gradually approaching the great deep gulf where at last she is dashed to pieces and entirely disappears, the fragments being kept out of sight for hours together.

It often happens that whales, approaching too near the channel, are overpowered and drawn down, and it is said to be impossible to describe their dreadful bellowings in endeavoring to escape. A bear once attempted to swim across to the island of Moscoe, situated in the middle of the channel, enticed no doubt by the sheep which were grazing on the island. He was caught by the current and drawn down, roaring most furiously, so as to be heard on the shore. Pine trees are often seen, after having been drawn into this vortex, broken and torn to such a degree that they appear to be covered with bristles.

In a country so mountainous as Norway, there are many preci pices among the broken rocks; and stupendous waterfalls tumble, with a thundering noise, from the mountain tops into the vales below. The scenery is of the grandest and most astonishing kind, such as makes the traveller stand aghast; especially when he finds that he must cross deep ravines on a single plank, tottering with his weight, and, by the immense height above the roaring torrent, making him giddy.

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It sometimes happens that a sheep strays from the flock, and descends to a great depth, or lodges on the point of a projecting rock, where it has hardly room to stand. When its owner discovers it in this situation, he bestrides a stick, fastened to a rope, and causes himself to be lowered down, at the hazard of breaking his own neck, till he can reach the straggling animal, which he at once fastens to his own cord, and then both are drawn up together to a place of safety.

We shall see along the coast, at the principal ports, great piles of pine timber, so large, indeed, as to suggest the inquiry from you, "Where does it go to?" Immense quantities are yearly sent to all European ports, as I have before remarked, and what we now see is but a small part of all that is cut. Norway, like Maine, seems to be peculiarly rich in the means of furnishing the world with timber.

The Basket of Cherries.

TRANSLATED FROM THE FRENCH BY ANNE T. WILBUR.

Ar the foot of an old willow, on a mossy seat, fragrant with wild thyme, sat a young girl of twelve years, with large black sparkling eyes, hair abundant and lustrous as a jay's wing; her bodice of garnet velvet, her silk apron, her robe embroidered with flowers, formed a costume as elegant as coquettish, in delightful harmony with the mild and yet piquant countenance, full of health, of the pretty brunette. Bathilde (that was her name) had just come out of the orchard, where she had filled a basket with cherries, whose plump, rosy cheeks made her mouth water. Choosing from the basket the two prettiest, she amused herself with holding them to her ears, like pendants; near her stood her pretty little goat, Caprice, who, with head raised, and beard projected, was fixing on her its great yellow eyes, with comic gravity and attention.

"There, my Caprice!" said Bathilde, "if your ears were not quite so drooping and so restless, I would give you also some ruby-colored pendants."

At this moment, a slight sound among the leaves, mingled with a

silvery ringing, interrupted the discourse which Bathilde had commenced with her goat, and she saw appear before her a poor little girl, of her own age, with dark complexion, great black eyes, clad in parti-colored rags, and bare-footed, holding in her right hand a tambourine, ornamented with bells of silvered copper. This child's face was beautiful, but its expression was at once gentle and wild, careless and sorrowful. She came, without uttering a word, to place herself directly before Bathilde, looking by turns at her, Caprice, and the basket of cherries, without once dropping her long silken eyelids over her large brilliant eyes. This fixedness of look, the strange attention of which she was the object, intimidated Bathilde, who became as red as her cherries; for a moment, she was about to rise and depart with a little vexation at being thus coolly examined; but, looking at the little girl by her side, and seeing her poverty, she listened only to the voice of pity which profoundly affected her kind heart.

“My darling,” said she, pointing to the cherries, "would you like some pendants like mine?"

The little girl thought she was offering some of this fine fruit for her to eat; and, without replying, made a little movement of the head, signifying that she accepted with pleasure and gratitude.

Wait, I will myself put them on your ears," said Bathilde; and approaching the little girl with graceful familiarity, without recoiling before her ragged dress, she put two beautiful cherries to each ear. This was not what the other child wanted; so she quickly devoured her beautiful pendants.

"Ah!" said Bathilde with surprise, "are you hungry, my darling? Hold, I have here, under my cherries, a good cake with fresh butter, given me by Madeline; it is very nice with fruit, as you shall

see."

As she spoke thus, she took from the bottom of her basket a cake, which she presented to the poor child; the beautiful white teeth of the latter soon disposed of the cake.

Cherries, now; cherries!" cried Bathilde, delighted to see this superb appetite; she took the basket and held it at a convenient height, that the girl might choose the most inviting fruit.

Every crumb of the cake being eaten, three dozen cherries served

as a beverage, and, at the same time, dessert for this improvised supper. The little girl saluted Bathilde, and prepared to depart.

Why do you not speak, my darling?" asked Bathilde, a little surprised.

The other replied by a little movement of the head and shoulders, which signified that she did not understand.

"Are you dumb?" cried the generous child, with an expression of anxiety and grief.

Without replying, the poor child seized her tambourine, shaking the bells lightly, and passing her little thumb over the sonorous skin of the instrument, and, with this accompaniment, chanted two lively couplets in a language which was not that of Bathilde. The song finished, she executed two light pirouettes, which filled her little short petticoat with air.

At this moment, a shrill and stern voice resounded in the distance, calling, "Aca, Pepita! Aca."

The songstress sprang lightly up, saluted the gentle Bathilde, throwing her a kiss, and saying, "Gracias, señorita; vaga vm. con Dios." Then, light as the wind, she fled, and quickly disappeared.

Astonished, and, without suspecting it, experiencing an interest mingled with curiosity for the child who had so gayly eaten her cake and cherries, who sang so well, and danced so gracefully, Bathilde directed her steps, with all the agility of her little feet, towards the spot where she had disappeared.

M'me de Blinval had come only two months previously to inhabit a country-house situated in the midst of the valley of Berry; so her daughter Bathilde, who had sometimes been allowed to run alone with her goat in the neighboring fields, found herself as it were in a foreign land as soon as she had strayed a few steps from her old willow. The dear child had ventured into the paths of a warren, where she was soon entirely lost. In attempting to retrace her steps, she buried herself still deeper in the wood; and after wandering an hour and a half, anxiously and rapidly, her little limbs refused to carry her further. Meanwhile, night came on, and she seated herself on a bank of turf, weeping despairingly with her head on her lap. The hours rolled away; she comprehended that if she did not succeed in

finding her way out of the wood, she would soon be overtaken by night, terrible night, with its shades and its silence as fearful as its mysterious sounds. She therefore rose, and resumed her walk with all the courage which her poor little heart could summon. But, alas! the further she advanced, the more was she bewildered in this labyrinth, which at every step presented a thousand obstacles, a bush, a group of small trees, a ditch or marshy soil covered with heath, brush-wood, and tall red fern.

The

This night, so much feared, drew its curtains around her. sound of a leaf falling, of a branch moved by her passing it, filled her mind with terrible fears; she trembled at the thought of meeting some one of those horrible men who prowl around at night, such as she had read of in stories of robbers; then, at intervals, she would pause, breathless, with her heart chilled, believing she heard the distant howling of a wolf.

Suddenly, through the branches of a little grove of pines, she perceived a trembling light, and thought she heard the murmur of voices. Hoping to find some honest wood-cutters, who had been belated, she took the direction of the light, stepping very cautiously, in case she should not think it advisable to speak to the people she was about to encounter. She quickened her pace, and soon found herself separated only by a single bush from a clearing illuminated by a large fire, in which the voices which she had heard in the distance sounded more distinct, though she sought in vain to distinguish the words. Gliding behind a bush, she put aside the branches of a thorn-tree. Then a spectacle, strange, unexpected, filled the soul of Bathilde with terror.

Around a huge fire of dry branches, a company of men, women and children, were lying on the heath, watching a lamb that was roasting on a wooden spit. The men, coiffed with peaked hats, had frightful countenances, which the play of the lights and shadows rendered still more sinister. The women wore grotesque costumes, and their long black tresses fell over their shoulders. As for the children, they were rolling on the turf around the fire, practising a thousand antics; shrill screams and discordant laughter arose from all parts of the group.

Judge with what terror poor Bathilde was seized! Her heart was