Connecticut western news., 1872-11-15
A SKETCH FROM LIFE.

On the moorland in the sunset hour, and it is all ruddy and golden hued.
 There is a busy, plashing little water fall running heedlessly on it's way from the hills to the sea. It knows no pain, nor ill, and it passes every object un, needed by ; away 1t goes, madly, indif fsrently, carelessly. Surely on all the moorland. and in all wide Nature, there is nothing so unsympathising as this one little burn, which hurries carelessly through the copse of birch trees.
 Push along the rough path into the nest of trees there, standing on the banks of the burn are feeble, tottering walls. Every stone of them is gener- orally letting go it's hold on it's neighbor Clearly this tells of time that is past. Only ruins of old cottages, nothing more l and they yet hold to the old place, and cry on Nature around for sympathy.
 And the birch trees cluster over them, clasping and twining their weird fantas- tic arms above, and the briars and honey suckles hang lovingly and picturesquely about them, and the birds build their nests there, and they sit in the birch trees overhead and sing their songs. Outside the walls grows the bracken fern, which turns golden in Autumn and in- side, where once were odd little rooms, where children's voices and footsteps echoed, is now purple garden of heather with deeply-set roots. Over all there is an utter stiffness.
 Pass on, and on the steep hillside you will see another cottage, with the ground on one side of it so sloping that it is on alevel with the roof. It is only separated from the ruins by the plashing burn.
 In the sunset glow which comes gid ing through the trees, there is wonder, ful color about this roof it is thache6 with brown red heather, and is perfect garden of feathery grasses, golden flow CTS and ruddy leaves. Rising up iron among them is thin line of blue, curl ing smoke and this was all there was tc tell that this cottage had aught to dt with life.
 Before the sun had quite disappeared behind the hills, an old woman descended toward the cottage. She stood in the sunlight, in her short gray homespur petticoat and brown jacket. On hel back she carried large bundle of gold sn-tinged bracken, and the sun1igh played among it. She stood waiting and looking in the direction of the cot tage, for stranger stood there lookins about him. There was about as great contrast between them as can well bt cd to be part and parcel of the old cot tage, the stranger was @ young man evidently tourist.
 He advanced to the old woman, ant told her that he had come to see her ant her house. Then she extended hand to him, and without another word sh, threw the bracken on the ground an( set herself down beside it on the grass and clasped her hands around he knees.
 The stranger sat down beside her, ant asked her whether she had lived lons alone in the cottage.
 She told him that she lived with Mary but that Mary was out, and that Mar, was so deaf that she was quite useless and that she had no English.
 In the meantime the old woman, wh, was talking, had 0 somewhat pecuia English of her own she translated iron Gaelic, and as there is no ''it" in tha lanRuaSe, It OCCaS1Oneu some COn1uS1Ol of gender. Mary, she was always spok of as 'she." She told the stranger tha Mary thatched the house, sowed thei field, looked after tho COW and did every thing. He gave his opinion that Mar must be very clever.
 ''Ou aye, he's rael clever," was tn answer.
 "And do you two live here quit alone? Why, this house is mile o two from any road. How old are you?
 "Eighty-eight was the answer.
 "And how old is Mary a'
 "Weel, he'll be eighty four, or eighty six, or eighty seven, canna tell on way, he's four years younger nor me-"