IT was June — bright, glorious June; and the most glowing and glorious day of all the month. Every shrub and tree was dripping wet with the dew which the last night had scattered; every leaf quivered with its pendant jewel, and every arching branch was gorgeous with a thousand rainbows. Beside a row of fine gardens, which occupied the space between the street and river, swept the clear waters of the Hudson. Early as it was, several fragile canoes were skipping from wave to wave, as if susceptible to the keen joyance which had set the pulse of nature in a bound; and even the fishing-smacks, with their less picturesque freights, could not find it in the nature of things to drop silently down the river, but indulged in various gambols that betrayed strong symptoms of mirthfulness. A very little town was Albany at that day — little enough to be happy, and simple enough to prefer happiness to its now popular antipodes, fashionable ennui, and splendid discontent. Indeed, the honest burghers had not a doubt that the fort, tipping the small steep hill in the centre, was the finest in the world; and the street proceeding thence, and widening as it sloped toward the river, garnished as it was with two fine churches, a town-hall, market-place and guard-house, the most imposing of streets. O! golden days were those when every house had its own well, and its own garden, and its own green lawn stretching far behind; to say nothing of that household god of every true Knickerbocker, the sentinel tree, planted close by each door-stone, casting upon the little portico a shadow in which it was delightful to luxuriate. Golden days, indeed, when the choice old ballad, with the shuttle and distaff for an accompaniment, was the music of every home; and the highest and proudest would wrap their furs about them and stand in the cold moonlight, heart and soul enlisted in the simple amusement of their sons and brothers as the dexterously guided sledge swept with lightning speed adown the hill side.

      Then the present capital of New York could boast but four streets, generously broad, and surpassingly cleanly, with a common pasture at one end, and at the other a large fertile field divided into lots for the growing of Indian corn. Above the little town to the westward stretched sandy hills, covered with the large, delicious bilberry; and beyond rose bold heights, crowned with stunted pine and dwarf oak, like a wall of defence from the treacherous nations with which the land swarmed even to the far off border lakes. These imposing uplands were interspersed with rich bottoms, and scenery magnificently wild, now and then softening into features of exquisite loveliness, but never degenerating into tameness.

      On the morning of which we have spoken — the glorious June morning — there was an unusual bustle in the tranquil little town. Small wagons were out in every direction, and as one of them drew up before a door, its lusty occupant leaped to the pavement, strode through the court yard with the air of a conqueror, and struck with powerful hand the ponderous knocker garnishing the door. Then a bright, merry face glanced hastily from the window, and in a moment a round, rosy damsel, all blushes, smiles and dimples, emerged from the door-way, work-basket in hand, and was led to the waiting vehicle. Distinctions in society had commenced even at this early period, and these were the noblesse, the people of figure, treating themselves to a gala day, meanwhile exhibiting a rare condescension in their choice of amusements. Families not sufficiently blessed with this world's wealth to make a residence in town feasible, had laid their hearth-stone in the neighboring woods, patiently clearing and cultivating, till by dint of industry they were enabled to take a stand beside their wealthier neighbors. These of course were in a degree thrown without the pale of society, and would have been so entirely but for a festive arrangement peculiar to the Albanians. It mattered not whether these families were strangers or not; the social spirit of the citizens overlooked such trivial considerations as an introduction, and visits to the wood, or to the bush, as it was designated, were things of common occurrence. A morning drive, followed by a pleasant chat, a dinner provided by the guests and participated in by the family visited, a merry dance, and a twilight ride homeward, constituted the order of the day. The anticipated honor on this occasion was to be paid to a family who had come from far down the river and settled in a wild, dark recess of the woods, far from any other habitation, and unapproachable by means of wagons, small and expert though they were, for a mile around. The walk, however, so far from dampening the spirits of the gay belles of the party, was regarded as giving additional zest to the enjoyment.

      Soon all were ready, and the train of wagons, passing the whole length of the broad street parallel with the river, emerged into a country luxuriant in its summer wealth of greenness. The procession was headed by wild Dirk Van Deusen, a hearty Holland boy, whose fun-loving spirit and reckless feats had gained him the then unenviable reputation of occupying the very heights of daredevilism. Oh, such havoc as Dick made among the ducks and wild geese! and how the poor sturgeon trembled when his torch moved upon the water! But then fishing and hunting were minor accomplishments compared with the glorious fun of — nay, gentle reader, raise not thy hands in pious horror, for pig-stealing was glorious fun, that is as the Albany "boys" practised it, and particularly after the scientific style of Dirk Van Deusen. And do not think said Albany boys a set of vicious young scape-graces, and our valiant Dirk a rascally varlet, ripe for Blackwell. This was a licensed amusement, without a shadow of dishonesty pertaining thereto, and the most expert sty-robber of them all would have been shocked at the thought of taking an advantage in trade over which the sleek, smooth-faced man of business of the present day would smile with the most self-satisfied complacency. A noble fellow was wild Dirk, notwithstanding his shocking dexterity in pig-stealing; for did he not help rob his own father's sty to save a neighbor whom he thought less able to spare the contribution? And then, when the smoking pig disappeared so mysteriously from the table that more than one knee knocked tremblingly against its trim neighbors, who should have the benefit of this extra freak but the poor widow Van Staats's hungry family? Wild Dirk was certainly unbecomingly wild; his fund of animal spirits was without stint or measure, and his daring made him a perfect marvel; but notwithstanding all this he was a popular favorite. Old men laughed encouragingly and clapped him on the shoulders, while their goede vrouws, though they raised hands and eyes in utter astonishment, talked long and earnestly of the housewifely qualities of the blushing damsels who, now and then, stole a timid glance from the left corner of a left eye, to note the effect of mamma's manœuvres.

      It was all to no purpose, however. Dirk was too fond of his rod and gun to devote more than one shrewd nod to the piles of "homespun" paraded before him, and for the conscious beauties themselves he had no eye at all. Indeed it is doubtful whether wild Dirk could distinguish between beauty and deformity; for although pretty Katrinsche Vanderling had manœuvred for a whole week for a seat in his wagon, who, think you, should supplant her but the hunch back, poor little Alice Van Staats! It was too bad — anybody would do to drive Alice, poor thing! At any rate she ought not to have been trusted to wild Dirk. He would drive so fast as to give her a headache, or he would frighten her to death with his carelessness, or he would tip her into some bog by the wayside and never miss her till she was inquired after. In short, Miss Katrinsche was certain that poor Alice was in imminent peril; and as she thought of the vanity which placed the silly child in such a dangerous position, the belle of Albany tossed her pretty head much after the fashion of a modern belle in like circumstances. But all this effected nothing. Dirk's whip cut a doubled and twisted caracole in the air, smack went the other whips, and the cavalcade moved on so briskly that the eyes of little Alice Van Staats fairly danced with exhilaration.

      "Ho, Dirk! halloo there, my boy! Where away!" shouted a voice from the heart of the greenwood, as they were whirling onward.

      "To the bush."

      "Ah! Um, um! To the Couenhoven's?"

      "No — away over to the ravine, a new settler."

      "To the ravine? Whew! whew!" and now a lank figure emerged from the covert of the woods, and first giving his head an ominous shake, looked mysteriously along the line of wagons that halted at his first salute.

      "Aye, down to the ravine!" repeated wild Dirk, resolutely. The new comer shook his head with an air of still greater mystery.

      "And why not, Yankee Tom?" inquired Dirk, raising his fore finger knowingly until it approached the left side of his nose. "Are there dogs in the ravine, too? Ha! ha!"

      Tom raised his eyes, gave his head another shake, and looked at Dirk with appalling solemnity.

      By this time little Alice Van Staats was quaking with fear, and as Tom leaned over and whispered a word in the ear of her cavalier, she gave one short, shrill cry, and turned a face pale as death on the company behind. The infection spread at once. An undefinable fear crept over the merry, chattering damsels, and all ears were opened for wild Dirk's answer.

      "Never say old Split-foot to an Albany boy, Tom; go down to Salem with your nonsense; it will be understood there." There was no quaver in Dirk's voice, but the furtive glances cast upon him by his comrades, as they shrank to half their former dimensions, and the raised hands, parted lips, and staring eyes of the timid damsels of the train bespoke a sweeping absence of sympathy for his boldness.

      "Der duyvel!" was the simultaneous exclamation of the masculine part of the company, in a low, half-whistling tone, as though the word had oozed incontinently from their lips, as their perspiration did from their foreheads.

      "It is true — every word true, as I live;" asserted Yankee Tom. "It is a terrible place down there; — dark woods and deep waters, and I say nothing, boys, only go on — go on, if you don't believe me."

      "Yes, come on!" shouted wild Dirk, with a flourish of the whip unusually complicated; "Come on, boys! we'll lay his black majesty, hoof and horns together, and bring him home as we would a good fat buck well peppered with the lead ??? play-things. Come on!"

      Dirk moved onward, poor little Alice clinging with both hands to his left arm; but not a horse stirred behind him, except to raise a foot by way of getting rid of a troublesome fly. "Halloo there, boys! do you show the white feather?" — to a Yankee, Dirk would have added, if he had been near enough to do it confidentially. "Whip up! now forward! we shall be too late for the dinner. St. Nicholas defend us! the simpletons are turning round!"

      Poor little Alice's joyous exclamation of "goot!" on the announcement of this intelligence, did not escape Dirk's ears; and with a face thoroughly steeped in vexation he gave the right rein a jerk that Miss Vanderling would have thought particularly dangerous to Alice, and in a moment had joined the rest of the company. To his utter astonishment he found each individual of the brave sex quite as fearless as himself, notwithstanding some pallor and shaking, and an infinite deal of hesitancy and tremulousness in the tones of the voices; cowardice is a quality strictly feminine. But vainly did Dirk urge the matter of going forward. His companions were quite too chivalrous to think of such a thing for a moment, since the fairer portion of the company disapproved, and they probably thought courage quite unbecoming to the softer sex, as they took no pains to quiet their fears in the least. On the contrary two or three stout fellows, seeing Dirk's eloquence somewhat effective, slid carelessly in a tale or two of Indian massacre, spiced with a mysterious murder for which a negro had suffered burning, though his master was ever after haunted by a shadow. But wilder legends had Yankee Tom than any of these; and he now croaked them forth in all their fearful details, till the blood even of wild Dirk would have curdled and his heart stood still, had he not detected a peculiar pucker in the muscles of the historian's mouth, and a half-subdued twinkle of the little gray eye that indicated the source of all this traditionary lore. "Faugh!" was his contemptuous reply, but there came no echo, and his bravery was of about as much avail as the last Dutch governor's when he stood on one side, and the English, backed by Nieuvv Amsterdam, on the other. One of the company knew a respectable young couple inwooded far enough from the ravine to make it improbable that the unwelcome spirit should take a stroll that way; and he proposed that they should forthwith proceed thither. To this no opposition was raised except by wild Dirk; he indeed was resolved to confront the sylvan demon and drag him forth to day. He deemed it inglorious, a disgrace, a burning shame to turn back; and whispered his companions that the Yankee would fling it in their teeth forever. But the gallantry of the Albany boys stood even this test. In consideration of the timidity of the fair damsels by their sides, groundless as this timidity was, they could bear even taunts and scorn. A low, provoking chuckle from Yankee Tom, as Dirk unwillingly tightened the reins and prepared to follow in the wake of the little company, roused the young Hollander's metal.

      "Dunder and blitzen!" he exclaimed, leaping from the wagon, and flourishing his whip around the ears of Tom; "for the ravine I started, and to the ravine I'll go, if the old serpent and all his crew should lay themselves in my path, hissing at me with the same lying tongue that turned the brain of mother Eve. They couldn't beat a Yankee if they did."

      It took scarce five minutes to adjust matters and make a transfer of the seat at Alice's right hand to Yankee Tom; though the little maiden's pouting lip gave unequivocal proof that "anybody would not do to drive Alice," except in an emergency. There was, however, a look of real, heartfelt concern on the face of Tom, that could not have been altogether affected, and this puzzled our hero sorely. He was doubtless to encounter something, and he would have liked well to know the form of the enemy.

      "He thinks he has played a fine trick upon me," muttered Dirk, as he turned back to the little village to arm himself preparatory to an encounter with the embodied principle of evil; and then his lip curled, and a gleam of satisfaction flashed across his sturdy face, as his ready wit suggested a rare revenge. Comforted with some private reflections, he jogged on, and without loss of time was soon equipped and on his way to the ravine. "Ha! ha!" laughed wild Dirk at his own thoughts. "Ho! ho!" meanwhile his eye glanced along the barrel of his rifle in an experienced way, and quite leisurely; and then he turned it round and peered in at the muzzle, as though it had been a telescope. "Ha! ha! ha! Just the thing! horns and all! ha! ha!" and with peal on peal that sent every living thing about him scampering to a place of safety, our young adventurer disappeared in the dark old forest.

      The sun had been below the horizon but a half hour, and his red beams yet lingered, as though a signal-fire had been lighted on the summit of the Helderberg hills to warn the people westward of his approach, when the gay party returned from their excursion to the bush. The first inquiry was for Dirk Van Deusen, and John Van Brom and Hans Schonhoven passed around the hill to the red farm house to satisfy the anxious curiosity of the waiting company. But Dirk had not been seen since morning, when, in the best of humor with himself and all the world, he shouldered his rifle and walked to the woods alone. It was strange, very strange indeed! quite unaccountable! and many a head went late to its pillow that night, turning lingeringly from the little window which he must necessarily pass if he returned; and Dirk Van Deusen was the burthen of many a sleeper's thoughts, though in certainly most questionable company.

      Morning came, and clouds or rather constellations of pretty faces were early at the windows, and earnest eyes sought the red farm house with singular interest. In due time all the Van Deusens had made themselves visible save the one sought — the nimble-footed, light-hearted Dirk. Then little groups of girls, with their milking pails on their arms, drew themselves together by the corners of the court yard fences, conversing in mysterious whispers; while the "boys," carefully shunning intercourse with each other, lest they should be drawn into acknowledging a weakness, walked apart in evident uneasiness. It was late in the morning — so late that every floor had been scrubbed, the milk had been set away to cool, and the wheel had commenced its monotonous buz before Dirk Van Deusen made his appearance. And then what a figure! He had never been seen to wear that coat before; he had certainly put on his father's by mistake, so loosely did it hang about his shoulders; and as for his cravat, he had probably left it in the bush, for Dirk was very particular about making a smart appearance, and however given to pig-stealing, had never been known to violate the "minor morals," as far as they were understood at Albany. His hair had evidently been untouched since the combing and queuing of the previous morning; and his hat, which had always been stuck jauntily on one side of his head, as becomes a hearty "good fellow," was now slouched over his eyes, as if it would either shut out some horrible spectre or veil a secret sorrow from the prying eyes of the world. Oh, a sorry figure was Dirk Van Deusen — wild Dirk no more; for he walked with the slow, measured tread, not of a priest, but a penitent. Men, women and children, shook their heads as they looked upon him, and heavy sighs followed him, and everybody put on a most pitiful expression, and whispered, "poor Dirk!"

      Weeks passed away, and Dirk's malady increased. A strange infatuation seemed to have seized upon him, for every few days he made a pilgrimage to the bush, each time returning more beside himself than before. His gun and rod were entirely forsaken; he no longer shared in the amusements common to the season, and even the athletic exercises upon which he had prided himself were abandoned. Only once had he been known to evince a touch of his former spirit. Yankee Tom, instead of pitying his forlorn state as others did, had evidently owed him a grudge from the beginning; and one day, when they happened to meet in a public place, high words ensued between them. Nobody understood the ground of the difficulty, for both parties, with evident intent even in the midst of their anger, made that obscure; but at one whispered, sneering word from Tom, wild Dirk was turned into a tiger. He sprang at his antagonist's throat in a rage; but releasing that on a cry from the spectators, he cudgelled the poor Yankee until he was fain to cry for quarter and make good his retreat.

      Dirk's mysterious aberration made a deep impression on the little community where he had ever reigned lord paramount of jovialness and mischief. Indeed, it occasioned a great loss to society, as great as the breaking up of the legislature now does; and there was not an individual in Albany but felt it. The poor Van Staats, however, felt it the most deeply. The practical jokes which he had played, the stories he had told, and the songs he had sung were all treasured in their memories; and the "bewitched" young man was mourned as one dead; for did not his face proclaim him dead to all joy? and certainly if (as no one doubted) he had entered into an unholy compact with the Demon of the Bush, he was thrice dead to all that gives a zest to life, even to hope. One thing only Dirk continued to sing, and that was the fragment of an old ballad which he had learned of a Yankee captain of a sloop upon the river. Little Alice Van Staats had a smattering of English, and her heart ached for the wretched Dirk as he dwelt long and sorrowfully upon the words,

"Oh, Lord! what is this worldy's blysse,  That changeth as the mone!"

True, the burden of the song was,

"For in my mynde, of all mankynde,  I love but you alone."

And this Alice supposed to be a kind of oath of fealty, sworn and constantly repeated to the dark spirit who held the poor youth in thrall. But when her attentive ear caught the words,

"For I must to the green-wold go,  Alone, a banyshed man,"

she could scarce suppress a scream of terror; and then as she revolved the subject in her mind, her little heart came near breaking, for she was no more in doubt as to wild Dirk's destiny. "He has sold himself to the Demon of the Bush," thought Alice, and when at last, in the excess of her tribulation, she ventured to address a word to Yankee Tom on the subject, he answered with provoking coolness, "Yes, he is sold."

      All summer long did poor Alice fret her good little nature about wild Dirk; and all summer did the Albanians watch and criticise him, believing every strong wind raised for his especial torment, and every thunder storm a particular provision of the enemy to spirit him away

      But the season for thunder storms passed; though the wild November winds as they howled through the dismal forest, or went sighing around the corners of the houses, whispering among the gay tiles and screeching from the swinging sign boards, had no tendency to relieve superstition. As autumn deepened into winter, however, another "change came o'er the spirit" of our hero. The sadness and dejection that had marked his first intercourse with the woodland spirit had in a measure passed away, and left in its place a serious thoughtfulness, in perfect keeping with his improved stature and more independent bearing. Some said that the power of the Demon was waning, for there was a conscious manliness in Dirk's demeanor incompatible with such fearful thraldom; others said he had been granted a longer lease of life, and that joy at this unexpected favor gave him the erect head and firm step so different from his former air of drooping melancholy. Indeed, so changed was he that had it not been for his mysterious visits to the ravine, even in the dead of winter, it might have been thought that wild Dirk had won the victory — passed a non-intercourse law, and so come off the gainer by a fine relay of thought, for the relief of the overtasked ministers to his frolicking propensities. That winter Dirk's handsome sledge was broken into fragments by the accommodating neighbors who volunteered to take the useless article off his hands; his skates were appropriated by his hopeful brother, Pietre, and his smart Sunday coat was never donned save on the occasion of his mystic orgies with the Demon of the Bush. His companions sadly missed their leader, for now he had no interest in their "scrapes," and listened to the relation of their most daring and ingenious feats with the supercilious indifference of a lordly magistrate bending his ear to the revelations of street brawlers. While his old comrades pursued their unmeaning revels, Dirk joined the married men in the tap-room; discussed the affairs of government with them, received many useful hints on the nature of soils and the mysteries of trade, and vied with them in the use of the "pyp" and "zoopje."

      One day, early in the spring, Dirk Van Deusen was observed to be in a mood unusually sombre and abstracted. In the after part of the day he took a stroll along the bank of the river, but whether in silent contemplation of its majestic beauty, or with an eye to its finny inhabitants, or to make some discovery with regard to its navigableness, or with suicidal intent, the lookers-on could not determine. All agreed, however, in keeping a sharp look out, probably to prevent mischief.

      Evening came, and the bewitched was not in the tap-room as usual, nor had he been seen going to the bush, and little Pietre Van Deusen who shared in the wonder that his brother had created, published his absence from the fireside. Could he have thrown himself into the river? It was scarcely possible, for he had been, during his perambulations, the focus of many interested eyes; but nevertheless the whole town was alive with apprehensions. The walk in front of the red farm house became suddenly a very popular promenade, but for a long time curiosity, unselfish though it was, was entirely baffled. Finally an individual, more sharp sighted than the rest, discovered a feeble light streaming from the little window close in the angle of the sharp-pointed gable, and as it neither changed its position nor flickered nor varied in any way, it was suggested that Dirk might have chosen some more private mode of exit from his trials than a cold bath, and might at that very moment be dangling in a hempen noose in the garret of his own home. But how should the query be decided? There was no ladder at hand, and even if there had been, climbing up the side of other people's houses might be considered indicative of something more than a commendable curiosity; at any rate, Dirk Van Deusen, were he in the land of the living, had the spirit to resent this officious encroachment on his privacy. But we, self-willed humans, when once we have an end in view, seldom fail to invent the means of accomplishing it; and the Albanians in this instance evinced a talent for stratagem, in no wise discreditable to the species.

      Climbing the hill side, they at last gained an elevation whence they could look directly in at the little window. Upon an old cask, with his arms folded, his legs crossed, and his chin evincing a strong inclination to hide behind his shirt collar, sat Dirk Van Deusen, looking very much the culprit indeed. Directly before him, with his full, fair face protruding forward, his elbows resting on his knees, and his whole attitude evincing a state of parental solicitude, old Dirk maintained a position of patriarchal dignity. For a long time neither seemed to move. At last the old gentleman arose from his sitting posture and walked toward the head of the stairs, leaving Dirk alone with his forehead now resting in the palms of both hands. With a slow, very slow step, he descended; and it seemed an age to the waiting people on the hill, before his head again appeared above the floor. He brought with him something; it might be a Bible, for the purpose of exorcising the foul fiend, for it was delivered with affecting solemnity; possibly it was a pocket-book, for Dirk received it with a deep thankfulness of manner, very common on such occasions. As the young man bowed in acknowledgement, the father's hand was laid upon his head; and it was evident that Dirk was grateful for the blessing, for he pressed the kind hand for a moment between his own, and then the two descended the stairs together. The next morning no one rose early enough to see Dirk's departure for the bush; but they all saw him return before the sun was half way up the heavens; and then such a bustling time as they had at the red farm house! Dirk scarcely waited to say good-bye to his mother and sisters, but marched off to the river by his father's side, his troop of brothers following, and a still larger troop of negroes bringing up the rear. Certainly the young Albanian had spent but little time in preparing for his journey; for, besides his arms, a couple of blankets, a knapsack and canoe constituted his all. Arrived at the river, each one shook him by the hand; for a moment his head bent beneath a father's blessing; then, stepping upon the fragile toy to which he was about to commit himself and his fortunes, he was followed by a hale negro of about his own age; and both grasping a paddle, the arrow-like bark shot out into the stream. For a moment all stood upon the shore, watching the little canoe with its precious freight as it labored against the current; then, suddenly recollecting a superstition concerning the last look, they turned half-lingeringly away, and were soon all engaged in their respective duties.

      A rich, mellow, autumnal glow had superseded summer's lavish greenness; on the sky, the cultured fields, and more deeply still on the gorgeous old forest trees, had settled a golden hue, as if even nature's wealth must wear the garb of that which man most prizes. The mellow apple nestled down and attempted to hide itself in the mown grass, scarlet berries looked gaily out from fading foliage, and the hickory and chestnut but waited another frost to come rustling down as though at the call of the busy little squirrel, which was already engaged in laying aside his winter store.

      More than a year had passed since the notable June morning which had constituted an ever memorable era in the life of Dirk Van Deusen; and now the little wagons were out again, and a larger, more gaily dressed and merrier company took the same direction that had then been taken. This time the procession was headed by Yankee Tom and pretty Miss Vanderling, but next in order came Dirk Van Deusen, with the little hunch back all in a tremor of laughter again by his side.

      "To the ravine?" inquired Tom, leering over his shoulder, with an attempt at good-humored archness.

      "To the ravine," answered wild Dirk, with a flourish of the whip much after the old sort, and poor little Alice Van Staats declared that she should die with laughing. On they went, hurry scurry, over twisted roots that tilted the forward wheels of the wagon up, and into bogs that brought them down again with a right good will, over little log bridges tied together with withes of green beech, and under natural arches made by the inter lacing of boughs all gorgeous in the drapery of autumn. They reached the ravine, whence a track had been recently cut through the trees and underbrush; and a mile's drive brought them to a fine clearing several acres in extent.

      "Yankee Tom knows the road," whispered tiny Alice, clapping her little hands together and bursting into a clear, free laugh; then, stopping suddenly, she looked up half reproachfully into her companion's face and said, in a tone of chiding, "If you had only told me, Dirk!" The young man blushed, (an exceedingly unfashionable thing, by the way, now-a-days,) and attempted to stammer out an apology, but Alice interrupted him.

      "Never mind, Dirk — no matter now, since 'tis over. We shall be very happy — that is you will and" —

      "And you, too, Alice."

      Tiny Alice shook her head and looked very serious. "If you live in the bush, it will be very lonesome at the settlement, and I don't think anybody will be much happy!"

      Dirk did not reply, for at that moment the horse of Yankee Tom drew up before a little dwelling closely imbowered in forest trees, and vines transplanted from the low lands of Holland. Two or three blacks, all in a broad grin, appeared at the door, their large, white eyes assuming an unusual largeness and whiteness, whenever they chanced to fall on "massa Dirk;" and, before Alice knew it, she found herself in just the neatest, prettiest little room, as she believed, in the wide world. True, the ornamental tiles were wanting about the fireplace, and the floor, instead of being checked off into lozenges, wore as much of its natural hue as a constant use of scrubbing material had left it, but there were Delft pitchers and glass tumblers, all full of autumn flowers; and overhead were green arches, kept in a constant undulation by the stirring of the breeze; and aside, and around, hung festoons of the same material, spotted with cardinal flowers, orchises, and asters. Alice could only raise her hands with a delighted "O!"for the little maiden had never read fairy tales; she knew nothing of the creations of the "wonderful lamp," and if she had been transported into the palace of an eastern prince, occupying the very highest point of magic lore, she would most probably have mistaken its jewels for imitation stars and loved the flowers better. At any rate this was a palace to her, and just such a one as she could appreciate. Dear, darling Alice! would that all were like thee, satisfied with that coming within the compass of their power of appreciation! Then there would be less distortion of taste, less straining after effect, more naturalness, and truth, and beauty, and more, much more happiness.

      The room was soon crowded, and all were very merry. Then came a simple, solemn ceremony, and wild Dirk was no longer a "boy." The distribution of the bride's cake, dear reader, to some of us would be very interesting; and the apple pies, oleykoeks and other good things that followed in the course of the day, with the grand feast toward evening, all deserve especial description; but there are individuals who would disapprove of this branching off from the sweets of sentiment to those of sense, and so I forbear.

      And the bride? the sylvan demon? Ah, verily, Dirk had sold himself, soul and body, life and spirit, to a witch ten thousand times more puissant than the old lady of Endor. That eye! that deep, warm, dewy eye, leading you away down into the heart, and prisoning you there! the fresh, soft, downy cheek! the lips — two breathing flower buds! those rare dimples gathering on the face and disappearing with every light and shadow of the heart! Oh, these were fearful snares! No wonder Yankee Tom had warned poor Dick against the machinations of the sylvan spirit, particularly as he had found himself beneath the influence of her magic spells only the day previous. Poor little Alice had never felt so proud as on that nuptial morning; and when the round, white arm of the bride encircled her neck, and wild Dirk, on the other hand, whispered a well-matured plan from which she was not excluded, the poor, pale hunch back grew almost straight, and her thin face put on a spiritual beauty which even the exquisite Egeria, to whom her benefactor owed his metamorphose, could not boast.

      A charming little bird's nest soon nestled among the magnificent old trees, within an arrow's flight of the river's side, the home of light, and love and benevolence; with no spirit to disturb the quiet of the scene, worse than the gentle, heart-subduing one who had tamed wild Dirk Van Deusen, rendering him not only a thinking being, but a useful man, and in time a prosperous and influential citizen.