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Rh least that a remarkable tree stood for years after the settlement of the country on this hill, so tall and so conspicuous in its position as to be seen at some distance, and well known to all who passed along the road. Its fate deserves to be remembered more than its peculiarity. On inquiring what had become of it, we learned the history of its fall. It was not blasted by lightning—it was not laid low by the storm—it was not felled by the axe. One pleasant summer's night, a party of men from another valley came with pick and spade and laid bare its roots, digging for buried treasure. They threw out so much earth, that the next winter the tree died, and soon after fell to the ground. Who would have thought that this old crazy fancy of digging about remarkable trees for hidden treasure should still exist in this school-going, lecture-hearing, newspaper-reading, speech-making community?

“But it was probably some ignorant negro,” was observed on hearing the story.

“Not at all. They were white men.”

“Poor stupid boors from Europe, perhaps—”

“Americans, born and bred. Thorough Yankees, moreover, originally from Massachusetts.”

“But by whom did they suppose the money to have been buried? They must have known that this part of the country was not peopled until after the Revolution, and consequently no fear of Cow-Boys or Skinners could have penetrated into this wilderness. Did they suppose the Indians had gold and silver coin to conceal?”

“No. They were digging for Captain Kidd's money.”