Does but encumber whom its seems t' enrich.
Knowledge is proud that he has learned so much;
Wisdom is humble that he knows no more.

WOODS IN WINTER.

I tread

The walk still verdant under oaks and elms,
Whose outspread branches overarch the glade.
The roof, though movable through all its length
As the wind sways it, has yet well sufficed,
And intercepting in their silent fall

The frequent flakes, has kept a path for me.
No noise is here, or none that hinders thought.
The redbreast warbles still, but is content

With slender notes, and more than half suppressed.
Pleased with his solitude, and flitting light
From spray to spray, where'er he rests he shakes
From many a twig the pendent drops of ice,
That tinkle in the withered leaves below;
Stillness, accompanied with sounds so soft,
Charms more than silence.

[The Saco has its springs in New Hampshire, near the Notch of the White Mountains, and reaches the Atlantic after a winding course through the State of Maine. It receives the waters of many lakes and streams, passes over numerous falls, and is throughout remarkable for its clearness and beauty.]

FORTH from New Hampshire's granite steeps.

Fair Saco rolls in chainless pride,

Rejoicing as it laughs and leaps

Down the gray mountain's rugged side:

To pass through scenes of calm and strife,
Singing like thee, with holy mirth,

And close in peace a varied life,
Unsullied by one stain of earth.

LXXVIII.—BEHIND TIME.

FREEMAN HUNT.

A RAILROAD train was rushing along at almost lightning speed. A curve. was just ahead, beyond which was a station at which the cars usually passed each other. The conductor was late, so late that the period during which the down train was to wait had nearly elapsed: but he hoped yet to pass the curve safely. Suddenly a locomotive dashed into sight right ahead. In an instant there was a collision. A shriek, a shock, and fifty souls were in eternity; and all because an engineer had been behind time.

A great battle was going on. Column after column had been precipitated for eight mortal hours on the enemy posted along the ridge of a hill. The summer sun was sinking to the west; reënforcements for the obstinate defenders were already in sight; it was necessary to carry the position with one final charge, or every thing would be lost. A powerful corps had been summoned from across the country, and if it came up in season all would yet be right. The great conqueror, confident in its arrival, formed his reserve into an attacking column, and led them down the hill. The whole world knows the result. Grouchy failed to appear; the imperial guard was beaten back; Waterloo was lost. Napoleon died a prisoner at St. Helena because one of his marshals was behind time.

A leading firm in commercial circles had long struggled against bankruptcy. As it had enormous assets in California,

**Pronounced Groo'shee.

it expected remittances by a certain day, and if the sums promised arrived, its credit, its honor, and its future prosperity would be preserved. But week after week elapsed without bringing the gold. At last came the fatal day on which the firm had bills maturing to enormous amounts. The steamer was telegraphed at daybreak; but it was found on inquiry that she brought no funds; and the house failed. The next arrival brought nearly half a million to the insolvents, but it was too late; they were ruined because their agent, in remitting, had been behind time.

A condemned man was led out for execution. He had taken human life, but under circumstances of the greatest provocation, and public sympathy was active in his behalf. Thousands had signed petitions for a reprieve, a favorable answer had been expected the night before, and though it had not come, even the sheriff felt confident that it would yet arrive in season. Thus the morning passed without the appearance of the messenger. The last moment was up. The prisoner took his place on the drop, the cap was drawn over his eyes, the bolt was drawn, and a lifeless body swung revolving in the wind. Just at that moment a horseman came into sight, galloping down hill, his steed covered with foam. He carried a packet in his right hand, which he waved partially to the crowd. He was the express rider with the reprieve. But he had come too late. A comparatively innocent man had died an ignominious death, because a watch had been five minutes too slow, making its bearer arrive behind time.

It is continually so in life. The best laid plans, the most important affairs, the fortunes of individuals, the weal of nations, honor, happiness, life itself, are daily sacrificed because somebody is "behind time.” There are men who always fail in whatever they undertake, simply because they are "behind time." There are others who put off reformation year by year, till death seizes them, and they perish unrepentant, because forever "behind time." Five minutes in a crisis is worth years. It is but a little period, yet it has often saved a fortune

or redeemed a people. If there is one virtue that should be cultivated more than another by him who would succeed in life, it is punctuality; if there is one error that should be avoided, it is being behind time.

LXXIX. - TWO WINTER PICTURES.

[It is often interesting to compare poems written upon the same subject, by different authors, at different periods. In New England, nearly every winter gives us the opportunity of seeing the beautiful appearance presented by the leafless trees, when rain has been suddenly followed by a sharp frost; and it is not to be wondered at that so dazzling a spectacle should have furnished a theme to poets. Two pieces suggested by this sight are here given. The first was written by AMBROSE PHILIPS, an English poet, who was born in 1671, and died in 1749. It forms part of a poetical epistle addressed by the author to the Earl of Dorset, from Copenhagen, dated March 9, 1709.]

AND yet but lately have I seen even here
The winter in a lovely dress appear.
Ere yet the clouds let fall the treasured snow,
Or winds began through hazy skies to blow,
At evening a keen eastern breeze arose,
And the descending rain unsullied froze.
Soon as the silent shades of night withdrew,
The ruddy morn disclosed at once to view
The face of nature in a rich disguise,
And brightened every object to my eyes.
For every shrub, and every blade of grass,
And every pointed thorn, seemed wrought in glass.
In pearls and rubies rich the hawthorns show,
While through the ice the crimson berries glow.
The thick-sprung reeds, which watery marshes yield,
Seemed polished lances in a hostile field.
The stag, in limpid currents, with surprise,
Sees crystal branches on his forehead rise.

The spreading oak, the beach, and towering pine,
Glazed over, in the freezing ether shine.

The frighted birds the rattling branches shun,