except plums, which will infest you with curculio, do you no good, and much harm. Most people do not know with what safety large trees may be replanted. Within the last few years I know of many trees, elms, oaks, even hickories, from six to fourteen inches in diameter, which have been removed and planted, with perfect success, and without extravagant expenditure. Plant deciduous trees in the autumn, when you can choose your time, and evergreens in the spring; but plant them!

As I said, we have so long warred against trees, and we are so very busy in accumulating wealth, that we have hardly come to a full enjoyment of trees and forests. These latter are to be

reached in every quarter. And, for myself, I like to take my family out for a summer day in the open glades of the wide wood; there we ramble at will, and enjoy our pic-nic. Among the most beautiful of our forests, are those of Kentucky, where the under-brush was browsed away by the buffaloes a hundred years ago, and where, now, the blue-grass grows into good pastures for the herds of spotted Durhams, which we eat, in turn. But we cannot yet make of forests classic ground; while in Europe, a wealth of tradition, history, and poetry, hangs around them.

The Caledonian forest was the retreat of the Picts and Scots; the Hyrcynian forest extended along Germany, Poland, and Hungary, in Cæsar's day. The Black forest in Würtemberg is full of beeches, mines, and story. In England there were four principal forests, where open glades, and dark shadows, alternated with cultivated fields and rangers' cottages-these were New, Sherwood, Dean, and Windsor. New Forest was made by William, the Norman; thirty miles in extent being laid waste, and the inhabitants moved; their houses, and some thirty churches destroyed, so that the deer might have a good place to be hunted in, and the king a good place to hunt them. The old Britons lived mostly by the chase, and these forests were intended to secure to the king and the courtiers the pleasures of the hunt. I suppose the chase, for sport only, cannot be defend

ed, and I should be sorry to depend for my pleasures upon another's pain; so when I go for fish or quail, I do it because I want them to eat, while I get health, sunshine, and exhilaration, in their pursuit-that's the way I deal with my conscience. But hunters and husbandmen do not often enjoy trees, or learn their secret beauty.

What boy has not read, with delight, of Sherwood forest, and Robin Hood and his merry men, robbers though they were? They lived a free, hearty, generous life; they stole, to be sure, but they stole from the rich (the Normans, who had stolen from them), and gave to the poor, and seem not to have been chicaners. They kept their chaplain, Friar Tuck, and there is reason to hope that they were as pious as the Wall street speculators who keep theirs. The charm of their life does not consist in its lawlessness and riot, but in its being free, and frank, and open. It was not encumbered, as ours is, by unbounded ambitions, by greedy desires for wealth, by trivial conventionalities, and pusillanimous fears of public opinion. The veriest slaves of these tyrants respond, in their hearts, to the charms of fields and forests, to the freedom from carking cries of the hunter and the herdsman; and this explains how each one of them, while he labors to get rich, till dyspepsia kills him, ever looks forward to the time when he will enjoy the serenity and beauty of God, as it is found in nature.

The ages roll on, and probably will continue to roll, and mankind will work at the problem of self-culture and development often blindly; but the movement is always FORWARD, from the grand, unconscious, old patriarchs, through struggle, and work, and selfishness, and materialism, through the tyranny of priesthoods, the despotism of dynasties, and the misery of unwise wants-toward self-knowledge and selfgovernment. Then each one will sit under his own vine and his own fig-tree, with none to make him afraid: and then all men will think as I do about Trees and Forests.

Let us wait awhile for that "goodtime-coming," to come.

TWENTY years ago, Sam Saunders

and I were reading law together with old Squire Littleton, of Pleasant Valley. That is to say, we both read, or professed to read, at the same time in his office; but to own the truth, that together must be taken in a very metaphorical sense.

Sam, indeed, read patiently and ploddingly. He went at Blackstone, as he approached every other new acquaintance, somewhat timorously at first: but after a little he clung to him, as he clung to every one of his few friends, with a vice-like tenacity. Many a clear, crisp October day, when the hills around Pleasant Valley were echoing the quick reports of my fowling-piece, the dingy office walls only echoed Sam's droning voice, as he toiled through contingent remainders and executory devises, reading aloud as if in hopes that the intricate meaning which eluded his eyesight might, perchance, creep in by the ears. On warm summer afternoons, as, with my feet on the window-sill, I watched the fumes of an after-dinner cigar, those same measured cadences would lull me to sleep. In winter evenings, when Bessie Littleton and I were going home from singing school, we used to peep in at the window and see Sam poring over his task. That, as I have said, was twenty years ago: Sam is quoted now with great respect, in the Reports, as Saunders, J.; he non-suited me, last week, on one of the very points that I first drilled into his skull, twenty years ago! That skull had such a happy thickness that no idea, once lodged, ever made its escape. But I am wandering from my story.

When Sam first came into old Littleton's office, we all thought him an incorrigible dunce. As such, he was made the subject of numerous tricks. Practical jokes of all descriptions he bore with immovable gravity. Tom Littleton, the 'Squire's nephew, the wit of the office and the village, spent his shafts upon him in vain. Scott, our managing clerk, delivered long lectures to him, replete with such law as never had entered the head of mortal man: and when, our gravity exhausted, Tom and I rushed out to give our laughter vent, Sam would gravely reach down his vast common-place book, and trea

sure up Scott's mendacious maxims and apocryphal authorities with the most painful diligence.

But these things soon grew tiresome, even to ourselves. Sam was too easy a victim to afford lasting sport, and after the first month or two we left him to plod on his way alone. By and by the impression gradually grew on us that Sam was not a man to be despised after all. Slow and plodding he certainly was; but there was a world of good feeling under his great ungainly exterior. We began to see that Sam had in him the material of a warm, steadfast friend and once in a while, when I heard him express his few dislikes, the conviction came over me that I would not much like to have Sam Saunders for an enemy.

Bessie Littleton was the belle of Pleasant Valley. She claimed that title on a variety of grounds. She was the only child of the old 'Squire: and the old 'Squire was a great man, even throughout the country. Moreover, Bessie, in her own right, was a brighteyed, brown-haired, red-lipped little beauty; and to crown all, she was the most artful and bewitching little coquette that ever proved, in a village church, how much a natural genius for flirting can surpass the studied art of city belles. Every one of the 'Squire's students fell in love with her before they had finished the first chapter in Blackstone; every one except Sam Saunders. And every one had some sweet treasured reminiscence- -some particular word, or look, or smile, upon which he built particular hopes. To be sure, if any one of them had examined the subject in connection with Phillips on Evidence, or any other good work on that branch of his studies, he might have known that there was hardly a prima facie case in his favor. But perhaps this is a process hardly to be expected of lovers.

If the truth must be told, I flatter myself that I could give a shrewd guess at the true state of Bessie's feelings. It would hardly be proper for me to speak very plainly on such a matter, even at this late period: and as Mrs. Quidam is of a slightly jealous turn, I do not like to commit myself. Suffice it to say, that although Miss Littleton

never exactly expressed herself to me in so many words, yet I have always been convinced that certain little marks of attention to your humble servant were not without their meaning. But this is not to my present purpose.

Lazily smoking one July afternoon, in the position I have described before, a rustling of gauze upon the walk struck my ear. My eyes opened just in time to catch a glimpse of Bessie as she passed the open door. Something white fluttered to the ground as she vanished. Bessie had dropped her handkerchief.

Now, I do not mean to say that Bessie intended to drop her handkerchief, or was cognizant of the loss. I am aware that handkerchiefs are often

dropped by young ladies in situations which entirely preclude the suspicion of any ulterior purpose. I am even prepared to admit that (except on the stage) handkerchiefs are more often dropped accidentally than otherwise.

But yet, in the present instance, it was singular that she should have dropped her handkerchief in that very place. She might have been aware that I was at that time particularly disengaged, so far as office business was concerned. Indeed, if the reader will remember the position I was occupying, she could hardly have passed the window without having her attention I called to that fact. These reflections, to a mind accustomed, as that of a student at law in his second year must be, to the weighing of evidence, led to an irresistible conclusion. It was clearly my duty to restore the handkerchief to its fair owner.

Rapidly as this train of argument had passed through my mind, it yet occupied some seconds and still more were required to gather myself up and proceed to the execution of my mission, with such deliberation as its importance and the heat of the weather demanded. These few seconds were.of vast importance in the life of Samuel Saunders.

I reached the doorway just in time to see his huge figure bending to pick up the delicate fabric, which he handled as gingerly as if it had been one of the cobwebs of the law. Chagrined as I was to be thus forestalled, I could not help smiling at what I flattered myself would be Bessie's disappointment. But if I expected it to be visible in her face, it was because I did not fully know Miss

Bessie Littleton, or young-lady nature in general. She never had given even me a sweeter smile than that with which she rewarded my fellow-student's clumsy politeness, when his long strides had overtaken her; and Sam returned blushing like one of his father's blood-red beets. Two or three evenings after, I met him in unusual array. To see him away from the office at that time was a wonder; but imagine my astonishment when he told me he was going to call at 'Squire Littleton's! That evening sealed his fate. The little flirt had played her cards well she had trumped Sam's

heart.

The poor fellow was strangely affected at first by his novel sensations. He dreamed over unopened books; he scribbled many things which he afterwards carefully destroyed, reducing the paper to the minutest fractions of which his big fingers could render it susceptible; he took long solitary rambles; he committed all the follies which from time immemorial have been the signs of first love. But this stage did not last long, for it was not in accordance with his earnest, serious nature. After a week or two, he came back to his books with redoubled energy. I thought he had escaped from the toils.

But one day Miss Bessie came to the office to look for her father. She might have recollected, had she taken the pains, that he was gone to try a case at N. But it so happened that she did not; and only Sam and I were in the office when she entered. There was nothing in her manner which gave me a chance to guess at the true state of affairs; she was to both of us the same bewitching little gipsy as ever. But when I glanced at Sam, I could read his heart like an open book. His broad face lit up with a smile that made it almost handsome; and from out his great eyes there gleamed such tenderness as if his whole heart were flowing through them toward the beautiful girl.

With a smile and a gay word, she flitted away, and Sam turned back to his desk, and his eye grew dull and his lips compressed once more over Chitty. I watched him with strange interest, for I had just caught a new glimpse into his character. He loved Bessie Littleton with all the power of his deep, slow nature, and he had set himself down to win her by the only means he knewpatient, plodding labor. And the next

time I saw her I gazed at her with an odd mixture of admiration and pity; for I felt that she had chosen a most unfit subject for her arts if she were but flirting-and if she were not, that Sam Saunders and Bessie Littleton would make a very odd couple!

A year and more passed without making much change in Pleasant Valley. Sam studied, and I smoked, and Bessie flirted, sometimes with Sam, sometimes with me, often with any new-comer that relieved the monotony of village society. She danced before my comrade's eyes like a will of the wisp, or the tempting mirage towards which the laden caravan toils its weary way, always sustained by seeing it just ahead, yet never diminishing the distance that still remains to be passed.

Our admission to the bar came at last, and we separated, I to build air-castles and blow smoke-wreaths from a fourth story window in Wall street, and Sam to open an office in his native village, some ten miles from Pleasant Valley. Amid the novel excitements of city life, our village scenes, and interests, and friendships, soon grew dim and distant. I began to think of them as of a different sphere, with which I had lost my connection; and I even found myself speaking and thinking of the fascinating Bessie as a pretty little girl whom I once knew in the country.

It was some time in the third summer of my professional life-I can hardly say of my practice-that I strolled into the rooms of Mr. Flourish, the eminent counsel, whose office was two floors below me. I had got into a habit of doing this, for it was pleasant to see clients even if they were not my own, and to see that fees and retainers still existed, and were not, as my own experience had almost led me to believe, traditions derived from a by-gone age.

"Quidam," said my learned brother Flourish to me, "you studied law in Pleasant Valley, did you not?”

I nodded.

"Wouldn't you like to take a turn up there next week? I am going up to try a case."

I could not help expressing my wonder that any case should arise there of sufficient importance to call from the city a counsel so eminent as Flourish.

"It is a queer case," he said, “a breach of promise; and the queerest

part of it is that the plaintiff is of our own profession."

Taking up the bundle of papers which he drew from the great heap on his desk, the first one which met my eyes was the following "declaration."

SUPREME COURT.

SAMUEL SAUNDERS

vs.

ELIZABETH LITTLETON.

Oudamon County, ss.: Elizabeth Littleton was attached to answer Samuel Saunders of a plea of trespass on the case upon promises; and thereupon the said Samuel Saunders in his own proper person complains. For that whereas heretofore, to wit, on the first day of April, in the year- at the town of Plea sant Valley, in the County of Oudamon aforesaid, in consideration that the said Samuel Saunders, being then and there unmarried, at the like special instance and request of the said Elizabeth Littleton, had then and there undertaken and faithfully promised the said Elizabeth Littleton to marry her the said Elizabeth Littleton, she the said Elizabeth Littleton undertook and then and there faithfully promised the said Samuel Saunders to marry him, the said Samuel Saunders, in a reasonable time then next following. And the said Samuel Saunders avers that he, confiding in the said promise and undertaking, hath always hitherto remained and continued and still is sole and unmarried, and hath been and still is ready and willing to marry the said Elizabeth Littleton; and although a reasonable time for the said Elizabeth Littleton to marry him, the said Samuel Saunders, hath elapsed since the making of the said last-mentioned promise and undertaking, yet the said Elizabeth Littleton, not regarding her said lastmentioned promise and undertaking, but contriving and fraudulently intending craftily and subtly to deceive and injure the said Samuel Saunders in this behalf, did not nor would within such reasonable time as aforesaid, or at any time afterwards, marry him the said Samuel Saunders, but hath hitherto wholly neglected and refused so to do, to wit, at the town of Pleasant Valley aforesaid, in the county aforesaid. Wherefore the said Samuel Saunders saith that he is injured and hath sustained damage to the amount of five thousand dollars, and therefore he brings his suit.

CHAPTER II.

From time immemorial, court-week had been a period of high festival in Pleasant Valley; but I could not help fancying, as we reached the inn, that a more than ordinary interest attended the term which was to decide the great case of Saunders vs. Littleton.

Having casually remarked that I had come up in company with the distinguished Mr. Flourish to try that case on the part of the plaintiff, I speedily found

myself the object of almost as much curiosity as that eloquent counsel himself. That the very ingenious efforts made to acquire information respecting the private affairs of my former fellow-student and Miss Bessie failed, was owing partly to my natural discretion, and partly to the fact, that, of all which had transpired since I left the village, I was even more ignorant than my inquisitors them

selves.

The next morning after our arrival the case was called, and, in the presence of a more crowded auditory than Oudamon County Court House had ever before contained, Mr. Flourish opened for the plaintiff.

The evidence was brief, but decidedly to the point. It consisted chiefly of a series of letters from the defendant, which established, very conclusively, the following facts: first, that after a long and assiduous courtship, on his part, she had given the plaintiff an unequivocal pro mise of her hand and heart; and second, that some time after, and when Sam had already commenced his arrangements for their union, she had dismissed him in a manner equally decisive, and had ever since persisted in treating the whole matter as a tiresome jest, which none but the very dullest of suitors would ever have considered earnest.

Here the plaintiff rested. Evidence for the defense there was none, for the nature of the case rendered it impossible. Miss Bessie could hardly deny her own delicate handwriting; and it was in vain to attempt showing anything in the life or conduct of the staid, sober, prosperous lawyer, which would justify the breaking of a solemn engage

ment.

'Squire Littleton, therefore, who was his daughter's only counsel, addressed himself at once to the jury. He spoke to them not so much as an advocate, as in the manner which became an old man reasoning with his neighbors. All that the plaintiff had shown, he said, was undoubtedly true. It was his hard lot to stand there, in his old age, and confess that his darling child had done much to grieve a fond parent's heart. She had committed what, in his own eyes, seemed a grievous sin; for she had broken her word. But this, he argued, was not the place or the manner to punish such offenses. The law of contracts never was intended to be a substitute for the tribunal of conscience.

If the plaintiff could show that he was pecuniarily the loser by her fickleness, the jury might compensate him. If he could show that any more advantageous match had been lost, any prospect of advantage blighted, any outward loss or suffering entailed upon him, these were matters of which they might properly take cognizance. But of this there was no pretense. The injury inflicted had spent itself in the inmost heart. That it was an injury, a deep and galling one, he most humbly confessed; but it was one which could not be estimated in dollars and cents. The highest verdict claimed would not mend the plaintiff's heart one whit; the lowest possible would more than compensate his pocket.

All this seemed to me very good sense; and yet I was convinced that it would have but little weight with the jury. In private life those twelve men would each probably have reasoned in the same manner; but in the jury-box they felt it their solemn duty to compensate, with pecuniary damages, all the sufferings and evils of the world.

Flourish knew well this idiosyncrasy of jurymen, for it is one by no means confined to the panel of Oudamon county; and he framed his reply accordingly. Under the charm of his fervid eloquence, Sam (who, in rugged health, and with a bag full of briefs, sat just behind him) became the most dejected, the most blighted, the most brokenhearted of sufferers. Bessie (who sat on the other side, with that same bewitching smile as of old, rendered only still more fascinating by a puzzled look, as hardly knowing whether to laugh or cry,) grew into the most artful and dangerous of foes to human happiness, whose power for ill those intelligent jurymen were called upon to destroy, by the all-powerful spell of exemplary damages.

Mr. Flourish wiped the perspiration from his brow, and sat down; and the jury were charged in the most approved

manner.

If the gentlemen of the jury were convinced, said his Honor, that the plaintiff should have a verdict, they would, of course, give him one, unless, in the exercise of a sound discretion, and upon a careful review of all the facts in the case, they thought fit to find for the defendant. As for the measure of damages, that, of course, was