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Those were balmy days - those days of rural boyhood-days of joy and happiness - days when passed are gone forever - to return never. Oh! how well do I remember the fine apple orchard, into the branches of whose trees I was want to climb and gather the rich fruit that hung in clusters from the stem, or perchance blushed solitary beneath the dark green leaf, or hid by the thick surrounding foliage - the medow [sic] in which I roved and romped with my beloved brothers and sister during haying time, and with rake or pitchfork in hand tossed and turned the fragrant grass that it might receive the purifying effect of the sun's bright rays - the fields of tall, luxuriant grain around which I took my daily walk - the garden in which it was my delight to stroll and tend the growing plants; now training this vine along its trellis, now propping up that flower with a neat frame, occasionally relieving them of the weeds that threatened their destruction - the over-shadowing grapevine under whose shade I sought relief from the heat of the summer's day - the barn-yard, where the little lambs frisked sportively about with delight peculiarly their own- the narrow wharf projecting a few rods into the river, where my hook and line proved so destructive to the silvery bass and the golden striped perch - the beautiful little horse "Donty" that played me so many fantastic tricks, yet carried me so