of "Las Delicias," and open to the bay, and in full view of the panorama of ships, barges and steamers, at anchor and in motion, and on the site of the old Opera House of Havana, is this new and much needed hotel shortly to be built. If conducted on the American plan, and directed by a landlord who may own such a thing as a conscience, and who will give a reasonable attention to the wants of his guestswho may remember that all who enjoy the shelter of his roof are en

titled to its hospitalities-who has honesty to drive away from his stranger guests the mosquito swarm of petty depredators, who else would fasten on them, to the inhibition of all enjoyment (instead of looking listlessly on while they sucked their fill, as if he had a private interest or pleasure in their hospitable attentions,)-when these abuses shall have been frowned down, and these reforms shall be completed, the traveling public will have ample reason to rejoice.

The Pine had concluded his story with the doubtful promise and melancholy prospect of another.

Its last half-whispered words: "Yes, another time," gradually died away, and a deep calm reigned in the wide wood. One sound alone interrupted this stillness: the splash of the Forest Stream, as it gurgled on, with cadences broken only by some stone or root-the never ceasing Forest clock. And as it murmured on-now brightly glistening in the sun, now darkened by the shadow of tree or cloud, the pictures reflected by it tremb. ling on its surface-this monotonous sound became intelligible words; and unasked, but still attentively listened to by flower and tree, the Stream began its story.

Trees and flowers listened intently. An awfully solemn calm brooded over the deep grove. The rivulet alone plashed on-the only sound far and wide. This is the Forest calm. Who does not know it? To whom has it not seemed the Forest's Sabbath? All around so solemn, so still! Even the wind breathes more gently; and the hunter, filled with a pleasing and religious awe, forgets the chase and, falling upon the grass, sinks down

into the universal Forest rest. Such is the time when the Forest Stream tells its tales. Such is the Forest calm.

And the Brook began. "Do ye know where I rise? Do ye know my source? Ye know that of the Meadow Brook. A springlet, she bounds boldly forth

either over some stone or from some hill-side, and then increases in size, till discontented with the short dress which the grasses-although from love to her lengthened to their utmost-afford; she finally assumes the stiff and hard bodice of the Reed, with its wanton flower spangles, or black buttons.

un

So also with the Mountain Torrent. High above us lies the snow-the eternal mountain-captinted only by the rising and setting sun, and relieved of its glare only by the shadows of fast fleeting clouds; while, through the neighboring ravines, the motionless and dark blue glacier sparkles from the abyss. Outwardly it seems changeably firm; but within there stirs an active life. A constant flow and rush of waters is there, and among the clefts and crevices, the drops play a caseless hide-andseek; for the Sun-God constantly kisses the Mountain tops, and this steadfast love melts and softens even his cold heart. Springlets are the offspring of these kisses. These too play hide-and-seek in the crevices, till the place becomes too small for them, and then they rush forth. Emerging into light for the first time, they are astounded and amazed at the world which bursts upon them. Other curious Springlets, however, soon follow, and then they venture a little farther; at first slowly delaying, then quicker and quicker, till finally, a laughing Mountain Torrent, it leaps-like the Chamois, its neighbor by birthsportively from rock to rock. Now

it foams up high as the mountain snow-now, an unbroken mirror, it glitters like the glacier ice, till descending into the valley, it sinks into quiet, amid the charming repose of the plain.

But where is my source- -I, the Forest Stream? Ye find no spring from which I rise, neither snow, nor ice, whose child I am. Trace back my course. Ye find me plashing behind some stone or mossy hillock, and ye think that ye have at last discovered my origin; but off I am again, and further back still, from behind some gnarled root, I laugh you to scorn. Now, amid thousands of grasses and flowers I expand into a sheet of water like a broad mirror; now, I fall murmuring from stone to stone, which, jealous of the forest verdure, have covered their gray heads with green moss caps. Again I flow a wider stream, and then again trickle along. Ye cannot discover my origin. It is the enigma of the Forest. But learn it

now.

Upon a light cloud, floating leisurely over the plain, there once sat a lovely little Elf, the favorite servant of the fairy queen, arranging her jewelry. She took from its casket a long, long string of costly pearls-a gift from the Ocean. Titania had charged her to be very careful with it, as the tears of the Ocean were her favorite ornaments. Pearls are the Ocean's tears, not such as are shed, but such as he resolutely suppresses in his bosom, till the fisherman, at the risk of his life, wrings them from him. Though congealed and hardened, they still have the dull, glazed look of eyes worn with weeping. The little Elf was delighted with the pearls, and held them up to see if they would glitter more brightly in the sun. But pearls are not like precious stones, which borrow their

brilliancy from without; for the Ocean's tears have their own worth, and shine by no borrowed light. Puck, the teazer of men and fairies, was sitting behind her; and, while she was playing with the bauble, secretly cut the string. Down rolled the pearls, first upon the cloud and then to the earth. Stunned by fright, the little fairy remained motionless for a second; then collecting herself, flew towards earth after the falling treasure. Whilst floating in the boundless space between earth and cloud, she saw her little balls scattering, rolling, glittering on all sides. Hopeless, she was just on the point of returning, when she espied a green sward, with myriads of her lost pearls, as she thought, sparkling among its grass and flowers. Casket still in hand, she gathered them most industriously, and had almost filled it, when Titania's lovely servant perceived they were not the Ocean's tears, but only dew, the tears of flowers.

Disheartened and sad, she continued her search. And first she found pearls hanging in a mother's eye as she bent over her dead child. She gathered these tears of love. In her farther search, she found many other weeping eyes, so that her casket soon ran over. Alas! how many tears are shed on earth! From the eye of man there often flows a mysterious streamlet. I know its source also. "Tis the heart. When sorrow, or melancholy, or repentance, or sometimes even joy, beats against it; the streamlet always flows. And what a wondrous charm, too, it possesses! That heart must be hard, indeed, which is unmoved by a stranger's tears! Men often try to disregard them, saying: "I don't pity these tears; they are too well deserved." But it is not so; for still they are tears, and come from a heart

Thinking these her lost jewels, our fairy floated upwards to the clouds with the casket tightly clasped in her arms. Ah! the casket became heavier and heavier: tears are not light; and when it was opened, she found her fancied pearls dissolved into a mass.

Disconsolate, she flew from cloud to cloud, (with all of whom she was a favorite,) lamenting her distress. They sent their rain to earth in search of the lost treasure. How it poured and streamed! Tree and shrub were bent, the dew was washed away, but the pearls remained unfound.

Puck, the knavish sprite, noticed all this, and saw what grief he had caused the poor little fairy. This caused him sorrow, having only intended to annoy, not to distress. Down, therefore, he dove into the bosom of the earth, and having obtained some bright, sparkling brass and glittering spangles from his friends, the Guomes, brought them to Elfy. "There, now," he said, "you have your trash again, and better and more brilliant, too!" Elfy shouted with joy, and the clouds ceased from raining.

But examining the gift more closely, she saw it was nothing but worthless gewgaw and glitter. Angry, she seized the box and hurled it so far that the glittering particles made a long bow in the heavens. This was the first rainbow. Since then, whenever the clouds weep, Puck brings his gewgaws and repeats the farce. The rainbow, however, though beautiful and always causing both us and men pleasure, is but an illusion, the gift of Guomes, the work of Puck, the knave. Men know this, for when they pursue it, it keeps just out of their reach, and then suddenly disappears. Where does it dwell? Children say

Thus what chance produced, Puck sometimes uses now for his own amusement. And if any of his treasure remains, when he has first strewn it over the heavens, he returns and builds a smaller and less brilliant bow. Hence we often see this brilliant appearance doubled on the horizon, and hence it only comes when the clouds weep; pitying the poor little fairy's distress, whom Puck worries, but still would console.

Our Elf was still sitting sadly upon the cloud, taking no pleasure in the first rainbow she herself had made, when Titania approached her. Happening just then to be in a kindly humor, on hearing the cause of her little maid's grief, the capricious queen simply smiled and forgave her. Perhaps she was more easily consoled for her loss, as an ocean sprite, whose heart she had recently won, had just promised her another string of pearls. The great are prodigal even with the tears entrusted to their keeping.

But what was to be done with the heavy contents of the casket, which Elfy still held in her arms. "Haste to the most lovely and retired spot in my forest," said Titania, "and pour these drops on the thirstiest plants. Let them remain what they are. United, they shall flow a great forest tear."

The little maid obeyed, and thus rose the first Forest Stream, and the Forest too had its tear. Do ye now know my source? As with human tears, 'tis the heart-the hidden heart of the Forest. When melancholy, or yearning love, or sorrow beats against it, the tears flow. In summer, when many a child of the forest is plucked and destroyed, I flow noiselessly but ceaselessly on. In autumn, when all are gone, I

weep in silent sorrow for the flow ers and leaves, which the wind often strews on my bosom, giving them for graves the very grief they have caused. In the dreary loneliness of winter, I freeze, and my tears, like Ocean's hidden sorrows, become pearls, and hang from rocks and roots with the same dull, glazed look of weeping eyes. But in spring, when a longing love fills the hearts of all, then tears of commingled melancholy and joy flow from the deep wood; and then, too, rising high and overflowing my banks, I kiss flower and grass. Sympathy too often excites me; and when the clouds weep rain or the flowers dew, the forest stream often rises. Does not my whole appearance-the spirit of feeling and sadness I breathe around youtell you that the forest's heart is my source? The melancholy Reed clings close to me. The Forgetme-not, gazing fondly to heaven, like the truthful blue eye in the hour of parting, grows best upon my stream. The weeping Willow, in her everlasting mourning, droops her branches till they touch my waters. Every where I excite deep sympathy. Even the stone, which obstructs my course-the unchanging stone, upon whom time writes no mark-when touched by my waters, sheds light tears as I flow on, and yields to my kisses alone. Therefore I love the stone.

Men tell a strangely sad story of one who outlives everything-from whom even death flies. The stone seems such to me. He is the Ahasuerus, the Wandering Jew, of the forest, and can tell you many tales; for his memory reaches to the remotest time.

Puck, the knavish sprite, jealous

of the Forest Stream, would rival it with his glitter, which has now an eternal importance. Oftentimes he mischievously throws a knotty root or sharp stone into my waters, and my drops, splashed high into the air, dissipate into foam. Then you may see the colors of the rainbow playing in the sunbeams. It is the glitter Puck displays near my lustre, as if he would say: "Is not my gift the more beautiful?" But it vanishes quickly away, and I course on unchanged. Thus is it in life. The comic and mischievous commingle oft with the sad and melancholy, as if some knavish sprite had combined them. The heart of man, even when wrung by the deepest anguish, is often moved to mirth; and a smile often sparkles from the weeping eye. In the fullest harmony of nature, we often meet quaint distortions. A gnarled trunk and bare, and barren branches, separate the rich carpet of grass from the rounded fullness of the foliage above. From among perfect and lovely roses, there often peeps a deformity, a distorted face among its companions. This is Puck's work. But a reflecting mind, like nature herself, reconciles these incongruities.

Thus ended the Forest Stream. The repose of the woods continued. Leaf and flower hardly rustled or whispered. Suddenly a crash was heard. A dried and withered bough broke, creaking, from the top of a stately oak; and parting the leaves above and crushing the flowers below, fell crackling into the brook, throwing its drops high into the air, and stirring it up from its lowest depths. A second, and all was again quiet.

Puck did this, the knavish sprite.