The day was nearly gone now, dying over fir-clad hills; but yet, before it went, poured a last flood of rich, red light, such as only the mountains and the valley boast, upon the beautiful sloping meadow, stretching its green and dewy sea in front of Apple Orchard.

As the sun went away in royal splendor, bounding over the rim of evening, like a red-striped tiger—on the eastern horizon a light rose gradually, as though a great conflagration raged there. Then the trees were kindled; then the broad, yellow moon—call it the harvest moon!—soared slowly up, dragging its captive stars, and mixing its fresh radiance with the waning glories of the crimson west.

And as the happy party—grouped upon the grassy knoll, like some party of shepherds and shepherdesses, in the old days of Arcady—gazed on the beautiful spectacle, the voices of the negroes coming from their work were heard, driving their slow teams in, and sending on the air the clear melodious songs, which, rude and ludicrous as they seem, have yet so marvellous an effect, borne on the airs of night.

Those evening songs and sounds! Not long ago, one says, I stood, just at sunset, on the summit of a pretty knoll, and, looking eastward, saw the harvesters cutting into the tall, brown-headed, rippling wheat. I heard the merry whistle of the whirling scythes; I heard their songs—they were so sweet! And why are these harvest melodies so soft-sounding, and so grateful to the ear? Simply because they discourse of the long buried past; and, like some magical spell, arouse from its sleep all the beauteous and gay splendor of those hours. As the clear, measured sound floated to my ear, I heard also, again, the vanished music of happy childhood—that elysian time which cannot last for any of us. I do not know what the song was—whether some slow, sad negro melody, or loud-sounding hymn, such as the forests ring with at camp-meetings; but I know what the murmuring and dying sound brought to me again, living, splendid, instinct with a thoughtful but perfect joy. Fairyland never, with its silver-twisted, trumpet-flower-like bugles, rolled such a merry-mournful music to the friendly stars! I love to have the old days back again—back, with their very tints, and atmosphere, and sounds and odors—now no more the same. Thus I love to hear the young girl's low, merry song, floating from the window of a country-house, half-broken by the cicala, the swallow's twitter, or the rustling leaves;—I love to hear the joyous ripple of the harpsichord, bringing back, with some old music, times when that merry music stamped the hours, and took possession of them—in the heart—forever more! I love a ringing horn, even the stage-horn—now, alas! no more a sound of real life, only memory!—the thousand murmurs of a country evening; the far, clear cry of wild-geese from the clouds; the tinkling bells of cattle; every sound which brings again a glimpse of the far-glimmering plains of youth. And that is why, standing on this round knoll, beneath the merrily-rustling cherry-trees, and listening to the murmurous song, I heard my boyhood speak to me, and felt again the old breath on my brow. The sun died away across the old swaying woods; the rattling hone upon the scythe; the measured sweep; the mellow music—all were gone away. The day was done, and the long twilight came—twilight, which mixes the crimson of the darkling west, the yellow moonlight in the azure east, and the red glimmering starlight overhead, into one magic light. And so we went home merrily, with pleasant thoughts and talk; such pleasant thoughts I wish to all. Thus wrote one who ever delighted in the rural evenings and their sounds;—and thus listened the young persons, whose conversation, light and trivial though it seem, we have not thought it a loss of time to chronicle, from morn till eve.

They gazed with quiet pleasure upon the lovely landscape, and listened to the negroes as they sang their old, rude, touching madrigals, shouting, at times, to the horses of their teams, and not seldom sending on the air the loud rejoiceful outburst of their laughter.

The moonlight slept upon the wains piled up with yellow sheaves—and plainly revealed the little monkey-like black, seated on the summit of the foremost; and this young gentleman had managed to procure a banjo, and was playing.

As he played he sang; and, as he sang, kept time—not with the head alone, and foot, but with his whole body, arms, and legs and shoulders—all agitated with the ecstacy of mirth, as—singing "coony up the holler," and executing it with grand effect moreover—the merry minstrel went upon his way. Various diminutive individuals of a similar description, were observed in the road behind, executing an impromptu "break down," to the inspiring melody; and so the great piled-up wagon came on in the moonlight, creaking in unison with the music, and strewing on the road its long trail of golden wheat.

The moon soared higher, bidding defiance now to sunset, which it drove completely from the field; and in the window of Apple Orchard a light began to twinkle; and Redbud rose. She should not stay out, she said, as she had been sick; and so they took their way, as says our friend, "in pleasant talk," across the emerald meadow to the cheerful home.

The low of cattle went with them, and all the birds of night waked up and sang.

The beautiful moon—the very moon of all the harvest-homes since the earth was made—shone on them as they went; and by the time they had reached the portico of the old comfortable mansion, evening had cast such shadows, far and near, that only the outlines of the forms were seen, as they passed in through the deep shadow.

They did not see that Verty's hand held little Redbud's; and that he looked her with a tenderness which could not be mistaken. But Redbud saw it, and a flush passed over her delicate cheek, on which the maiden moon looked down and smiled.

So the day ended.