The hissing train rattles along; the trumpet-tongued whistle--or rather horn--booms far away in the breeze, and finds no echo; the giant monarchs of the forest line the road on either side, like a guard of Titans, their nodding heads inquiring, as it were curiously, why their ranks were thinned, and what strange meteor is that which, with clatter and roar, rushes past, disturbing their peaceful solitude.

Patience my noble friends; patience, I say.

A few short years more, and many of you, like your deceased brethren, will bend your proud heads level with the dust, and those giant limbs, which now kiss the summer sun and dare the winter's blast, will feed that insatiate meteor's stomach, or crackle beneath some adventurous pioneer's soup-kettle.

But, never mind; like good soldiers in a good cause, you will sacrifice yourselves for the public good; and possibly some of you may be carved into figures of honour, and dance triumphantly on the surge's crest in the advance post of glory on a dashing clipper's bows, girt with a band on which is inscribed, in letters of gold, the imperishable name of Washington or Franklin.
Being of a generous disposition, I have thrown out these hints in the hopes some needy American author may make his fortune, and immortalize his country, by writing "The Life and Adventures of the Forest Monarch;" or, as the public like mystery, he might make a good hit by entitling it "The Child of the Woods that danced on the Wave." Swift has immortalized a tub; other authors have endeavoured to immortalize a shilling, and a halfpenny.

Let that great country which professes to be able to "whip creation" take a noble subject worthy of such high pretensions.
Here we are at Cleveland; and, "by the powers of Mercury"-- this expletive originated, I believe, with a proud barometer,--it is raining cats and dogs and a host of inferior animals.