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One fine morning two gayly caparisoned sleighs were
standing before the door of the Parsonage, the horses of
which tossed their heads impatiently, and spurned with
their shaggy-fetlocked feet, the glittering snow. At every
movement of their heads, the sleigh-bells attached to their
harness gave out a merry jingling; at each pawing with
their impatient feet, the snow flew around like a cloud of
pearly powder.

Within, in the comfortable dining-room, roared cheerfully
a huge wood fire, and round this fire were grouped,
the old mountaineer, Mrs. Courtlandt (her husband was
absent on a pastoral visit), Alice, and Caroline.

The young girls were wrapping themselves up in that
mountain of shawls, and furs, and comforts, which young
ladies will always continue to wrap themselves up in, to
the end of the world. Caroline's merry face and dancing
eyes were already half buried in a huge “nubia,” and
she overflowed with joy and laughter at every word which
was uttered; Alice, more quiet and sedate, but full of
anticipation, had already put on her wrapping.

Max and Mr. Robert Emberton, enveloped in their
comfortable surtouts, leaned opposite each other against
the mantle-piece.

Old hunter John looked at his grandchildren with
affectionate pride.

“There you are,” he said, his old face lit up with a
happy smile, “all wrappin' up and fixin' yourselves as if
you were going to the end of the world, instead of takin'
a little jaunt to town! Cheeks as red as roses, I declare.”

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“Thank you for the compliment, grandfather,” said
Alice, demurely.

“I'm a poor hand at payin' compliments,” said the
old mountaineer, smiling. “When I was a youngster I
did a deal of it, though; and I always found it best to
pile 'em up pretty strong; the girls liked it all the better,
if I don't disremember.”

“Take warning, gentlemen!” cried Caroline, “there
is a great deal of truth in what grandfather says.”

“Yes!” said the old man, with a cheerful and thoughtful
look, “I was a wild youngster, and many's the time
I have spent the whole night shaking my heels to the
music of the fiddle! The times then were most nigh
uproarious, and the girls thought nothing of dancin' reels
from sundown to sunrise. Merry times! merry times!”
sighed the old man, “but all gone many a long day into
the dust. They were like wild geese flyin' 'way off to
the south, and never comin' back again; but I don't
mourn over 'em. The Lord has been very good to me,
and the old time was bright enough for me considerin'.
Now I am mighty feeble, and most nigh gone to the other
country; I begin to think the horn is goin' to sound for
me 'fore long; and when it does sound, I'm in hopes I'll
be able to say, `Come, Lord Jesus, I've been a waitin' for
you long.”'

Alice put her arms round the old man's neck, and
kissed him.

“Don't be gloomy, dear grandfather,” she said, with a
tremor in her voice.

“I ain't gloomy, darlin',” the old man said, “no, no,
I ain't gloomy! Why should I be gloomy? I might 'a
been once. When I was a young strong man I lived my
life like the rest, without thinking or caring for any thing
but the fun and frolic of the time. My heart was full of
blood, and I never knew what it was to be weary in the
old days then—not if I hunted for days and nights

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together, or was on the Injun trail 'way off in the backwoods—
tho' the woods here were far enough back from the Ridge.
If you had 'a told me then I was soon goin' to die and
leave all the fine world, and have no more fine times
a-dancin', and huntin', and frolickin' with the boys, you
might 'a made me gloomy; it would be too much to expect
the young people to give up their life, when they
enjoy every thing so much, 'thout feelin' as if they would
like to stay in the grand, beautiful world. No, no! the
young love life, and the merciful God wisely made it so.
They have nothing to do with sighin', and moanin', and
thinkin' of the other world, though I don't deny they had
better be givin' some thought to the time when the
trumpet 'll sound. I might 'a felt gloomy then, if some
body had 'a told me, `Hunter John, you're goin' to die.'
But now I look on this world as my tarryin' place for a
little while only. My heart ain't got much blood in it,
and my body's gettin' mighty poorly and feeble, and 'fore
long, Alice dear, the time will come when the old man,
your grandfather, will lay with his forefathers in the dust
out o' which God made him. No, no!” the old man said
cheerfully, “I'm a lookin' forward to the time with hope.
The old weak body is nigh parted from the spirit, but
the spirit don't want to stay. It's bound home, my
darlin'.”

Alice turned round to wipe her eyes.

“Go on now, children,” said hunter John, “you are in
the spring time. Daughter Sally a-knitting and smiling
yonder is the summer, and I am the winter; but you
are the spring; go, children.”

“We are going to bring Saint Nic up, dear grandfather,”
said Caroline, “he's a good old man, and I know
you'll like him.”

“I never did see him yet,” replied hunter John, smiling
and kissing the young girl, “but I've heard of him oftentimes.
Come, you're a-losin' time.”

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The girls kissed their mother, for young ladies never
omit this ceremony in the presence of gentlemen, and ran
to the door. Mr. Emberton's sleigh was the nearest, and
Alice happened to reach the door before Caroline. The
consequence was that the fifth act of the comedy of errors
was inaugurated by Mr. Emberton's politely helping Alice
into his sleigh. Not one of the party looked at any other
member of it, and Max assisted Caroline into his sleigh
without betraying his disappointment.

The heavy furs were thrown over them, and the two
sleighs darted from the door like flashes of light, leaving
behind them—as a ship leaves in her wake a trail of foam—
a long “dying fall” of merry bell-chime music, on the
frosty air.

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