away in its youth.

These reflections have been occasioned, first, by the fact that its
memory and associations are inexpressibly dear to ourselves; and,
secondly, because it is toward the close of this brief but beautiful
period of the year that our chronicles date their commencement.

One evening, in the last week of April, a coach called the "Fly" stopped
to change horses at a small village in a certain part of Ireland, which,
for the present, shall be nameless. The sun had just sunk behind the
western hills; but those mild gleams which characterize his setting at
the close of April, had communicated to the clouds that peculiarly soft
and golden tint, on which the eye loves to rest, but from which its
light was now gradually fading. When fresh horses had been put to, a
stranger, who had previously seen two large trunks secured on the
top, in a few minutes took his place beside the guard, and the coach
proceeded.

"Guard," he inquired, after they had gone a couple of miles from the
village, "I am quite ignorant of the age of the moon. When shall we have
moonlight?"

"Not till it's far in the night, sir."

"The coach passes through the town of Ballytrain, does it not?"

"It does, sir."

"At what hour do we arrive there?"