How oft, when peril's hour is past,
And blows no more the stormy blast,
Do we forget the chastening rod,
And loving kindness of our God!

The big stone that stood in our play-ground is removed; it now lies near the barn, partly covered with moss, and looks as though it was growing old. In the first cottage, by the road-side, dwelt an old woman whom we called Granny, of hasty temper and forbidding features; she was always foreboding evil. "Something will happen before Christmas yet," she used to say. And certainly many things did happen; but though the time of the singing of birds came, and the voice of the turtle was heard in the land; though the sun shined on the earth, and the harvest was gathered, the barns being filled with plenty, and, as it were, the presses bursting out with new wine, year after year, yet still old Granny remained as obdurate as ever. "You may say what you will; but something will happen before Christmas yet," was still her

cry.

In the adjoining cottage lived a crazy man, who -morning, noon, and night-was muttering to himself, and cursing and swearing. He was very tall, and dressed in a loose, long coat, patched over with all kinds of colours; while the heels of

his stockings, owing to their having been mended so many times, would not go into his shoes. He wore a leathern girdle round his loins; and usually carried a bill-hook by his side, to cut birch and furze, and a hay-fork over his shoulder to carry it home: the birch was made into besoms, which he sold ; and the furze he burned on his fire. Though, when left to himself, he was usually inoffensive, nothing could exceed his formidable appearance when excited. Often did my mischief-loving companions cut the cord with which he had tied together the huge bundle of brushwood at his back; and then, with horrid oaths and giant strides, did he pursue them, his black shaggy beard, his grotesque garb, and his brandished bill-hook, clothing him with terror. It was really wonderful, that on these occasions so little mischief ensued. Old Granny and the poor crazy man are gone, where the wicked cease from troubling, and the weary are at rest. This place was once peopled with those that knew me; but now I wander here a stranger.

On the left there is the farm-house, with the bitter-sweet apple tree, that we used so often to pelt with stones. Here is the village green,

where stood the old ash tree. And at the house there, still standing, lived old Mother Hinton,

who grew such famous gooseberries in her garden. I can see, in my fancy, that scarlet runner in bloom, running up the strings against the garden wall.

Not only where the country breezes blow,
But 'mid the city's crowded houses low,
Oft have I seen the scarlet runner cling,

And climb in spiral folds the slender string.

Oft have I stood, and gazed, and breathed the prayer,
That God would make the lowly poor his care;
And lead their hearts to Him, in trial hours,

Who deck'd their humble haunts with glowing flowers.

I am now at Pike Pond: the clear, dark waters are covered, as they used to be, with broad leaves; the trees overshadow the place, and I dare say there are as many fish in the pond, and as many rats, moor hens, and wild ducks hiding under its banks, as formerly. As I passed through the hollow way with the high bank, on my road from the school, I looked at the ravine, whose rugged sides we used to climb to the higher ground; and I stood, for some time, opposite the projecting point, from which I once fell head-forwards, when playing at hare and hounds; had it not been for the loose sand at the bottom of the steep, hardly could I have escaped with my life: but we know not

how frequently our Heavenly Father preserves us in extreme danger, giving his angels charge over us, to keep us in all our ways, and to bear us up in their hands, lest we dash our feet against a stone.

The village pot-house has a new host; for the old landlord, who used to jog by the school every market day, on his dark brown pony, to visit the neighbouring town, has long since "slept with his fathers." I was accustomed to see three brothers working together in the surrounding fields: they were young men at that time, and, being unmarried, lived together as master farmers. As I passed through a field, not more than an hour ago, I found an old man at his labour. He was the youngest of the three; and his two elder brothers were then at work, within sight of the place where we were standing. Where else could I find an instance of three brothers labouring together, as they have done, for more than threescore years?

And this is Ridge Hill. What a goodly prospect it commands! Every place, and almost every object that meets my eye, has some association with my boyish days. Let me look around me, and call to my remembrance other of the past scenes of my childhood.

The coppice, where we built a hut in imitation

of that of Robinson Crusoe, is cleared away; the rough land at the foot of the hill, where the broom used to flourish in such abundance, is ploughed up; and the old hovel at the corner is no longer to be seen. How faithful is memory, in regard to those things which have afforded us pleasure or pain!

In that old holly tree, the largest that I ever saw, (hardly did I expect to find it standing,) I was once sadly frightened by two old hawks. I had climbed the tree, to get at the nest, and had just put the eggs it contained, which were marked with red blotches, into my hat, when they came hovering round me; this so alarmed me, that, in my haste to descend, every egg, with one exception, was broken. I feel as if I am once more in the tree, and that my comrades are at the bottom of it, waiting to gaze upon my prize.

In the lane there, by the gate, at the top of the clover field, I was once nutting with my schoolfellows, when one of them bowled a stone for Rover, a black terrier, to run after; the stone rolled up the bank on one side of the lane, and fell into a hole. Rover pursued it, and poked his nose into the hole, but very soon pulled it out again. He ran off in a straight line, like an arrow shot from a bow, and heeded not our call