than Jabez Doolittle, with his Locomotive, on his way to Astoria. 'WHO knows, who knows what wastes as the song goes; perhaps scouring California; perhaps whizzing away to the North Pole. One thing is certain and satisfactory; he is the first person that ever crossed the Rocky Mountains on wheels; his transit shows that those mountains are traversable with carriages, and that it is perfectly easy to have a rail-road to the Pacific. If such road should ever be constructed, I hope, in honor of the great projector who led the way, it may be called the 'Doolittle Rail-road;' unless that name should have been given as characteristic, to some of the many rail-roads already in progress. It is Saturday afternoon. Once more the schoolhouse door has creaked upon its hebdomedal hinges; the dog-eared book yawns upon the deserted desk; the flies are buzzing and bumping their heads against the sunny window; the school-boy is abroad in the woods, and the schoolmaster has laid his birchen sceptre upon the shelf, and with it the cares and solicitudes of another week. Saturday afternoon! Delightful season, when the mind, like a tired artisan, lays down its implements of toil, and leaves the long-accustomed handicraft! How sweet, amid the busy avocations of the week, to look forward to this short interval of repose, when, |