ed on, she followed me mechanically to L-, where M- and I were expecting me. They had not been able to get a piano, and were overflowing with complaints at such deep distress. When they wanted to know who was the girl I had picked up, their inquiries were cut short by a messenger from Duchess Blanca with so charming a note, requesting their attendance at the villa this very afternoon, that there was nothing for it but to dress and start. On their return their commendations of her seemed endless. To these I listened with but one ear, for a deep-laid scheme, concerted with the lovers during their absence, weighed on my mind. Old Heller always slept on something like a hard bench close to his beloved pianos, but that night at any rate he must have slept soundly; he never heard the very piano which I wanted for my husband being carried away, and its counterpart, an empty case of Vogt's, being placed close to the sleeper in its stead. Nothing could equal my delight and my husband's surprise. Of course I had to confess my ruse de guerre, and then I told Kate Heller's pathetic story. I readily obtained a promise of M- and Ito play at the Kurhaus in order to raise the indispensable hundred thalers. One day's announcement filled the largest room at the Kurhaus to overflowing, and the duchess struck the key-note of the enthusiasm which burst forth from this mixed audience, first at the respective solos of the two performers, then at their marvellous playing of Beethoven's sonata dedicated to Kreutzer; and when M— sat down to the piano, asking for a theme to improvise upon, and the duchess herself had one handed to him, all was silent attention, in expectation of great things to come. But hardly had he commenced when a most unharmonious noise disturbed both player and audience. An old man, vainly restrained by a young girl, had burst into the room, ejaculating, "But I tell you it is my piano, and yet I have not sent it-not I-so far away." Mrose, and was going up to the speaker, when he heard cries of Order!" "Silence!" from all parts of the room, and quickly recovering the presence of mind which never failed him when before the public, sat down and recommenced playing. The old man-Heller, of courseseemed to become more and more riveted, drew nearer and nearer to the piano, and when a brilliant passage of tenths concluded the fantasia, he joined in the plaudits; then whispered, as in a dream: "It was, though, my instrument; I knew it as I was passing along the road; and yet I have not sent it-not I-so far away. But, oh! how beautiful it was!" So saying, a tear stole into his hard gray eyes: he had been conquered by M- 's playing. Of course we made use of this softened mood to get his consent for the marriage of the young people, and this time the wedding followed the betrothal. SH ILENTLY, like thoughts that come and go, the snow-flakes fall, each one a gem. The whitened air conceals all trace of earthly form, and leaves to memory the space to fill. I look upon a blank, whereon my fancy paints, as no hand of mine could do, the pictures and the poems of a boyhood life, and even as the under-tone of a painting, be it warm or cool, shall modify or change the color laid upon it, so this cold and frosty background through the window transfigures all my thoughts, and forms them into winter memories legion like the snow. Oh, that I could translate for other eyes the winter idyl painted there! I see a living past whose counterpart I well could wish might be a common fortune. I see in all its joyous phases the gladsome winter in New England, the snow-clad hills with bare and shivering trees, the homestead dear, the old gray barn hemmed in with peaked drifts. I see the skating pond, and hear the ringing, intermingled shouts of the noisy, shuffling game, the black ice written full with testimony of the winter's brisk hilarity. Down the hard-packed road with glancing sled I speed, past frightened team and startled way-side groups; o'er "thank you, marms" I fly in clear mid-air, and crouching low between the spurts of snowy spray, I sweep the sliding curve. Now past the village church and cozy parsonage. Now scudding close beneath the hemlocks, hanging low with their piled and tufted weight of snow. The way-side bits like dizzy streaks whiz by, the old rail fence becoming a quivering tint of gray. The road-side weeds bow after me, and soon, like an arrow from the bow, I shoot across the "Town Brook" bridge, and jumping out beyond, skip the sinking ground, and with an anxious eye and careful poise I "trim the ship," and leave the rest to fate. Perhaps I land on both runners, perhaps I don't; that depends. I've tried both ways, I know, and if I remember rightly, I always found it royal jolly fun. The average New England boy is hard to kill, and I was one of that kind. Any boy who could brave the hidden mysteries and capricious favoritism of those fifteen dislocating "thank you, marms," and hang together through it all, and having so done, finish that experience with a plunging double somersault into a crusted snow-bank, or perchance into a stone wall-if he can do this, I say, and survive the fun, then there is no reason why he should not live to tell of it in old age, for never in the flesh will he go through a rougher ordeal. SNOW-FLAKES OF MEMORY. At the foot of that long hill the "Town | Brook" gurgles on its winding way, and passing beneath the weather-beaten bridge, it makes a sudden turn, and spreads into a glassy pond behind the bulwarks of the Saw-mill Dam. In summer, were we as near as this, we would hear the intermittent ring of the whizzing saw, the clanking cogs, and the tuneful sounds of the falling bark-bound slabs; but now, like its bare willows that were wont to wave their leafy boughs with caressing touch upon the mossy roof, the old mill shows no sign of life. Its pulse is frozen, and the silent wheel is resting from its labors 'neath a coverlet of snow. Who is there who has not in some recess of the memory a dear old haunt like this, some such sleeping pond radiant with reflections of the scenes of early life? Thither in those winter days we came, our numbers swelled from right and left with eager volunteers for the game, till at last almost a hundred strong we rally on the smooth black ice. The opposing leaders choose their sides, and with loud hurrahs we penetrate the thickets at the water's edge, each to cut his special choice of stick-that festive cudgel, with curved and club-shaped end, known to the boy as a "shinny stick," but to the calm recollection of after-life principally as an instrument of torture, indiscriminately promiscuous in its playful moments. How clearly and distinctly I recall those toughening, rollicking sports on the old millpond! I see the two opposing forces on the field of ice, the wooden ball placed ready for the fray. The starter lifts his stick. I hear a whizzing sweep. Then comes that liquid, twittering ditty of the hard-wood ball skimming over the ice, that quick succession of bird-like notes, first distinct and clear, now fainter and more blended, now fainter still, until at last it melts into a whispered quivering whistle, and dies away 'midst the scraping sound of the closepursuing skates. With a sharp crack I see the ball returned singing over the polished surface, and met half way by the advance-guard of the leading side. Now comes the tug of war. Strange fun! What a spectacle! The wouldbe striker, with stick uplifted, jammed in the centre of a boisterous throng; the hill-sides echo with ringing shouts, and an anxious circle, with ready sticks, forms about the swaying, gesticulating mob. Meanwhile the ball is beating round beneath their feet, their skates are clashing steel on steel. I hear the shuffling kicks, the battling strokes of clubs, the husky mutterings of passion half suppressed; I hear the panting breath and the impetuous whisperings between the teeth, as they push and wrestle and jam. A lucky hit now sends the ball a few feet from the fray. A ready hand improves the chance; but as he lifts his stick a youngster's nose gets in the way and spoils his stroke; he slips, and falls upon the ball; another and another plunge headlong over him. The crowd surround the prostrate pile and punch among them for the ball. When found, the same riotous scene ensues; another falls, and all are trampled under foot by the enthusiastic crowd. Ye gods! will any one come out alive? I hear the old familiar sounds vibrating on the air: whack! whack FIRST SNOW. "Ouch!" "Get out of the way, then!" "Now I've got it!" "Shinny on yer own side!" and now a heavy thud! which means a sudden damper on some one's wild enthusiasm. And so it goes until the game is won. The mob disperses, and the riotous spectacle gives place to uproarious jollity. There are other more tranquil reflections from that old mill-pond. Do you not remember the little pair of dainty skates whose straps you clasped on daintier feet, the quiet gliding strolls through the secluded nooks, the small refractory buckle which you so often stooped to |