But why, said the old man, do I talk so long—­I weary you, my children, for the fancies of age are not those of youth—­hope’s fairy flowers are bright for you—­the faded things of memory are mine alone—­with them I live, but rejoice ye in your happiness, and gather now, in the spring time of your days, treasures to cheer you in the fall of life.  As to your favourite, the stove, although I love it not so well as the old familiar fire-place, I can admire and value it as part of the spirit of improvement which is spreading o’er our land—­her early troubles are passing away, and she is rising fast to take her place among the nations of the earth—­bitter has been her struggle for existence, but the clouds are fading in the brightness of her coming years, and her past woes will be forgotten.

He ceased, but we all loved to hear him talk, he was so kind and good, and he was earnestly requested for one of those tales of the early times of our own land, which had often thrilled us with their simple, yet often woeful interest.

I am become an egotist to-night, for self is the only theme of which I can discourse.  My spirit, too, is like the minstrel harp of which you have to-night been reading, ’twill “echo nought but sadness;” but if it please you, you shall have uncle Ethel’s love story—­well may we say alas! for time,

    “For he taketh away the heart of youth,
    And its gladness which hath been
    Like the summer’s sunshine on our path,
    Making the desert green.”

More than sixty years have elapsed since the time of which I now shall speak.  We lived then, a large and happy family, in the dwelling where our fathers’ sires had died—­sons and daughters had married, but still remained beneath the shadow of the parent roof tree, which seemed to extend its wings like a guardian spirit, as they increased in number.  ’Twas near the city of New York, and stood in the centre of sunny fields, which had been won from the forest shade.  Our parents were natives of the soil, but theirs had come from the far land of Germany, and the memories of that land were still fondly cherished by their descendants.  The low-roofed cottage, with its many-pointed gables and narrow casement, was gay with the bright flowers of that home of their hearts—­cherished and guarded there with the tenderest care—­all hues of earth seemed blended in the bright parterre of tulips, over which the magnificent dahlia towered, tall and stately as a queen—­the rich scent of the wallflower breathed around, and the jessamine went climbing freely o’er the trellissed porch and arching eaves—­each flower around my home bore to me the face of a friend—­they bore to me the poetry of the earth, as the stars tell the sweet harmonies of heaven—­but there is a vision of fairer beauty than either star or flower comes with the thought of these bye-gone days—­the face of my orphan cousin Ella Werner arises in the brightness of its young beauty, as it used to beam upon me from the latticed window of my home:  for her’s, indeed,