It was the regular custom of our family to repair every year, on Whitsuneve, to a charming villa situated at a distance of two hours' ride from our city residence. Our father was, indeed, usually detained in the city by official affairs, which on week days seldom allowed him to make us a flying visit of an hour or two; but he came regularly every Saturday evening, remaining with us until Monday, and usually bringing with him as many guests as the vacant chambers of our fine old large house could accommodate. When our father was present, we children were compelled to be dressed in our best clothes, and put upon our best behavior: romping in the garden, the meadow, or the wood, was entirely out of the question. For which reason we were always right glad to see the long line of carriages roll away from the courtyard every Monday morning. We were then again at liberty to pursue our somewhat boisterous pastimes, and exult in the free use of our limbs in the open air.

Enjoying thus heartily the pleasures of country life, it is not strange that we desired above all others the arrival of the day which annually restored them to us, and counted Whitsun-eve among the most cherished of our festivals. The general commotion which came with the day, the hurrying to and fro, the packing and unpacking, gave us especial pleasure; and we made our selves as busy in all these affairs as though we children were the persons principally concerned.

The day had come and gone, with all its hurry and bustle, all its pleasures and fatigues. We had safely arrived at our summer residence, all our play-things were unpacked and placed in order, we had run through the tolerably extensive garden, with its shady walks and terraces, announced our happy arrival to each of our favorite trees and play-grounds, and were now

idly considering what was best next to be done. Our mother, however, had yet many preparations to make for the next day's festival.

"Go and amuse yourselves out of doors a while, children; the evening is beautifully fair," said she, perceiving in our countenances the lassitude which naturally follows long-continued and unusual exertion. We did not wait for a repetition of such pleasant advice. Matilda and myself took the little six years' old Alexis between us, and proceeded merrily down the hill, away across the meadow, to the beautiful natural grove on whose borders we always delighted to seek for May flowers. We had no fear in venturing thus far, for I was already eleven years old, and my sister Matilda only one year younger than myself. My mother, moreover, was quite willing that we should play in the grove; for, with the aid of a large spy-glass placed in the hall, she could from time to time observe our movements, and thus keep us, as it were, under her eyes.

"What is that? Be not alarmed, Alexis!" suddenly exclaimed Matilda, just as we were entering the grove. I had at the moment turned aside to gather some forget-me-nots to present to my mother on our return. Turning my head, I saw a tall white figure arise from the turf-bank which had been elevated for us near the grove, and begin to advance slowly towards us. It was a woman, rather old, as I then thought, at least as old as my mother, whose two-and-thirtieth birthday we were next to celebrate. She did not appear to be exactly a lady, neither could she be a peasant, and was altogether so strangely dressed in white, that I could hardly tell what to make of her. Her face was as white as her dress, her large dark blue eyes smiled sadly upon us, and altogether she wore a mingled expression of sorrow and kindness. All that our old nurse had ever told me of elves and

fairies passed in a moment through my mind; and with Matilda it was not much better, as I learned by a few words she whispered to me over the shoulder of Alexis. I made, however, an effort to bear myself in a manner worthy of my position as the eldest of our party. "Nonsense!" I answered, "you know it is a long time since there have been any fairies; and even if there were any now, it would still be much better to meet them boldly and kindly than to appear afraid of them." Upon which I bravely, though with some trepidation, advanced toward the singular being who, when near, appeared far less fearful, and much handsomer, than at a distance. I gave her my hand, begged of her to sit down again, seated myself beside her, and motioned my sister to do the

same.

The stranger glanced somewhat timidly at us, but spoke no word. She turned her face sideways, towards a brook that flowed near us, and followed it with her eyes to where it disappeared between two hills. Then, looking toward the heavens, she greeted with a smile the little rose-and-violet-colored summer clouds which, with golden fringes, gently followed the stream; she moved her lips, as if speaking to them, but I heard no sound. We children were at first very much intimidated by the singular deportment of the strange woman; but at length, as she seemed quiet and harmless, we gradually became accustomed to her manner, and began to amuse ourselves as usual by twining garlands of the yellow and white star-flowers which grew profusely in the grove. Before we were aware of it the woman was engaged in the same employment, and proved herself much more capable than ourselves, besides having the skill to find in our immediate vicinity much fairer flowers than any we had been able to collect. She also spoke to us occasionally, and her voice sounded soft and sweet as my mother's, when she used to sing to us under the lindens before our house door. She became constantly more and more gracious and communicative, and at last repeated little tales and histories, which we had never heard before,-of the flowers, and the brook, and the wild waterfall in the mountain, and of the clouds which float about in the heavens.

While she was speaking, it sometimes seemed as if they were all living beings, and again at last they became only flowers, and cloud, and brook and waterfall.

We listened so attentively to her singular yet beautiful narrations, that we never thought of the lateness of the hour, until we were reminded of it by the full moon, hanging directly over the stream. "We must go, we must go," I hastily cried; "mother will be very anxious about us." And now little Alexis began to weep, complained that he was tired and cold, and insisted on being carried home. But I could not venture to carry him, as mother had often forbade it. I became greatly embarrassed, and knew not what to do, until at length the strange woman took the boy in her arms. “Come, my dear child," said she, "thou art yet young, and must not be confided to feeble arms; the time full soon will come, when thou wilt have to make thy own path over pebble, rock, and mountain stream.'

We were much alarmed at her speech and manner, and kept fast hold of her garments, one on either side, while she rapidly proceeded across the meadow with little Alexis. "The fox is bathing himself, as the people say," observed she, referring to a thick mist consequent upon the great heat of the departing day. "The people say so, but do not believe it, children: I know who there spreads out her fine veil to bleach in the moonbeams; I know her well, but I must not name her." With these words she increased her pace, and we soon reached the little lattice gate at the foot of the hill of which our house crowned the crest. She carefully placed Alexis upon the ground. "Farther I may not go," said she, "not to the splendid house: in the dark wood, where night prevails and the owl cries, there is my place, with the wild wood bird. You, however, will greet the red light. May God guard you." She turned and disappeared in the twilight.

Mother descended the hill to meet us; and with her came the aged Bridget, my mother's old nurse, who had taken care of her when she was yet a child, and who now remained, summer and winter, at our country residence. "You have remained long out, dear children," said she, "do not

so again. We should have become alarmed about you had I not, through the spy-glass, seen you quietly sitting on the turf-seat. Who was the woman that sat with you, and afterwards bore Alexis in her arms?"

"We do not know her name," I quickly answered, "but she is good and kind, has played with us, told us pretty tales, and wove us splendid garlands,-only see, how beautiful!"

"It must have been the sister of the new gamekeeper who came since Easter to reside there in the wood," observed Bridget: "she sits every evening until sunset upon that turf seat. I know nothing more about her, for the gamekeeper's family come not much out of the wood, and people like us have not time to trouble ourselves about others; but she must have come from some far distant place, for she wears a singular dress, such as is never seen hereabouts. They seem, how ever, to be respectable people, and even this sister sits the whole day long at her bone-lace weaving cushion, as I hear. The lace she weaves is unequalled for beauty. And it must be good for such an industrious person to take the air a little, after having labored all day."

My father came on the following day, and brought with him a large number of invited guests. In those times they used to continue the celebration of Whitsuntide three days, during which all the guests remained with us, and we had to remain up stairs with the children whom many of them brought with them. During all this time we had no opportunity to visit our favorite grove; but, taking a look at it through the spy-glass one evening, I plainly discovered our unknown friend, sitting in the accustomed place, and I could not help thinking that she looked around her with a sad inquiring eye, as if in hope that we would come.

At length the guests departed, and we hastened to the grove as soon as evening came, congratulating ourselves in advance upon the beautiful garlands we should obtain, and the new stories we hoped to hear. But the seat was vacant; and we waited long in vain, not only on this but also on many following evenings: the strange woman was not to be seen. Next followed several rainy days, during which we

were not permitted to cross the damp meadow; then came Sunday again, on which day we must keep at home; at length we established a new play ground near the house, and almost forgot the grove and our stranger friend.

One afternoon, however, while the sun was yet tolerably high in the heavens, I happened to direct the glass towards the grove, and there to my great surprise and joy sat the stranger, in the old place. I instantly communicated the welcome intelligence to Matilda, and at once we hastened down the hill and over the meadow to the grove. Even Alexis we again took with us, for he promised to behave well, this time, and not make trouble as he did before.

We made all the haste we could, for we feared the woman might not stop long at that early hour; but it seemed that she thought not of going away; she was very pale, and so feeble that she could not rise from her seat to meet us; she indicated her pleasure at our coming, however, by a friendly salutation long before we reached her.

"I cannot gather flowers for you today, dear children," said she, "I am very weary, and have a long way before me-long! long!" She said this with a heavenly smile, but yet it sounded so sadly that we could not help weeping. We fell upon her neck and begged of her not to go away; we promised to come to the place of meeting every evening, to twine garlands, listen to her stories, and love her dearly.

"Love me!" she repeated, shaking her head with a melancholy smile. "Yes, that is it! therefore must I forth to my beautiful, high, golden house, which is far more light and lofty than yours. There poor Margaret will no longer remain in the dark shade, and there also will she be loved." While thus speaking she looked with her wonder-clear, radiant eyes, steadfastly towards the heavens, and at the conclusion became suddenly motionless, as if she had suddenly forgotten that we were there. Our anxiety and sympathy were excited to a degree which it is impossible to express. "We will bring the flowers to you, for we now know where they grow," I said at length, soothingly, "and you can weave them to-day, and tell us stories also, can you not?"

Bring flowers, bring flowers, before they wither-it is time! go, go, bring flowers for the garland," said she, with unusual vehemence.

Running to the wood, we soon returned to her with an abundance of the fairest flowers. I, especially, had found some in a hitherto undiscovered recess, that were wholly unknown to me, small delicate tufts with white, yellow, and slightly red flowerets, of which I brought my straw hat quite full.

"Thou hast plucked beautiful flowers, my child," said she, affectionately, "they never wither, they never change, they are the flowers of eternal truth. Give them to me for a wreath-I want such a wreath-and while I am twining it I will tell you the beautiful history of the Woodbird."

I gave her all the flowers, which, as I afterwards learned, are called Immortals, and then, seating ourselves by her, we prepared to listen to the tale of the Wood bird.

"In a deep-shaded wood lay many solitary huts," she began,-" poor people, colliers, wood-cutters, &c., dwelt in the dark green forest, scattered abroad in the neighborhood of poor Margaret's house. They were honest people, and lived happily in their peaceful poverty. Ah, it was a happy, blessed life, that we led in the dark green wood! Never shall we see the like again!

"Abroad, however, just beyond the skirts of the wood, stood a tall, spacious mansion, with an hundred windows which glowed as brilliantly as the sun itself, when the latter sank in the west. And when night came in her starry mantle, then from those windows the light of an hundred lamps shone far away over the land, piercing through the green branches even to our humble dwellings. The father of the wonderfully beautiful boy lived in the tall mansion, in pride and luxury, for he was great and powerful.

"The old people in the forest would shake their heads, from time to time, when the graceful boy so wildly and daringly leaped the ravines and mountain streams, or recklessly followed the chamois from rock to rock; but we younger ones took great pleasure in witnessing his daring activity, and as far as possible followed all his movements, and above all, poor Margaret.

VOL. XI.-NO. LIV.

74

How often did the first ray of morning light find her waiting for him!-he, however, was always anywhere but where he was most expected. Oft when at eve he seemed to have vanished, when no anxious cry could reach him, no eye discover him, would poor Margaret weep herself almost blind, for fear that he had fallen from the rocks into some one of the fathomless ravines. But when the dawn again awakened the birds in the forest, then would she discover the beautiful boy sitting on the highest branches of the beech trees, or rocking himself in the tops of the loftiest pines, singing in emulation of the morning carols of the wood birds. We children named him, therefore, the Woodbird, a name which he long bore, and in which he seemed to take great pleasure. Surely the name was appropriate; he had wings like a bird, although we could not see them, or rather like the angels, who have wings, it is said.

His figure was delicate as a dream, his eye was a clear star, and all his movements were pleasant and graceful. His imploring word penetrated softly yet powerfully to the heart,and oh, yet more powerfully when his lips were closed, and his eye only spoke; then the true life in him seemed to burst forth,-then was he, wordless, more eloquent than others could be with a thousand tongues. Once, when he was sitting by poor Margaret in a quiet wood, she ventured to beg of him not to wander so far and so wildly, endangering a life that was not his alone, but hers also. But he told her of the terrific waterfall in the deep valley of cleft rocks, of its gigantic human head covered with floating snow-white curls, and how he loved this waterfall, and how in its vicinity always a name was ringing in his ears, which he could not understand, and how he was then irresistibly impelled to ascend higher and higher among the rocks, that he might avoid hearing the name, which, however, never ceased to follow him, and allure him over the blue waters of the lake, across the hills, to the borders of the forest which the sun loves so well,and around which he hangs his royal purple mantle in the cool autumnal months,-further, always further, with

No more did he scale the high rocks, or ascend the tall trees;-he was more quiet, but also more friendly towards all.

"From afar would poor Margaret often see the dear form lose itself among the dark shadows, and, following, she would find him sitting by the mountain stream, whispering to its waves, speaking to the evening breeze, awakening echoes. When, at night, he wandered through the forest, a beautiful star moved by his side. Yet poor Margaret never dared approach when the dazzling light was with him. Once she begged, with tears, that he would tell her the name of that beauteous light; she felt that she must know it, or her heart would break. ALMA, he whispered with a smile. A cold misty veil spread itself over Margaret's eyes, and when it rolled, away he had disappeared.

"On her way home she saw him at a distance, sitting in the grass on the borders of the blue lake: he was listening to the little golden bees, and laughing with the dragon-flies that swarmed around, bringing him news of his star, of his Alma."

Here the speaker suddenly broke off her narrative, and became still and earnest. The sun sank deeper, light ing only the little hill on which we sat; the countless yellow star-flowers, strewn among the grass, began to stir with the evening breeze, gently waving back and forth on their almost invisibly fine stems, as if they had become living beings, and were joyfully dancing in the evening sunbeanis.

"See you that? See you that?" again began the stranger," the lights are kindled, the festival begins, the elves are coming. Thus was it wont to be. The boy had, even at the time when we used to call him the woodbird, fallen into the elf kingdom. For, mark it well, children, only the fleet ing is beautiful. To the soldier, life blooms much fairer from the fact that he daily puts it at risk, daily takes leave of it. The rose is fairer, because we know that the west wind will soon scatter its delicate leaves in every direction. The rainbow, stretching down to the blooming earth, gives joy to the angels, because its lightly suspended arch endures only for a moment, and then, with all its brilliant colors, disappears. And echo loves the sound, be

cause it can scarcely be repeated before it dies away. Therefore, also, do the elves love the children of men, because their short lives, in the view of immortal spirits, pass like the flight of a but terfly in the immeasurable blue of the heavens. And the boy yielded with gladness to the fairy's love, forgetting all else that he had ever loved on earth as if he had never been.

"Alma was the daughter of the first vernal sunbeam;-the elf king was her grandfather, but her mother was a mortal, of humble condition like poor Margaret. Therefore did the fair child of the sun love poor weak mortals, and often came down into the dusky vallies with her father and helped him kiss the flowers awake. On one of these occasions she found the beautiful boy, whom we called the woodbird, asleep in the grass; and, mistaking him for a flower, awoke his heart with a kiss.

And for this reason, long before she became visible to him, mingled her name, which then he knew not to pronounce, in all his dreams,-continually calling to him and alluring him from rock to rock, from waterfall to waterfall, through the dark green forest; and thus was he compelled always to seek what was to him as yet unknown. Fear of her severe grandfather deterred Alma from making himself visible to the dear boy, as yet. But she often concealed herself between the tiny waves, her playfellows, which danced upon the lake; sometimes she would hide in the deep calyx of the lily, or between the wings of a passing butterfly. She commanded all her servants to keep him in view, and all the messengers of spring brought her news of him. The buzzing bee, the slender dragon-fly, the little birds of the forest, all buzzed and whispered and sang her name to him; the May-flower repeated it in the vale, the auricula, the primrose, the star-flower, greeted him with rays from her eyes. Long before he saw, he knew her, and followed her footsteps with unextinguishable love. So grew the boy among his poor and humble playmates in the forest, until he became a tall youth, yet continuing kind and gentle to all, even to poor Margaret.

"He was at length fully grown, and roamed about at pleasure; but the waves were silent, the air was hushed,