The appointed day ushered in undisturbed by any clouds; nothing disturbed Ambulinia’s soft beauty.  With serenity and loveliness she obeys the request of Elfonzo.  The moment the family seated themselves at the table—­“Excuse my absence for a short time,” said she, “while I attend to the placing of those flowers, which should have been done a week ago.”  And away she ran to the sacred grove, surrounded with glittering pearls, that indicated her coming.  Elfonzo hails her with his silver bow and his golden harp.  They meet —­Ambulinia’s countenance brightens—­Elfonzo leads up his winged steed.  “Mount,” said he, “ye true-hearted, ye fearless soul—­the day is ours.”  She sprang upon the back of the young thunder bolt, a brilliant star sparkles upon her head, with one hand she grasps the reins, and with the other she holds an olive branch.  “Lend thy aid, ye strong winds,” they exclaimed, “ye moon, ye sun, and all ye fair host of heaven, witness the enemy conquered.”  “Hold,” said Elfonzo, “thy dashing steed.”  “Ride on,” said Ambulinia, “the voice of thunder is behind us.”  And onward they went, with such rapidity that they very soon arrived at Rural Retreat, where they dismounted, and were united with all the solemnities that usually attend such divine operations.  They passed the day in thanksgiving and great rejoicing, and on that evening they visited their uncle, where many of their friends and acquaintances had gathered to congratulate them in the field of untainted bliss.  The kind old gentleman met them in the yard:  “Well,” said he, “I wish I may die, Elfonzo, if you and Ambulinia haven’t tied a knot with your tongue that you can’t untie with your teeth.  But come in, come in, never mind, all is right—­the world still moves on, and no one has fallen in this great battle.”

Happy now is there lot!  Unmoved by misfortune, they live among the fair beauties of the South.  Heaven spreads their peace and fame upon the arch of the rainbow, and smiles propitiously at their triumph, through the tears of the storm.

THE CALIFORNIAN’S TALE

Thirty-five years ago I was out prospecting on the Stanislaus, tramping all day long with pick and pan and horn, and washing a hatful of dirt here and there, always expecting to make a rich strike, and never doing it.  It was a lovely region, woodsy, balmy, delicious, and had once been populous, long years before, but now the people had vanished and the charming paradise was a solitude.  They went away when the surface diggings gave out.  In one place, where a busy little city with banks and newspapers and fire companies and a mayor and aldermen had been, was nothing but a wide expanse of emerald turf, with not even the faintest sign that human life had ever been present there.  This was down toward Tuttletown.  In the country neighborhood thereabouts, along the dusty roads, one found at intervals the prettiest