CLOVERNOOK. 



twilight troop out of the dim woods, with the first stars, whether the moon have all her 

 golden filliug, or hang like a silver ring in the blue arching of the sky, the time seems the 

 most beautiful of all, and we are ready to say to the shadows, crouch back a little, let the 

 ashen gray prevail. Night broods over the world, deep and solemn; away above us the 

 still constellations go on their way, and throwing earthward wildering beams like golden 

 ladders, whereon our thoughts may climb to heaven ; clouds, with dark ridges, cut the 

 blue, or build a wilderness of black along the edges of the horizon, or lie against each oth- 

 er, like squadrons in the offing of a mighty sea; and whether the winds run laughingly up 

 and down the hills, or kennelled among the thick forests, whine dismally and low, night 

 seems a blessed time — a season of thought, or of dreams, or of peaceful sleep. 



And so with the various seasons of the year. May, with her green lap full of sprout- 

 ing leaves and bright blossoms, her song-birds making the orchards and meadows vocal, 

 and rippling streams and cultivated gardens; June, with full blown roses and humming- 

 bees, plenteous meadows and wide cornfields, with embattled lines rising thick and green; 

 August, with reddened orchards, and heavy-headed harvests of grain; October, with yel- 

 low leaves and swart shadows; December, palaced with snow, and idly whistling through 

 his numb fingers — all have their various charm ; and in the rose-bowers of summer, and 

 as we spread our hands before the torches of winter, we say, joyfully, " Thou hast made 

 all things beautiful in their time." We sit around the fireside, and the angel, feared and 

 dreaded by us all, comes in, and one is taken from our midst — hands that have caressed 

 us, locks that have fallen over us like a bath of beauty, are hidden beneath shroud-folds 

 — we see the steep edges of the grave, and hear the heavy rumble of the clods; and in the 

 burst of passionate grief, it seems that wecan never still the crying of our hearts. But the 

 days rise and set, dimly at first, and seasons come and go, and by little and little the 

 weight rises from the heart, and the shadows drift from before the eyes, till we feel again 

 the spirit of gladness, and see again the old beauty of the world. The circle is narrowed, 

 so that the vacant seat reminds us no longer of the lost, and we laugh and jest as before, 

 and at last marvel where there was any place for the dead. Traitors that we are to the 

 past ! Yet it is best and wisest so. Why should the children of time be looking back- 

 ward where there is nothing more to do ? Why should not the now and the here be to 

 us of all periods the best, till the future shall be the present and time eternity ?" 



The following sketch of " Mrs. Hill and Mrs. Troost," is so true to the life, and the 

 point of the story is so entirely within the scope of this journal, that we give it as a wel- 

 come contribution. Our readers will find in Mrs. Thoost a capital specimen of the mistresses 

 of tumble-down dwellings, who always accuse nature of making "every thing die" that 

 they plant; while Mrs. Hill is one of those happy, practical, excellent women, who make 

 order and sunshine and a spirit of content and beaut}^ grow up around them, wherever 

 they are. 



" Mrs. Hill and Mrs. Troost. 



" It was just two o'clock of one of the warmest of the July afternoons. Mrs. Hill had 

 her dinner all over, had put on her clean cap and apron, and was sitting on the north 

 porch, making an unbleached cotton shirt for Mr. Peter Hill, who always wore unbleach- 

 ed shirts at harvest time. Mrs. Hill was a thrifty housewife. She had been pursuing this 

 economical avocation for some little time, interrupting herself only at times, to " shu!" 

 away the flock of half-grown chickens that came noisil}'^ about the door for the crumbs 

 from the table cloth, when the sudden shutting down of a great blue cotton umbrella 

 caused her to drop her work, and exclaim — 



" Well, now, Mrs. Troost! who would have thought you ever would come to see 



