Having become men, we have put away childish things, and among them, the encumbrances of a heart.

Who would have one?
It makes you dream on autumn days, when the fair sunlight streams upon the sails which waft the argosies of commerce to your warehouse;--it almost leads you to believe that stocks are not the one thing to be thought of on this earth--that all the hurrying bustle of existence is of doubtful weight, compared with the treasures of that memory which leads us back to boyhood and its innocent illusions.

Let us part with it, if any indeed remains, and so press on, unfettered, in the glorious race for cash.

The "golden age" of Arcady is gone so long--the new has come! The crooks wreathed round with flowers are changed into telegraph-posts, and Corydon is on a three-legged stool, busy with ledgers--knitting his brow as he adds up figures.

Let us be thankful.
Therefore, as we have arrived at this rational conclusion, and come to regard Verty and his feelings in their proper light, we will not speak further of the foolish words which escaped from his lips, as he went on, in the crimson sunset slowly fading.