out of cobwebs and morning dew, and send them off from the crest of the mountain, flake after flake, like flakes of carded cotton, to float in the air: until, dissolved by the heat of the sun, they would fall in gentle showers, causing the grass to spring, the fruits to ripen, and the corn to grow an inch an hour. If displeased, however, she would brew up clouds black as ink, sitting in the midst of them like a bottle-bellied spider in the midst of its web; and when these clouds broke, wo betide the valleys!

In old times, say the Indian traditions, there was a kind of Manitou or Spirit, who kept about the wildest recesses of the Catskill Mountains, and took a mischievous pleasure in wreaking all kinds of evils and vexations upon the red men. Sometimes he would assume the form of a bear, a panther, or a deer, lead the bewildered hunter a weary chase through tangled forests and among ragged rocks; and then spring off with a loud ho! ho! leaving him aghast on the brink of a beetling precipice or raging torrent.

The favorite abode of this Manitou is still shown. It is a great rock or cliff on the loneliest part of the mountains, and, from the flowering vines which clamber about it, and the wild flowers which abound in its neighborhood, is known by the name of the Garden Rock. Near the foot of it is a small lake, the haunt of the solitary bittern, with water-snakes basking in the sun on the leaves of the pond-lilies, which lie on the surface. This place was held in great awe by the Indians, insomuch that the boldest hunter would not pursue his game within its precints. Once upon a time, however, a hunter who had lost his way, penetrated to the garden rock, where he beheld a number of gourds placed in the crotches of trees. One of these he seized, and made off with it, but in the hurry of his retreat he let it fall among the rocks, when a great stream gushed forth, which washed him away and swept him

down precipices, where he was dashed to pieces, and the stream made its way to the Hudson, and continues to flow to the present day; being the identical stream known by the name of the Kaaters-kill.

THE CHRONICLE OF THE DRUM.

William Makepeace Thackeray.

PART I.

AT Paris, hard by the Maine barriers,
Whoever will choose to repair,

'Midst a dozen of wooden-legged warriors
May haply fall in with old Pierre.
On the sunshiny bench of a tavern
He sits and he prates of old wars,
And moistens his pipe of tobacco

With a drink that is named after Mars.

The beer makes his tongue run the quicker,
And as long as his tap never fails,

Thus over his favorite liquor

Old Peter will tell his old tales.

Says he, "In my life's ninety summers
Strange changes and chances I've seen,-
So here's to all gentlemen drummers
That ever have thumped on a skin.

"Brought up in the art military

For four generations we are;

My ancestors drummed for King Harry,
The Huguenot lad of Navarre.

And as each man in life has his station

According as Fortune may fix,
While Condé was waving the bâton,
My grandsire was trolling the sticks.

"Ah! those were the days for commanders! What glories my grandfather won, Ere bigots and lackeys and panders

The fortunes of France had undone !
In Germany, Flanders, and Holland, —
What foeman resisted us then?

No; my grandsire was ever victorious,
My grandsire and Monsieur Turenne.

"He died: and our noble battalions
The jade, fickle Fortune, forsook;
And at Blenheim, in spite of our valiance,
The victory lay with Malbrook.
The news it was brought to King Louis;
Corbleu! how his Majesty swore,

When he heard they had taken my grandsire:
And twelve thousand gentlemen more.

"At Namur, Ramillies, and Malplaquet, Were we posted, on plain or in trench: Malbrook only need to attack it,

And away from him scampered we French. Cheer up! 'tis no use to be glum, boys,"Tis written, since fighting begun, That sometimes we fight and we conquer, And sometimes we fight and we run.

"To fight and to run was our fate :

Our fortune and fame had departed.

And so perished Louis the Great, -
Old, lonely, and half broken-hearted.
His coffin they pelted with mud,

His body they tried to lay hands on;
And so having buried King Louis

They loyally served his great-grandson.

"God save the beloved King Louis! (For so he was nicknamed by some,) And now came my father to do his King's orders and beat on the drum. My grandsire was dead, but his bones Must have shaken, I'm certain, for joy, To hear daddy drumming the English

From the meadows of famed Fontenoy.

"So well did he drum in that battle That the enemy showed us their backs; Corbleu! it was pleasant to rattle

The sticks and to follow old Saxe!

We next had Soubise as a leader,

And as luck hath its changes and fits, At Rossbach, in spite of dad's drumming, 'Tis said we were beaten by Fritz.

"And now daddy crossed the Atlantic,
To drum for Montcalm and his men;
Morbleu! but it makes a man frantic,
To think we were beaten again!
My daddy he crossed the wide ocean,
My mother brought me on her neck,
And we came in the year fifty-seven
To guard the good town of Quebec.

"In the year fifty-nine came the Britons,-
Full well I remember the day,-
They knocked at our gates for admittance,
Their vessels were moored in our bay.
Says our general, 'Drive me yon red-coats
Away to the sea whence they come!'
So we marched against Wolfe and his bull-dogs,
We marched at the sound of the drum.

"I think I can see my poor mammy
With me in her hand as she waits,
And our regiment, slowly retreating,

Pours back through the citadel gates.
Dear mammy, she looks in their faces,
And asks if her husband is come?
He is lying all cold on the glacis,
And will never more beat on the drum.

"Come, drink, 'tis no use to be glum, boys!
He died like a soldier in glory;

Here's a glass to the health of all drum-boys,
And now I'll commence my own story.
Once more did we cross the salt ocean,
We came in the year eighty-one;

And the wrongs of my father the drummer
Were avenged by the drummer his son.

"In Chesapeake Bay we were landed. In vain strove the British to pass; Rochambeau our armies commanded,

Our ships they were led by De Grasse. Morbleu! how I rattled the drumsticks The day we marched into Yorktown!