cellar kitchen where the hot cook turns from the fire to listen. Who
of all that address the public ear, whether in church or court-house
or hall of state, has such an attentive audience as the town-crier!
What saith the people's orator?

"Strayed from her home, a LITTLE GIRL of five years old, in a blue
silk frock and white pantalets, with brown curling hair and hazel
eyes. Whoever will bring her back to her afflicted mother--"

Stop, stop, town-crier! The lost is found.--Oh, my pretty Annie, we
forgot to tell your mother of our ramble, and she is in despair and
has sent the town-crier to bellow up and down the streets, affrighting
old and young, for the loss of a little girl who has not once let go
my hand? Well, let us hasten homeward; and as we go forget not to
thank Heaven, my Annie, that after wandering a little way into the
world you may return at the first summons with an untainted and
unwearied heart, and be a happy child again. But I have gone too far
astray for the town-crier to call me back.

Sweet has been the charm of childhood on my spirit throughout my
ramble with little Annie. Say not that it has been a waste of precious
moments, an idle matter, a babble of childish talk and a reverie of
childish imaginations about topics unworthy of a grown man's notice.
Has it been merely this? Not so--not so. They are not truly wise who
would affirm it. As the pure breath of children revives the life of
aged men, so is our moral nature revived by their free and simple
thoughts, their native feeling, their airy mirth for little cause or
none, their grief soon roused and soon allayed. Their influence on us
is at least reciprocal with ours on them. When our infancy is almost
forgotten and our boyhood long departed, though it seems but as