo, when she would stop and point out to me some one of the passengers she' knew on board.

After the woods had discontinued on our left, a vast cotton-field, then in all of its snowy bloom, spread out before us. How often I have loitered on my way to school, like a little truant, and got up on the fence, after lifting little JENNIE up, and stood and admired this cotton-field. There is no scene in nature that has so much of gorgeous

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