SEVENTH EVENING
"Along the margin of the shore stretches a forest offirs and beeches，and fresh and fragrant is this wood;hun-dreds of nightingales visit it every spring.Close beside it isthe sea，the ever-changing sea，and between the two isplaced the broad high road.One carriage after another rollsover it;but I did not follow them，for my eye loves best torest upon one point.A grave-mound stands there，and thesloe and blackberry grow luxuriantly among the stones.Here is true poetry in nature.
"And how do you think men appreciate this poetry?Iwill tell you what I heard there last evening and during thenight.
"First，two rich landed proprietors came driving by.'Those are glorious!'said the first.'Certainly thereare ten loads of firewood in each，'observed the other：'it will be a hard winter，and last year we got fourteendollars a load'—and they were gone.'The road here iswretched，'observed another man who drove past.'That'sthe fault of those horrible trees，'replied his neighbour;'there is no free current of air;the wind can only comefrom the sea'—and they were gone.The stage coachwent rattling past.All the passengers were asleep at thisbeautiful spot.The postilion blew his horn，but he onlythought，'I can play capitally.It sounds well here.Iwonder if those in there like It?'—and the stage coachvanished.Then two young fellows came gallopping up onhorseback.There's youth and spirit in the blood here!thought I;and，indeed，they looked with a smile at themoss-grown hill and thick forest.'I should not dislike awalk here with the miller's Christine，'said one—andthey flew past.
"The flowers scented the air;every breath of air washushed：it seemed as if the sea were a part of the sky thatstretched above the the deep valley.A carriage rolled by.Sixpeople were sitting in it.Four of them were asleep;thefifth was thinking of his new summer coat，which wouldsuit him admirably;the sixth turned to the coachman and asked him if there were anything remarkable connectedwith yonder heap of stones.'No，'replied the coachman，'it's only a heap of stones;but the trees are remark-able.'' How so?'' Why，I'll tell you how they are veryremarkable.You see，in winter，when the snow lies verydeep，and has hidden the whole road so that nothing is tobe seen，those trees serve for a landmark.I steer bythem，so as not to drive into the sea;and you see that isWhy the trees are remarkable.'
"Now came a painter.He spoke not a word，but hiseyes sparkled.he began to whistle.At this the nightin-gales sang louder than ever.'Hold your tongues!'hecried，testily;and he made accurate notes of all thecolours and transition—blue，and lilac，and dark brown.'That will make a beautiful picture，'he said.He took itin just as a mirror takes in a view;and as he workedhe whistled a march of Rossini's.And last of all came apoor girl.She laid aside the burden she carried and satdown to rest by the grave-mound.Her pale handsomeface was bent in a listening attitude towards the forest.Her eyes brightened，she gazed earnestly at the sea andthe sky，her hands were folded，and I think she prayed，'Our Father.'She herself could not understand thefeeiling that swept through her，but I know that thisminute and the beautiful natural scene will live within hermemory for year，far more vividly and more truly thanthe painter could portray it with his colours on paper.Myrays followed her till the morning dawn kissed her brow."
EIGHTH EVENING
Heavy clouds obscured the sky，and the Moon didnot make his appearance at all.I stood in my little room，more lonely than ever，and looked up at the sky where heought to have shown himself.My thoughts flew far away，up to my great friend，who every evening told me suchpretty tales，and showed me pictures.Yes，he has had anexperience indeed.He glided over waters of the Del-uge，and smiled on Noah's ark just as he lately glanceddowm upon me，and brought comfort and promise of a newworld that was to spring forth from the old.When the Chil-dren of Israel sat weeping by the waters of Babylon，heglanced mournfully between the willows where hung thesilent harps.When Romeo climbed the balcony，and thepromise of true love fluttered like a cherub toward heaven，the round Moon hung，half-hidden among the dark cy-presses，in the lucid air.He saw the captive giant atSt.Helena，looking from the lonely rock across the wideocean，while great thoughts swept through his soul.Ah!What tales the Moon can tell.Human life is like a storyto him.
Tonight I shall not see thee again，old friend.Tonight I can draw no picture of the memories of thyvisit.And，as I looked dreamily towards the clouds，thesky became bright.There was a glancing light，and abeam from the Moon fell upon me.It vanished again，and dark clouds flew past;but still it was a greeting，afriendly good-night offered to me by the Moon.