Suddenly the door opened, and a gentleman, of fine personal appearance, and elegantly attired, entered the apartment, with hat and gloves in hand.

"Where is Winnie?" was the hasty inquiry.

"I left her in her room half an hour ago," was the reply.

"It is quite time we should go;—the theatre will be filled to overflowing at Miss Julia's benefit," remarked the gentleman. "I wish you would go with us, sister."

"Theatres will do for girls and fops," said the lady; "my mind requires something solid and weighty to satisfy it."

"Then I suppose Col. Edmunds suits you exactly," observed the gentleman, laughing; "he is a real Sir John Falstaff in proportions."

"I'm in no mood for your frivolous jests. If you were in a rational temper I would like to ask you a question."

"Well, out with it. I'm as rational at thirty as I ever will be, probably."

"You were becoming quite a decent man before this fly-a-way girl came among us. Now I wish to know when she is going away?"

"Heavens! I don't know; not at present, I hope," said the gentleman, quickly.

"Well, either she or I will leave pretty soon," returned the lady, pursing up her lips with a stiff, determined expression; "she is such a self-willed, obstinate little thing, and turns the house all topsy-turvy, and makes such a racket and confusion, that I cannot and will not endure it longer. My mind requires quiet for contemplation."

"Why, she seems to me like a sunbeam; like a canary-bird in the house, sister; warming, and filling it with music."

"She seems to me more like a hurricane, or wild-cat," remarked the lady, spitefully.

The gentleman laughed, and, at this juncture, in bounded the subject of the discourse, arrayed in azure silk, a wreath of white flowers on her head, and a wrought fan swinging by a ribbon at her delicate wrist.

"Well, I've been waiting for you these ten minutes," said the gentleman, gazing with admiration on the lovely being before him; "let us go now, or I fear some impertinent person may intrude upon our reserved seats. The carriage is at the door."

"I'm sorry to have kept you waiting, Mr. Lester," said Winnie.

"O, no apology, Miss Morris!" returned he, gayly; "gentlemen always expect to wait for ladies; it is their privilege."

"Miss Mary," said Winnie, advancing toward the prim lady by the grate, "I fear I have misplaced some of your toilet articles, for I could not find one half of mine. The chamber-maid had given them new places, and I took the liberty to apply to yours, but I'll put them all right in the morning."

"O, it is very well, of course," returned the lady, sharply; "plain enough who is mistress here."

Winnie stood irresolute, gazing with astonishment on Miss Mary's angry, flushed countenance, and at length turned her blue eyes toward the gentleman, who was attentively regarding her features.

"Come, Winnie," said he, opening the hall-door, "we shall be very late."

The young girl quickly followed his direction. "Is brother Wayland to be there?" she inquired, as the carriage rolled away.

"I urged his attendance, and he half promised to go," answered the gentleman; "but, if he fails, cannot you be contented with me alone for one brief evening?"

"O, yes, many!" returned Winnie. "I only wished he would go and not confine himself to business so closely."

"I wish he would relax his editorial labors, for his health demands it, I think," said Mr. Lester. "We must induce him to quit the chair of office, and take a trip up the river this spring."

"I wish he would leave that dull, tedious printing-office a few weeks," exclaimed Winnie. "He has long entertained a project of erecting a little cottage on the shore of Tennessee, where we used to live, for himself and me, and I think he has sufficient money now to carry his plan into effect; don't you, Mr. Lester?"

"Undoubtedly he has; but such a proceeding would not please me at all," answered the gentleman.

"Why not?" asked Winnie, turning her eyes quickly toward her companion.

He smiled to meet her startled glance, and said, "I will explain my reasons at some future time, Winnie. We are now at the theatre."

Mr. Lester handed the fair girl from the carriage, and they made their way through the crowd. Wayland met them on the steps, and accompanied them home after the play.

As Winnie passed the door of Miss Mary Lester's room to reach her own, she observed it standing wide open, and wondered to behold it thus, as Miss Mary was accustomed to bar and bolt it close, for fear of thieves and housebreakers. But, fatigued and sleepy, she passed on, and soon forgot her surprise after gaining the privacy of her own apartment. Early in the morning she was roused from slumber by a furious knocking on her door. She sprang up and demanded, "Who is there?"

"Me, Miss Winnie, only me—Aunt Eunice; and do you know what is become o' Missus Mary?" exclaimed an excited voice without; "her door is wide open this morning, and nobody slept in her bed last night."

Winnie was by this time fairly roused, and, opening her door, the poor servant-girl flounced into the room, the very picture of terror and affright.

"Has your master risen, and does he know of his sister's absence?" inquired Winnie.

"No, nobody is up but me, and Missus Mary always tells me to come right to her room first thing with a pitcher o' cool water; so I went this mornin', you see, and behold missus' door wide open and no missus thar! O, Miss Winnie, I 'spect satin has sperritted off soul and body, 'deed I does."

"O, no, Aunt Eunice, I think not!" said Winnie smiling; "but you had better go to your master and inform him what has occurred."

"'Deed I will, Miss," said the black woman, disappearing.

Winnie proceeded to dress, in a strange perplexity of fear and astonishment, while Aunt Eunice thumped long and loud on her master's door.

"Who's there?" at last exclaimed a voice within.

"Me, Aunt Eunice," said the woman frantically, "O, massa, massa, missus gone, and who's to pour the coffee for breakfast?"

"What are you raving about?" said the master, opening his door; "why are you disturbing me at this early hour?"

"Missus gone; sperritted off soul and body, I 'spect."

"What are you talking about?" demanded Lester, not in the least comprehending her words.

"O, just come up to her room and see for yourself."

"Why, what's to be seen there?" he asked.

"Nothin' at all, I tells ye. Missus clean gone. Her door wide open, and she never slept in her bed last night, massa," said the woman, gasping for breath, as she ceased speaking.

The unusual sounds aroused Wayland, who slept near, and flinging open his door he demanded what was the matter.

"O, Master Morris!" said aunt Eunice, turning her discourse upon him, "missus gone—clean gone."

"Come on, Morris," said Lester. "Eunice says her mistress is spirited away. Let's dive into the mystery and see what we can bring to light."

Wayland followed Lester up the hall stairs, wondering what this strange disturbance might import. They traversed the passage to Miss Mary's apartment, when, sure enough, as Eunice had affirmed, they found the door wide open, and, to appearance, no person had occupied the room the previous night. Lester's quick eye instantly marked, what the servant in her fright had failed to notice, the absence of two large trunks that used to stand beside the bed, and the presence of a small folded billet on the dressing-table. He advanced with a hasty step, broke the seal, and read.

"Ha, ha!" laughed he, as he run over the contents. "Eunice, go below and light the fires."

The woman hastened away.

"Romance at thirty-seven! elopement extraordinary, Wayland!" he continued. "Miss Mary Lester has become in due form Mrs. Col. Edmunds, and 'fled,' as she expresses it—(now where was the use in flying, for who would have objected to the marriage? But then 'twas romantic, of course)—to the wilds of Texas; there to enjoy the sweets of domestic felicity with her adored husband; to which fair land she hopes I'll some day come to visit her, when I have regained possession of my senses, and learnt the difference 'twixt canary-birds and wild-cats."

Wayland listened with amazement depicted on his features.

"Strange; all wonder, isn't it, Morris?" pursued Lester. "Let's go below and discuss the matter."

The gentlemen descended to the parlor, where Aunt Eunice soon presented herself, and, with rueful countenance, said:

"Please, massa, who is to pour the coffee this morning? Missus gone, you know."

"Well, Eunice, suppose you run up stairs, and ask Miss Winnie if she will not condescend to perform that office this morning, as we find ourselves so suddenly bereft of a housekeeper?" said Lester, in a mock-serious tone.

Winnie of course assented, and passed into the breakfast-room, where she found her brother and Lester already seated at the table.

"Good-morning, Miss Morris," said the latter. "A romance, such as we read of in old knights' tales, was enacted in our house last night, in consequence of which a forlorn bachelor has to ask of you the favor to preside at his desolate board this morning."

"I shall be pleased to serve you," returned Winnie, assuming the head of the table, and so prettily did she perform the duties of her new office, that Lester forgot his muffins and sandwiches, in admiration of his newly-installed housekeeper pro tem.

Miss Mary's elopement was a three days' wonder, and then the affair was as if it had never been; save that the servants could not sufficiently admire Miss Winnie, or sufficiently rejoice over Miss Mary's departure. "O," said Aunt Eunice, "don't I wish massa would marry you, Miss Winnie, and then the house would be like heaven—'deed it would!"



CHAPTER XIII.

"We've many things to say within the bounds Of this good chapter, which is 'mong the last; So be of better cheer; for we are well Nigh done."

We will just step over to Texas this morning, dear reader, for well we know the mocking-birds are singing sweetly, and the wild geese rise from the placid bayous, and flap their broad, white wings over the bright green prairies, on their inland flight, and the gentle breezes stir the dark, luxuriant foliage of the wide, primeval forests, while all the air is redolent with the odors of the ocean of flowers that cover the whole sunny land with bloom and beauty.

It is something more than a year since we parted with Esq. Camford in his new emigrant home, and now we have another party of friends arriving in our young "Italy of America," even the romantic Miss Mary Lester, and her John Falstaff husband; and Fred. Milder, too, has had time to wear off the edge of his love disappointment on the ridgy hog-wallows of this fair south-western land. For we don't believe there's another so effectual antidote in the world for a fit of the blues or love dumps, as a long day's ride in a Texan stage-coach, with three pair of wild mustangs for horses, over these same hog-wallows; to say nothing of the way they despatch jaundice, dyspepsia, and all the host of bilious diseases. But don't you quite understand what hog-wallows are, reader? Well, Heaven help you then, when you go out south or west, and pitch into them for the first time! Invoke your patron saint to keep your soul and body together, and prevent your limbs from flying off at tangents.

We will tell you how we once heard a Kentuckian (and God bless the Kentucky boys in general, for they are a whole-souled race!) account for these anomalous things. We were pitching through a group of them, some dozen of us in a miserable wagon, when one "new comer" asked his neighbor, "What is the cause of these confounded humps in the roads?"

"They are hog-wallows," responded the one interrogated, in a pompous tone, as if proud to display his superior knowledge of the land into which both the speakers had but recently made their advent.

"Hog-wallows!" exclaimed the man, more in doubt than ever by his newly-acquired knowledge, "what makes so many of them then?"

"Why, you see when the great rains come on," commenced the "wise 'un," "the country gets all afloat, and when it begins to dry off a little, the wild hogs come by thousands, and roll and flop about in the mud, and that makes all these pitch-holes, which they call hog-wallows."

"Why don't they kill the hogs and eat 'em, and not have 'em rooting up the roads in this awful way?" asked greeny number one.

"Lord! they do kill and kill, I'm told," said greeny number two; "but Texas is such an almighty rich country that all sorts o' critters and things grow up spontaneously everywheres."

"Creation! but why don't they build fences alongside their roads then!"

"O, they never make fences in Texas; first you'd know a hurricane would come tearing along, and land them all in the Gulf of Mexico, quicker than you could say 'Old Kentuck.'"

"Stars and gaiters! what a dreadful dangerous country is this we have got into!" said number two, with a frightened aspect, as they dropped the subject and relapsed into silence, while it was evident, from their anxious visages, that their minds were harassed and disturbed, by visions of hog-wallows, hurricanes and spontaneous animals.

We have heard other and more philosophical hypotheses as to the origin of these uneven roads. Some suppose the country was once an inland sea, and these ridges were occasioned by the continuous action of the waves; others suppose the intense heat of the sun on the soft, clayey soil, caused it to crack and spread asunder, leaving the surface broken and ridgy. This latter is the more generally received opinion, we believe.

Here's half a chapter on hog-wallows, the unpoetical things! but as utilitarians maintain nothing is made but what subserves some purpose, we premise these humpy roads were made for the benefit of gouty men, dyspeptic women, and love-sick lads and lasses. Thus disposed of, "we resume the thread of our narrative," as novel-writers say. Our pen waxes wild and intractable, whenever we get safely over the stormy gulf, and stand on the shores of bonny, bright Texas; for we feel at home there, hog-wallows, musquitoes, Camanches and all. Let none dare gainsay Texas in our ears, for it is the banner state of all the immaculate thirty-one. Come on, reader, now we have had our say, straight up to the thriving plantation of Esq. Camford, and behold the wonders this wonderful land can produce upon the characters of nervous, delicately-constituted ladies. That buxom, blooming-matron in the loose gingham wrapper, and muslin morning-cap, who stands on the gallery of that new and tastefully-built cottage, all overshaded by the boughs of the majestic pecan trees, giving off orders to a brace of shiny-eyed mulatto wenches, who listen with reverential awe and attention, is none other than the hysterical, shaky-nerved Mrs. Camford, whom we beheld some two years ago bewailing the fate which had brought her to this awful place, to be poisoned by snakes, mangled by bears, and murdered by Indians. Listen to her words:

"Thisbe, take the lunch I have placed in the market-basket down to the cotton-field boys, and ask your master to come to the house soon as convenient; some people from the States are come to visit us:—and you, Hagar, go to the garden and gather a quantity of vegetables for dinner. I will be in the kitchen to assist in their preparation."

The women bowed, and hastened away on their separate errands. Mrs. Camford now turned to enter the house, when Josephine, her cheeks blooming with health and happiness, came bounding to her mother's side. "O, mamma, the young gentleman, Mr. Milder, knows all about cousin Alice! he has come right from the place in which she resides. He says she sent a great deal of love to us all, and desired me to write to her. Perhaps, now we know she remembers us so kindly, you will let me go north some time, and pay my long-promised visit. Susette and her husband talk of travelling next season, you know."

All this was uttered in the most lively and animated tone conceivable, and Mrs. Camford smiled, and answered cheerfully, as mother and daughter reentered the neat, airy parlor, where our heroine of romance, Miss Mary Lester, was sitting beside her portly, red-visaged husband, Col. Edmunds, who had, in early life, been a Texan ranger, and acquired so keen a relish for the wild, exciting scenes of a new country, that he would not give his hand (his heart we suppose he could not control) to the fair Mary, unless she would consent to forego the luxuries of fashionable life, and follow his fortunes through the perils and vicissitudes of an Indian frontier. She stood out to the last, hoping the stalwart colonel would yield to her eloquent pleadings, and consent to make his abode in New Orleans; for she conceived that brother Augustus, having arrived at the sober age of thirty, would never marry, and it would be the finest idea in the world for him to relinquish the splendid estate he had acquired by his own untiring exertions, to the hands of Col. Edmunds, while she, as the worthy colonel's most estimable consort, would condescend to assume the direction of the servants and household affairs, and Augustus could thus live wholly at his ease, without a worldly care to distract his breast. What an affectionate, self-sacrificing sister would she be, thus kindly to relieve her brother at her own expense! But, just as this plan began to ripen for execution, she was counter-plotted, or fancied herself to be, which led to the same denouement. Winnie Morris came to pass a vacation with her brother, Wayland, and the fore-doomed bachelor, Augustus Lester, most audaciously dared to fall in love with the cackling girl. So Miss Mary declared; and to remain in her brother's mansion, where she had hitherto exercised unlimited sway, under such a little minx of a mistress, was too much for human nature to endure; so, all on a sudden, she yielded in full to the majestic colonel's wishes, and "cut sticks" for Texas, flying, as many of us often do, from an imaginary evil, and leaving behind poor little Winnie, innocent and unsuspecting as a lamb, with the great coffee-urn in her trembling hand. How long the fair girl remained thus innocent and unsuspecting, we are yet to know.

"So you are from New Orleans, Col. Edmunds," remarked Mrs. Camford. "I do not recollect of ever having met you there; but to see any person from our former home, though personally strangers, affords us pleasure and gratification."

"I have only resided in New Orleans about six months, madam," returned Col. Edmunds; "the most of my life has been spent in camp and field."

"My husband is a soldier," said Mrs. Edmunds, "and we are now on our way to the Indian frontier."

"Indeed! and how do you think you will relish frontier life?" asked Mrs. Camford.

"O, I shall be contented anywhere with my husband!"

"Just married, madam, and desperately in love yet," said the colonel. "Always lived in the city, and thought it the greatest piece of audacity in the world when I informed her I was going to stop at the residence of a private gentleman with whom I was not in the least acquainted, to bait my mules and get dinner. Not a bit acquainted with the Texan elephant, you see, madam."

"Heaven save me, Samuel! do people in this country associate with elephants?" exclaimed the bride, with the prettiest display of horrified surprise.

"To be sure; I had one for a bed-fellow six or eight months when I first came out here," returned the husband, with perfect serenity.

"O, my soul, I hope I shall never see one!" said the young wife, nestling closer to her husband's side.

The colonel laughed heartily, and all joined in his merriment.

"You should not alarm new-comers by such bug-bear tales," remarked Mrs. Camford, at length. "This young gentleman, Mr. Milder, is just from the north."

"Indeed! well, he looks as if he might soon learn how to grapple with elephants and tigers both," said the colonel, glancing on the young man's countenance.

"Tigers!" exclaimed Mrs. Edmunds, taking fresh alarm; "do those ferocious creatures grow here too?"

"Yes, everything grows here, Mary, about five times as large as anywhere else," answered the bluff colonel. "But what say, young man, to going up on the frontier with me, and seeing a bit of soldier life? You'd get to see the whole elephant there, teeth, trunk and all."

"Why will you keep talking about that dreadful monster?" said the young wife, who had brought a few nerves along with her. "You'll terrify me to death, Samuel."

"You must get used to the critters, Mary, and the quicker the better, is all I have to say," returned the husband, patting her cheek.

Esquire Camford now entered, dinner was served, and the conversation took a higher tone. Esquire C. spoke of the country, its fertility, rapid improvement, and exhaustless resources. Fred. Milder began to feel an interest in a land with prospects so brilliant, and accepted with pleasure Col. Edmunds' invitation to travel on westward in company with him. The travellers were persuaded to pass the night; and during the visit Mrs. Camford came to know that Mrs. Edmunds was a sister of the Mr. Lester who had purchased her former sumptuous residence from the hands of the creditors, at the time of their failure in New Orleans. Still the knowledge did not waken regretful feelings, or excite a pang of envy in her breast; for she had learned to regard a cottage with content as better than wealth and pomp with pride and misery to distract the spirit.

The morrow dawned beautifully. Round and red the sun arose beyond the far, green prairie, when the mules and carriages were brought to the door, and the little party of travellers recommenced their journey. Fred. Milder cast a lingering glance after the pretty Josephine, as she wished him a delightful tour up the country, and bade him not forget to call and give her an account of all his adventures on his return. He promised faithfully not to forget, and, with kind adieus, the party moved on their way.

Josephine sat down after her usual morning tasks were completed, and indited a long epistle to her cousin Alice; giving a general description of her Texan home; not failing to mention her mother's happy recovery from nerves, and Susette's marriage with a promising young planter; also the pleasant visit they had enjoyed from Mr. Milder; and ended by saying she hoped another season, when papa was a little richer, to make her long-contemplated visit to the north.



CHAPTER XIV.

"Youth, love and beauty, all were hers, Why should she not be happy?"

Where would you like to go now, reader? We are desirous to take you by the path that will lead through this story by the shortest cut, and, as we dare not doubt but that will be the course of all others most grateful to your tastes and feelings, we'll clear Texas at a bound, for there'll blow a whistling "Norther" there soon, we apprehend, and that would tangle our hair worse than it is tangled now, and we have not had time to comb it since this story commenced. So, imagine "Effie," dear reader, with her brown locks wisped up in the most unbecoming manner possible, a calico morning-gown wrapped loosely about her, and not over clean, her fingers grimmed with pencil-dust, and her nose too, perhaps—for she has a fashion of rubbing that useful organ, for ideas, or something else, we know not what.

Just imagine this, reader, and if you don't throw down the story in actual disgust, you'll be more anxious to get through it than we are even.

Now away with episode, and here are we in the fair "Crescent City" again, at the palace-like residence of Augustus Lester, Esq. The lord of the mansion is at home, reclining on a silken sofa, which is drawn before one of the deep, bloom-shaded windows of the elegant drawing-room. He is in genial, after-dinner mood, and that fairy-looking being, sitting by his side on a low ottoman, is our former friend, Winnie Morris. But she bears another name now, for she has been three months a wife—Augustus Lester's girl-bride!

Were that affectionate sister's misgivings of her bachelor brother's intentions toward that wild-cat girl altogether chimerical, then? Present appearances would indicate them not to have been altogether groundless; but really, when the fair Mary fled so precipitately, the idea of making Winnie Morris his bride had never entered her brother's cranium. He had regarded her as a pretty child, and delighted in her sunshiny, buoyant spirit, and felt he would like to keep her near to cheer and enliven his mansion; but from the moment he saw her presiding with so much quiet dignity and grace at his table, on that eventful morning, he resolved to win her heart if possible. The task was by no means difficult, for an object to which we look up with gratitude and reverence, 'tis next to impossible not to love. She forgot, in her devotion to the lofty, high-souled man, her childish fancy for the frivolous-minded boy, and when Wayland, on her bridal morning, asked mischievously, "Where was Jack Camford vanished?" she replied, "In a gold mine beyond the seas, I suppose, brother; but why mention his name to make discord on this happy hour?"

"It is strange Wayland does not return," remarked Augustus, at length, rousing from a light doze, and drawing his young wife close to his side.

"I thought you were fast asleep, Auguste," said she; "and here I have been fanning you so attentively, to keep the mosquitoes away. Well, it is time for Wayland to come, isn't it? He has been absent more than two months. You know how he chided me for breaking the promise I made to be mistress of that pretty cottage he proposed to build up in Tennessee. Perhaps he is erecting it, and intends to dwell there in proud, regretful solitude."

"Or, perhaps he is in search of some fair lady to be its mistress, who may prove less recreant to her promise," suggested Lester.

"May be so," returned Winnie, laughing.

"I look for a letter from him every day," remarked the husband; "there was a mail-boat in when I came up to dinner. I'll call at the post-office this evening; very possibly one has arrived."

"I hope so," answered Winnie.

The bell now rang, and company was announced. Leaving the young couple to entertain their guests, we have stolen away in search of the absent Wayland, and bring him once more on the tapis, to give some account of his protracted wanderings, and learn what are his hopes and prospects for the future. By what devious track we shall be pleased to pursue the rover, our next chapter will reveal.



CHAPTER XV.

"O, Charity, what art thou? Mystic thing!"

Being rather benevolently inclined ourselves, we feel a desire to look in once more upon the "Ladies Literary Benevolent Combination for Foreign Aid," which is to-day congregated at the residence of Mrs. Rachel Stebbins, president of this humane and Christian body. She is sitting in majestic presence on her throne of office, with her gold-bowed spectacles astride her stately nose, and her devoted subjects clustering around her, their tongues and fingers nimble as ever in the good cause of universal philanthropy. Prominent in the ranks is Mrs. Sykes, while ever following her, like a shadow, is her bosom friend, Miss Jerusha Sharpwell. Mrs. Fleetfoot also appears in the rear; a sort of shadow of a shade, or refrain to the song. Little Miss Gaddie composes and sings alone now; her sister, Miss Pamela, having accompanied her missionary husband to the shores of benighted Bengal, to aid in his labors for the conversion of the heathen world.

"Well," said Miss Jerusha, as she sank down in a soft-cushioned chair beside Mrs. Sykes, with a pair of checked muslin night-caps in her hand; "what's the good word with you, sister, these suffocating days?"

"La! nothing, sister Jerusha, as I know of. My girl, Hannah, has gone off and left me, so I have to keep close at home and slave myself with hard work all the time, and have no opportunity to learn what's going on about town," answered Mrs. Sykes, in a doleful voice.

"Why, where has your girl, Hannah, gone?" asked Miss Jerusha, sympathetically; "I never heard a word about her leaving your service."

"She didn't leave me of her own free will;—catch Hannah to go away from this roof, unless she was bejuggled by other folks. But she'll repent her rashness when 'tis too late, I'm afeard," said Mrs. Sykes.

"Why, didn't you know Hannah Smith had gone to work for the widow Orville?" inquired Mrs. Fleetfoot, looking up from the blue yarn sock she was knitting, which was destined, no doubt, to convert some half-naked Burman boy from the errors of paganism. "La, I heard of it a fortnight ago!"

"You did,—did you, Mrs. Fleetfoot?" exclaimed Mrs. Sykes, in rather a hasty tone; for a mild-hearted Christian; "well, she hasn't been gone from me a week yet."

"Do tell! Well, I heard she thought of going, then, or something like it, I can't exactly remember what," drawled Mrs. Feetfoot, not a whit disconcerted by the contradiction her words had received.

"So Mrs. Orville coaxed Hannah away from you?" said Miss Jerusha.

"Yes, just as the summer's work was coming on, too; but she'll have to suffer for it," said Mrs. Sykes, with a fearfully resigned expression of countenance.

"Of course she will," returned Miss Sharpwell; "but what could Mrs. Orville want with a hired girl,—nobody but herself and Alice in the family? It seems a selfish, malicious desire to inconvenience you, her coaxing Hannah off."

"La!" put in Mrs. Fleetwood, "didn't you know Mrs. Orville had got a whole houseful of company from the south? I knew it a month ago."

"She hasn't got anybody in the world but two cousins of Alice's, and a husband of one of them, and they haven't been there a week, till to-morrow evening," said Mrs. Sykes.

"O, is that all? Well, I heard something about it, I couldn't exactly recollect what it was," again drawled Mrs. Fleetfoot, closing the toe of her yarn sock, and holding it up to admire the proportions; no doubt breathing a silent prayer that it might be useful in saving some "soul from death."

"Well, Mrs. Fleetfoot," observed Mrs. Sykes, "did you know that Fred. Milder had come home from Texas to marry Alice Orville?"

"La, yes!" responded that Christian lady; "that's an old story, everybody knows."

"Why, I never heard of it before," said Miss Jerusha, pinning a little blue bow on the top of the muslin cap, to make it look tasty, as she observed.

"Neither did I," answered Mrs. Sykes, casting, as we thought, but it could not be, however, a glance of malicious triumph on Mrs. Fleetfoot; "but he travelled home in company with Mrs. Orville's visitors, and I often see him walking on the lake-shore with the young, unmarried lady, Miss Josephine, I believe, is her name; and I just thought in my own mind that would be a match."

"Very likely," said Miss Jerusha.

"Well, I remember now, 'twas that strange lady I heard he was engaged to, and not Miss Alice," remarked Fleetfoot, with perfect equanimity; "and Alice, they say, has got a beau off south, and that's what makes her so mopish at times."

"Perhaps it is as sister Fleetfoot says," observed Jerusha; "for Alice is certainly changed from what she used to be. She never attends our circle now, and seldom goes to church. I wonder how she does pass her time?"

"'Tis more than I can tell," answered Mrs. Sykes; "there was always something mysterious about those Orvilles, to me. But I shall be obliged to go home, sister Jerusha, to attend to my work, as I've no servant," continued the wronged lady, rising, and depositing her work in the treasurer's box.

"I'm sorry you must go, sister Sykes," said Jerusha; "but be of good cheer, and I'll drop in and see you in the course of the week."

"Pray, do, sister Sharpwell; I need all the aid and sympathy of Christian hearts to sustain my soul," said Mrs. Sykes, with a ruefully pious countenance, as she took her departure.

The meeting progressed. Fast flew the nimble fingers of the devoted laborers in the good cause; and could the poor heathen have known what mighty exertions this band of benevolent, self-denying females, who basked in the noontide glory of the sun of righteousness, were making for their liberation from the thrall of pagan darkness and superstition, we doubt not that they would have prostrated themselves by millions before the shrine of their great idol, Juggernaut, and devoutly invoked him to pardon and forgive the poor, deluded victims of a false religion, and bring them all under his sublime sway and holy dominion.

At length, Miss Gaddie was called on to sing the parting hymn. The lady president delivered herself of a most eloquent and oratorical harangue, during which the benevolent rose to a tremendous pitch, which nothing could calm off but the call to supper.

This well-furnished meal dispensed, the "Ladies' Literary Benevolent Combination for Foreign Aid" adjourned to the next Wednesday, at the house of Mrs. Dorothy Sykes, Highflyer Street; which Christian lady was aghast with terror and dismay, when she learned this batch of benevolence was assigned over to her for its next meeting.

"O, mercy!" she feelingly exclaimed; "and I've no girl to assist me, and my house will be turned topsy-turvy, new parlor carpet ruined,—and, besides, they'll eat us out of house and home, and Mr. Sykes is so close-fisted!"

"But I hope 'twill be a rainy day," she added, by way of consolation.

Truly, benevolence does cost a great deal!



CHAPTER XVI.

"My task is done; my song hath ceased; my theme Has died into an echo. It is fit The spell should break of this protracted dream. The torch shall be extinguished which hath lit My midnight lamp,—and what is writ, is writ; Would it were worthier, but I am not now That which I have been, and my visions flit Less palpably before me—and the glow Which in my spirit dwelt, is fluttering, faint and low."

The cousins, Alice Orville and Josephine Camford, sat together in a vine-clad arbor on the shore of Lake Erie.

"I cannot express the joy I feel at beholding you again, dear Pheny; learning of your welfare, and finding you so happy in the contemplation of the future," said Alice.

"None can tell what the future may bring," answered Josephine. "All is vague and uncertain. I never believe anything is to be mine till I really possess it."

"And so you won't believe Fred. Milder is yours till the nuptial knot is tied?" said Alice, smiling.

"No, not fully,—not without a shadow of doubt," returned Josephine, laughing in turn.

"But, Alice, when are you going to get married?"

"Never!" was the quick response.

"Nonsense! Where's that pale, intellectual young man, who used to call so frequently on you when you first arrived in New Orleans?"

"I have never seen or heard from him since I returned home," answered Alice, averting her face.

"That's nothing to the purpose, cous. I see you have not forgotten him."

"O, no!"

"And never will?"

"I can't say that."

"I can, though. Come, let's return to the house. I suspect Fred. is waiting for me to take my promised stroll on the lake shore. How do you like sister Susette's husband, Alice?"

"I think him a very accomplished gentleman," replied Alice, as they walked toward the house.

"So I think," said Josephine. "His superior could hardly be found in any of our large cities. Did you know poor Celestina had heard from her faithless husband? He pleads for forgiveness and promises to return if she will receive him. It appears he and brother Jack have amassed a large fortune in Australia."

"Indeed! I am rejoiced to hear so good tidings of the adventurers. Is Celestina still in the convent to which she retired?"

"She is; but proposes to leave it and accompany us to Texas on our return to that country. Whether she will receive her husband I cannot say, but will hazard an opinion that, should she one day behold him at her feet imploring pardon, love would overpower all remembrance of former wrongs. But there's Fred.," added the joyous-hearted girl. "I must away to meet him."

"Where?" asked Alice, gazing on all sides.

"There, walking down that avenue of poplars!" returned Josephine. "I saw him some moments since,"—love is so quick-sighted when its object is at hand, and so abstracted when it is at a distance,—and Josephine hurried away to meet her lover, leaving Alice to stroll onward by herself. Presently, Hannah, the servant-girl that Mrs. Sykes, the benevolent lady, averred had been "bejuggled" from her by Mrs. Orville, came through the garden at full speed, exclaiming, "Miss Alice, there be a gentleman in the parlor waitin' to see ye!"

On hearing this message, Alice accelerated her steps to reach the house, and retired to her room a few moments to adjust her dress before entering the presence of her visitor.

Reader! that truant-knight, for whom we went in search so long ago, is found at last.

* * *

Far down "la belle riviere" floated the fairy white steamboat on its winding-way to Louisville, while the joy-groups danced and sung by the clear moonlight over the airy decks.

And now once more adown the proud-rolling Mississippi, we see that "floating-palace," the Eclipse, cutting her way through the foamy waters. How, all day long, the verdure-clad shores smile up to the clear, cerulean heaven that arches above! And how the moonbeams pour their silvery light down on the sleeping earth! and all the while, by night and day, the boat sweeps proudly onward.

Among the hundreds of passengers that roam the decks and guards, we recognize two familiar faces; and our eyes love to linger on them, for they are redolent with happiness. One of them is that of the dreamy, abstracted girl we noticed years ago, leaning over the balustrades of this same queenly boat as she approached New Orleans. But she was alone then. Now; a manly form is bending over her, and whispering words we cannot hear; nor do we need to hear them to know they carry joy to the listening ear, for her dark eye glows with happiness, as she looks confidingly in the face of the speaker, and utters something which brings the same joy-light over his fine, intellectual features.

Now you do not wish us to tell you, reader, that Wayland Morris and Alice Orville are man and wife; and that they, in company with Fred. Milder and wife, and Susette and husband, are bound for New Orleans, to surprise Winnie Lester in her regal home. Your intuition has revealed all this to you e'er now, and you have pictured in your minds how blank with amazement young Mrs. Lester's pretty face will be when she beholds this "family-group" in her elegant drawing-room, all eager to welcome and be welcomed, and overflowing with exuberant life and gladness, as people ordinarily are when they get safely off one of those beautiful, but treacherous western steam-palaces.

All this your vivid imaginations will easily portray in far more glowing and picturesque colors than our poor pencil can paint. So we leave you to conjure up all the bright visions you choose with which to deck the futures of our young debutants in the great drama of wedded life. And some of you young writers, who thirst for fame's thorny laurels, may touch your inspired pens to paper, and give us a sequel to this hasty, ill-finished tale, a true production of our "fast" age.

In conclusion, let us say, that years after these events transpired, as the "Eclipse" passed up and down the Mississippi, on her trips to and from New Orleans, the jocular clerk was wont to call the attention of his passengers to a beautiful English cottage, surrounded by vines and shrubbery, which stood on the Tennessee shore, and exclaim, "The dwellers in that cottage learned their first lesson of love on the guards of the Eclipse."



COME TO ME WHEN I'M DYING.

A SONG.

Come to me when I'm dying; Gaze on my wasted form, Tired with so long defying Life's ever-rushing storm. Come, come when I am dying, And stand beside my bed, Ere yet my soul is flying, And I am cold and dead.

Bend low and lower o'er me, For I've a word to say Though death is just before me, Ere I can go away. Now that my soul is hovering Upon the verge of day, For thee I'll lift the covering That veils its quivering ray.

O, ne'er had I thus spoken In health's bright, rosy glow! But death my pride hath broken, And brought my spirit low. Though now this last revealing Quickens life's curdling springs, And a half-timid feeling Faint flushes o'er me flings.

Bend lower yet above me, For I would have thee know How passing well I love thee, And joy to tell thee so. This love, so purely welling Up in this heart of mine, O, hath it e'er found dwelling Within thy spirit's shrine?

I've prayed my God, in meekness, To give me some control Over this earthly weakness That so enthralled my soul; And now my soul rejoices While sweetly-thrilling strains, From low, harmonious voices, Soothe all my dying pains.

They sing of the Eternal, Whose throne is far above, Where zephyrs softly vernal Float over bowers of love; Of hopes and joys, earth-blighted, Blooming 'neath cloudless skies, Of hearts and souls united In love that never dies.

'Tis there, 'tis there I'll meet thee When life's brief day is o'er; O, with what joy to greet thee On that eternal shore! Farewell! for death is chilling My pulses swift and fast; And yet in God I'm willing This hour should be my last.

Sometimes, when day declineth, And all the gorgeous west In gold and purple shineth, Go to my place of rest; And if thy voice in weeping, Is borne upon the air, Think not of me as sleeping; All cold and silent there:—

But turn, with glances tender, Toward a shining star, Whose rays with chastened splendor Fall on thee from afar. And know the blissful dwelling Where I am waiting thee, When Jordan fiercely swelling Shall set thy spirit free.



ELLEN.

Sweet star, of seraph brightness, That for a transient day Shed o'er our souls such lightness, And then withdrew the ray! O, with immortal lustre Thou 'rt sparkling brightly now Amid the gems that cluster Around Jehovah's brow!

Yet many hearts are keeping Lone vigils o'er thy grave, Where all the hopes are sleeping Which thy young promise gave. The sleep which knows no waking Hath closed thy sweet blue eyes, And while our hearts are breaking We glance toward the skies.

Ah! there a hope is given That bids us dry the tear; That bright star in the heaven, With beams so wondrous clear;— 'Tis Ellen's "distant Aidenn," Far in the realms above, And those clear rays are laden With her pure spirit's love.



I'M TIRED OF LIFE.

I'm tired, I'm tired of life, brother! Of all that meets my eye; And my weary spirit fain would pass To worlds beyond the sky. For there is naught on earth, brother, For which I'd wish to live; Not all the glittering gauds of wealth One hour of peace can give.

I'm weary,—sick at heart, brother, Of heartless pomp and show! And ever comes some cloud to dim The little joy I know. This world is not the world, brother, It seemed in days agone, When I viewed it through the rainbow mists Of childhood's rosy dawn.

I would not pain your heart, brother— I know you love me well; And that love is laid upon my soul, E'en as a holy spell. But I'm weary of this world, brother, This world of sin and care; And my spirit fluttereth to be free, To mount the upper air!

I know not of the world, brother, To which I wish to go; And perhaps my soul may there awake To know a deeper woe! They say the pure of earth, brother, Find there undying bliss; While all the wicked ones are cast Into a dark abyss!

I look upon the stars, brother, That gem the vault of blue; And when they tell me "God is love," I feel it must be true; For I see on all around, brother, The impress of a hand That blendeth and uniteth all In one harmonious band.

I am that which I am, brother, As the Creator made; To Him, all-holy and all-pure, No fault can e'er be laid. He knows my weakness well, brother, And I can trust his love To bear me safe through Jordan's stream To brighter worlds above.



LINES TO A FRIEND,

ON REMOVING FROM HER NATIVE VILLAGE.

The golden rays of sunset fall on a snow-clad hill, As standing by my window I gaze there long and still. I see a roof and a chimney, and some tall elms standing near, While the winds that sway their branches bring voices to my ear.

They tell of a darkened hearth-stone, that once shone bright and gay, And of old familiar faces that have sadly passed away; How a stranger on the threshold with careless aspect stands, And gazes on the acres that have passed into his hands.

I shudder, as these voices, so fraught with mournful woe, Steal on my spirit's hearing, in cadence sad and low, And think I will not hear them—but, ah! who can control The gloomy thoughts that enter and brood upon the soul?

So, turning from my window, while darkness deepens round, And the wailing winds sweep onward with yet more piteous sound, I feel within my bosom far wilder whirlwinds start, And sweep the cloudy heaven that bends above my heart.

I have no power to quell them; so let them rage and roar, The sooner will their raging and fury all be o'er; I've seen Atlantic's billows 'neath tempests fiercely swell, But O, the calm succeeding, I have no words to tell!

I think of you, and wonder if you are happy now; Floats there no shade of sorrow at times across your brow? When daily tasks are ended, and thought is free to roam, Doth it not bear you swiftly back to that dear old home?

And then, with wizard fingers, doth Memory open fast A thrilling panorama of all the changeful past! Where blending light and shadow skip airy o'er the scene, Painting in vivid contrast what is and what has been.

And say, does not your mother remember yet with tears The spot where calm and peaceful have lapsed so many years? O, would some kindly spirit might give us all to know How much a tender parent will for a child forego!

We prized your worth while with us; but now you're gone from sight, We feel "how blessings brighten while they are taking flight." O, don't forget the homestead upon the pleasant hill; Nor yet the love-lit home you have in all our memories still!

Come, often come to visit the haunts your childhood knew! We pledge you earnest welcome, unbought, unfeigned and true. And when before your vision new hopes and pleasure rise, Turn sometimes with a sunny thought toward your native skies!



HO FOR CALIFORNIA!

Rouse ye, Yankees, from your dreaming! See that vessel, strong and bold, On her banner proudly streaming, California for gold! See a crowd around her gather, Eager all to push from land! They will have all sorts o' weather Ere they reach the golden strand. Rouse to action, Fag and faction; Ho, for mines of wealth untold! Rally! Rally! All for Cali- Fornia in search of gold! Away, amid the rush and racket, Ho for the California packet!

Wake ye! O'er the surging ocean, Loud above each coral cave, Comes a sound of wild commotion From the lands beyond the wave. Riches, riches, greater—rarer, Than Golconda's far-famed mines; Ho for California's shores! Where the gold so brightly shines. O'er the ocean All's commotion; Ho for mines of wealth untold! Countless treasure Waits on pleasure; Ho for California's gold! Let us go the rush and racket, On the Californian packet.

Hear the echo wildly ringing Through our country far and wide! Thousands leaving home and springing Into the resistless tide. Now our nation's roused from sleeping, All alert and wide awake. O, there's no such thing as keeping Folks asleep when gold's the stake! Old Oregon We'll look not on; Ho, for mines of wealth untold! We'll take our way, Without delay, In search of gold—of glittering gold! Here we go, amid the racket, On the Californian packet!

Yankees! all who have the fever, Go the rush without delay! Take a spade and don your beaver; Tell your friends you must away! You will get a sight o' money; Reap perhaps a hundred-fold! O, it would be precious funny To sit in a hall of gold! Let's be going, Gales are blowing, Ho, all hands for digging gold! Romance throwing Colors glowing Round these mines of wealth untold! Ho, we go amid the racket, On the Californian packet!



N. P. ROGERS.

Rogers, will not future story Tell thy glorious fame? And in hues of living glory Robe thy spotless name?

There was more than mortal seeming In thy wondrous eye,— Like a silv'ry star-ray gleaming Through a liquid sky.

Of that angel spirit telling, Noble, clear and bright, In thy "inner temple" dwelling, Veiled from mortal sight!

Of that spirit meek and lowly, Yet so bold and free, In its all-absorbing, holy, Love of Liberty.

Thou didst leave us, gentle brother, In thy manhood's pride; And we vainly seek another Heart so true and tried!

Thou art dwelling with the angels In the spirit land! Chanting low and sweet evangels, 'Mid a seraph band.

But when Freedom's champions rally 'Gainst the despot's sway, Then they mourn the friend and ally That has passed away.

And when Liberty's bright banner Waves o'er land and sea, And is heard the loud hosanna Of the ransomed free,—

On its silken folds, in letters Traced with diamond bright, Shall thy name, the foe of fetters, Blaze in hues of light!



LINES.

I hied me to the ocean-side; Its waves rolled bright and high; Upon its waters, spreading wide, I gazed with beaming eye. At last, at last, I said, is found A charm to banish pain,— Here, where the sprightly billows bound Athwart the heaving main.

The pebbly beach I wandered o'er At morn and evening's hour, Or listening to the breakers' roar, Or wondering at their power. Beneath their din I madly sought, With ev'ry nerve bestirred, To drown for aye the demon, thought,— But, ah! he would be heard.

He found a voice my ear to reach, To pierce my aching breast, In every wave that swept the beach With proud, defiant crest. And when the moon, with silver light, Smiled o'er the waters blue, It seemed to say "There's nothing bright O'er all this earth for you."

Scarce half a moon have I been here, Beside the sounding sea, In hope its echoings in my ear Might drown out memory; Or might instil some vital life Into this feeble frame, Long spent and wasted by the strife Wide-wrought against my name.

In vain, in vain!—nor sea, nor shore, Nor any mortal thing, Can to my cheek health's bloom restore, Or clear my life's well-spring. And yet there is a sea whose waves Will roll above us all,— Within its vasty depths are graves Beyond all mortal call.

With what an awful note of dirge This shoreless ocean rolls— Bearing on its tremendous surge The wealth of human souls! ——The Ocean of Eternity,— O, let its billows sweep O'er one that longeth to be free, And sleep the dreamless sleep!



HENRY CLAY.

Wail, winds of summer, as ye sweep The arching skies; O, let your echoes swell with deep, Woe-piercing cries!

Old ocean, with a heavy surge, Cold, black and drear, Roll thou the solemn note of dirge On Europe's ear!

Sweet stars, that calmly, purely bright, Look down below, O, pity with your eyes of light A Nation's woe!

Thou source of day, that rollest on Though tempests frown, Thou mind'st us of another sun That has gone down!

Gone down,—no more may mortal eye Its face behold! Gone down,—yet leaving on the sky A tinge of gold!

Ah, yes! Columbia, pause to hear The note of dread; 'Twill smite like iron on the ear;— Our Clay is dead!

Our Clay; the patriot, statesman, sage, The Nation's pride, With giant minds of every age Identified!

That form of manliness and strength In Senate hall, Is lying at a fearful length Beneath the pall!

That voice of eloquence no more Suspends the breath; Its matchless power to charm is o'er— 'Tis hushed in death!

Thrice noble spirit! can we bow, And kiss the rod? With resignation yield thee now Back to thy God?

And where, where shall we turn to find Now thou 'rt at rest, A soul so lofty, just and kind, As warmed thy breast?

We bear thee, with a flood of tears, Unto thy tomb; There thou must sleep till rolling years Have met their doom!

But thy bright fame and memory Shall send a chime From circling ages down to the Remotest time!

O, may thy mantle fall on some Of this our day, And shed upon the years to come A happy ray!



THE SOUL'S DESTINY.

In the liquid vault of ether hung the starry gems of light, Blazing with unwonted splendor on the ebon brow of night; Far across the arching concave like a train of silver lay, Nebulous, and white, and dreamy, heaven's star-wrought Milky Way.

I was gazing, gazing upward, all my senses captive fraught, From the earnest contemplation of celestial glories caught, When the thought arose within me, as the ages onward roll What may be th' eternal portion of the vast, th' immortal soul?

When the crimson tide of Nature ceases from its ruddy flow, And these decaying bodies mouldering are so cold and low, And the loathsome grave-worm feeding on the still and pulseless heart, Where may be the immortal spirit, what may be its deathless part?

Deep and far within the ether stretched my eyes their anxious gaze, While the swelling thoughts within me grew a wild and wildered maze, Then came floating on the distance, softly to my listening ears, Low, thrilling harmonies of worlds whirling in their bright spheres.

From the sparkling orb of Venus, sweetest star that gems the blue, Soon a form of seraph beauty burst upon my raptured view; Wavy robes were floating round her, and her richly-clustering hair Lay like golden-wreathed moonbeams round her forehead young and fair.

Then a company of seraphs gathered round this form so bright, And unfurled their snowy pinions in those realms of crystal light, Sweeping swiftly onward, onward with their music-breathing wings, Till they passed the distant orbit where the mighty Neptune swings.

Then from stormy, wild Orion, to the dragon's fiery roll, And the sturdy Ursa Major tramping round the Boreal pole, On to stately Argo Navis rearing diamond spars on high, Starry bands of seraph wanderers clove the azure of the sky.

Lofty awe and adoration all my throbbing bosom filled, Every pulse and nerve in nature with ecstatic wonder thrilled. O, were these bright, shining millions disembodied human souls, That casting off earth's fettering bonds had gained immortal goals!

On each face there beamed a brightness mortal words can ne'er rehearse, Seemed it the concentred glory of the boundless universe. O, 'twas light, 'twas love, 'twas wisdom, science, knowledge, all combined, 'Twas the ultimate perfection of the God-like human mind!

One by one the constellations sank below the horizon's rim, And with grief I found my starry vision growing earthly dim; While all the thrilling harmonies, that filled the air around, Died off in far, sweet echoings, within the dark profound.

Bowing then with lowly seeming on the damp and dewy sod, All my soul in adoration floated up to Nature's God, While the struggling thoughts within me found voice in earnest prayer; "Almighty Father, let my soul one day those glories share!"



LINES TO A MARRIED FRIEND.

There are flowers that never wither, There are skies that never fade, There are trees that cast forever Cooling bowers of leafy shade. There are silver wavelets flowing, With a lulling sound of rest, Where the west wind softly blowing Fans the far lands of the blest.

Thitherward our steps are tending, Oft through dim, oppressive fears, More of grief than pleasure blending In the darkening woof of years. Often would our footsteps weary Sink upon the winding way, But that, when all looks most dreary, O'er us beams a cheering ray.

Thus the Father who hath made us Tenants of this world of care, Knoweth how to kindly aid us, With the burdens we must bear. Knoweth how to cause the spirit Hopefully to raise its eyes Toward the home it doth inherit Far beyond the azure skies.

There's a voice that whispers lowly, Down within this heart of mine, Where emotions the most holy Ever make their sacred shrine; And it tells a thrilling story Of the Great Redeemer's love, And the all-bewildering glory Of the better land above.

O, this life, with all its sorrows, Hasteth onward to a close! In a few more brief to-morrows Will have ended all our woes. Then o'er death the part immortal Shall sublimely rise and soar O'er the star-resplendent portal, There to dwell for evermore.

May we meet, no more to sever, Where the weary are at rest, Far beyond dark Jordan's river, In the Canaan of the blest. Guard the treasures God hath given To thy tenderest nurturing care, And upon the fields of heaven Thou shalt see them blooming fair.



NEW ENGLAND SABBATH BELLS.

Methinks I hear those tuneful chimes, Borne on the breath of morn, Proclaiming to the silent world Another Sabbath born. With solemn sound they echo through The stilly summer air, Winning the heart of wayward man Unto the house of prayer!

New England's sweet church-going bells, Their memory's very dear; And oft in dreams we seem to hear Them ringing loud and clear. Again we see the village-spire Pointing toward the skies; And hear our reverend pastor tell Of life that never dies!

We see him moving down the aisle, In light subdued and dim; The while the organ's swelling notes Chant forth the grateful hymn. The forms of those our childhood knew, By meadow, grove and hill, Are gathering round with kindly looks, As if they loved us still!

In careless hours of gladsome youth, 'Twas our thrice-blessed lot, To dwell upon New England's shores, Where God is not forgot. Where temples to his name are raised, And where, on bended knee, The Christian sends to heavenly courts The worship of the free!

New England's Sabbath chimes!—we love Upon those words to dwell; They fall upon our spirits with A sweetly-soothing spell, Bringing to mind those brighter days When hope beamed on our way, And life seemed to our souls but one Pure and unclouded day!

New England's Sabbath bells!—when last We heard their merry chime, The air was rife with pleasant sounds; For 'twas the glad spring-time! The robin to those tuneful peals Poured forth a thrilling strain; O, 'tis our dearest hope to hear Those Sabbath bells again!

For now we're many a weary mile From that New England home; In lands where laughing summer lies, Our wandering footsteps roam. But yet those sweetly-chiming bells Those heavenward-pointing spires, Awaken e'er the brightest glow From memory's vestal-fires.



MY HEART.

List I to the hurried beatings Of my heart; How its quickened, loud repeatings Make me start!

Often do I hear it throbbing Fast and wild; As I've heard it, after sobbing, When a child.

Why so wild, so swift and heated, Little heart? Is there something in thee seated, Baffling art?

Pain with all thy throbs is blended— Pain so dread! Oftentimes life seems suspended By a thread!

Then thou'lt grow so still—like ocean In its rest;— Till I scarce can feel a motion In my breast.

Think'st thy house is dark and dreary, Veiled in night? Art thou pining, sad and weary, For the light?

Wouldst be free from the dominions That control; Spreading all thy golden pinions Toward the goal?

Gladly, gladly, would I free thee From Earth's thrall! With what bliss and joy to see thee Rise o'er all!

But 'tis not for me to aid thee In thy flight; For the Holy One who made thee, Doeth right.

When his own good time arriveth, Then will He, From the load with which thou strivest, Set thee free.



OUR HELEN.

Our Helen is a "perfect love" Of a blue-eyed baby; When she's grown she'll be a belle, And a "Venus," may be.

Such a cunning little mouth, Lips as red as cherry, And she smiles on all around In a way so merry.

Laughs, and crows, and claps her hands, Springs, and hops, and dances, As if her little brain overflowed With lively, tripping fancies.

Then she'll arch her pretty neck, And toss her head so queenly, And, when she's weary, fall asleep And slumber so serenely.

She has a cunning kind of way Of looking sly and witty, As if to say, in baby words, "I know I'm very pretty."

She bites her "mammy," scratches "nurse," And makes droll mouths at "pappy;" We can but love the roguish thing, She looks so bright and happy.

The dinner-table seems to be The crown of all her wishes, For there the gypsy's sure to have A hand in all the dishes.

But why should we essay to sing Her thousand sprightly graces? She has the merriest of ways, The prettiest of faces.

We know she'll grow a peerless one, With skin all white and pearly; And laughing eyes, and auburn locks, All silky, soft and curly.

Her baby laugh and sportive glee, Her spirit's airy lightness, Surround the pleasant prairie home With hues of magic brightness.



MY BONNET OF BLUE.

My bonnet of blue, my bonnet of blue, Its gossamer fineness I'll sing to you; For a delicate fabric in sooth it was, All trimmed and finified off with gauze. My bonnet of blue, my bonnet of blue, How well I remember thy azure hue!

To church I wore it, one pleasant day, Bedecked in ribbons of fanciful ray; And all the while I sat on my seat I thought of naught save my bonnet so neat. My bonnet of blue, my bonnet of blue, Broke not my heart when I bade thee adieu?

When service was over, my steps I bent Towards home, a-nodding my head as I went But, alas for my bonnet! there came a wind And blew it away, for the strings were not pinned. My bonnet of blue, my bonnet of blue, What shifting scenes have been thine to pass through!

I raised my eyes to the calm, blue sky, There sailed my bonnet serene and high! O, what a feeling of hopeless woe Stole over me then, no heart may know! My bonnet of blue, my bonnet of blue, As clear as the sky was thy azure hue!

'Twas vain to mourn for my bonnet, and yet It taught me a lesson I shall not forget; 'Twas, never to make you an idol of clay, For when you best love them they'll fly away. My bonnet of blue, my bonnet of blue, I loved thee well, but thou wert untrue!



DARK-BROWED MARTHA.

When the frost-king clothed the forests In a flood of gorgeous dyes, Death called little dark-browed Martha To her mansion in the skies. 'Twas a calm October Sabbath When the bell with solemn sound Knelled her to her quiet slumbers Low down in the darksome ground.

Far away, where sun and summer Reign in glory all the year, Was the land she left behind her, To her simple heart so dear. There a mother and a brother, Meeting oft at close of day, Spoke in tender, tearful whispers Of the loved one far away.

"I am thinking," said the mother, "How much Martha'll get to know, And how smart and bright 'twill make her, Travellin' round the country so. 'Spect she'll be a mighty lady, Shinin' jewels in her ears; But I hope she won't forget us,— Dat is what dis poor heart fears."

"'Deed she won't," then spoke the brother, "Martha'll love us just as well As before she parted from us,— Trust me, mammy, I can tell." Then he passed a hand in silence O'er his damp and swarthy brow, Brushed a tear from off the eyelid,— "O that she were with us now!"

"Pshaw! don't cry, Lem," said the mother, "There's no need of that at all; Massa said he'd bring her to us When the nuts began to fall. The pecans will soon be rattling From the tall plantation trees, She'll be here to help us pick them, Brisk and merry as you please."

Thus they talked, while she they waited From the earth had passed away; Walked no more in pleasant places, Saw no more the light of day; Knew no more of toilsome labor, Spiteful threats or angry blows; For the Heavenly One had called her Early from a life of woes.

Folded we the tiny fingers On the cold, unmoving breast; Robed her in a decent garment, For her long and dreamless rest; And when o'er the tranquil Sabbath Evening's rays began to fall, Followed her with heavy footsteps To the home that waits us all.

As we paused beside the churchyard, Where the tall green maples rise, Strangers came and viewed the sleeper, With sad wonder in their eyes; While my thoughts flew to that mother, And that brother far away: How they'd weep and wail, if conscious This was Martha's burial day!

When the coffin had been lowered Carefully into the ground, And the heavy sods fell on it With a cold and hollow sound, Thought I, as we hastened homewards, By the day's expiring light, Martha never slept so sweetly As she'll sleep this Sabbath night.

THE END