There's the bell again! Betsey trembled so she could hardly get to the door, though she couldn't tell why.

It is Phil's brother.

Why don't Betsey speak to him? Why don't he speak to Betsey? Why are his lips so ashen white?

Poor Betsey! she knew it all; though he has not spoken a word.

Tom is drowned.

Phil lifts Betsey from the floor, chafes her hands, and speaks to her pitifully. Betsey does not answer: she does not even hear him.

By and by she comes to herself and opens her eyes. She sees the little supper table. She looks at Phil, and then she puts her hand over his mouth, and says, "Not yet, not yet."

Phil's kind heart is wrung with pity. He knows they will soon bring in Tom's dead body. He loved Tom. Everybody loved him. It was only that very morning that he left home so bright, so full of life. Poor Tom!

Dear children, you can imagine how poor Betsey hung, weeping, over her husband's dead body; how dreadful it was to see the earth close over it, and to leave her dear little happy home, and go out among strangers, with such a sorrowful heart, to earn her bread.

She heard that Minnie's mother wanted a cook; she called and Minnie's mother engaged her; and now, perhaps, you'd like to hear the end of the trick the two little girls were planning to play on poor, heart-broken Betsey. You know now why she started whenever a bell rang, and why her nerves were in such a state.

"Now is the time," said Minnie; "Betsey has just gone in after the tea-waiter. Quick! get behind the coat, Louise."

Betsey soon came out with the tea-tray of dishes, and Minnie and Louise jumped at her, from behind the coats, seizing rudely hold of her arm.

Betsey uttered a loud scream, and fell to the bottom of the stairs, with the tray of dishes; while Minnie and Louise, terrified at the broken dishes, ran off up chamber, to hide under the bed.

Minnie's mother had not gone out, as she supposed, and was the first to find Betsey, whose face was badly cut with the broken dishes, and who was taken up quite senseless.

The doctor came and bandaged Betsey's head, and said she might die. Their mother nursed her through a brain fever, and in her delirium, Betsey raved about her husband, and told, in fragments, all that her poor heart had suffered.

Minnie's mother, without saying a word to her little girls about their naughtiness, led them into the room and let them hear poor Betsey call for "Tom—dear Tom," to come and "pity and love her, and take the dull, weary pain out of her heart." And then they wept, and wanted to do something for Betsey, if it were only to bring her a glass of water to moisten her lips. After a long time, when their kind mother got nearly worn out with watching and nursing, Betsey got better. When she had quite recovered, their mother took her for a sempstress, and gave her a nice little comfortable room up stairs, with a fire in it, all to herself; and Minnie and Louise used to sit and read to her, and tell her over and over again, with their arms around her neck, how sorry they were they had been so wicked, and gave her nice books to read evenings, and tried to make poor Betsey's lonely life as happy as ever they could.



LETTY.

Did you ever hear of an Intelligence Office? Well, it's a place where servant girls go, to hear of families who wish to hire help. They pay the man who keeps the office something, and then he finds a place where they can work and earn money.

In one of these offices, one pleasant summer morning, twenty or more servant girls were seated,—some of them modest looking and tidily dressed, others bold and slatternly.

Wedged among them, in a dark corner, was a little girl about thirteen years old. Her face was pale, and her features, which were small and delicate, were half hidden by her thick, black hair. Her little hands were small and white, and from under her dress (which had evidently been made for some one else, as it was much too long and too wide for her) peeped as cunning a little pair of feet as you ever saw.

Little Letty—for that was her name—looked frightened and distressed. She had never been in such a place before, and it made her cheeks very hot to have those rude girls stare at her so. Then, the air of the room was very close, and that made her head ache badly; and she felt afraid that nobody would hire her, because she was so little. Her mother had died only a week before, and Letty had a drunken father,—so, you see, that, young as she was, she had to earn her own bread and butter.



By and by, a woman came in. Some people, I suppose, would have called her a lady, as she had on a silk dress, and a great many shiny chains and pins. Letty's mother was a lady, although she was poor. She had sweet, gentle manners, and a soft, low voice. Letty did not like Mrs. Finley's looks; she wore too many bows and flounces; and then her voice was loud and harsh, and her forehead had an ugly frown on it, that didn't go away even when she smiled and tried to look gracious. No, Letty didn't like her, and she almost hoped she wouldn't take a fancy to her, much as she needed a place to live in.

But Mrs. Finley liked Letty's looks; so she sailed across the room, with her six flounces, and asked her so many questions, in such a loud voice, that Letty was quite bewildered; then she heard her say to Mr. Silas Skinflint, who kept the office, that she would take her, and that it was a very nice thing that her mother was dead, for mothers were always bothering.

"Very nice that her mother was dead!"

Poor, little, desolate Letty couldn't bear that. She hid her little face in her hands, and began to sob pitifully; but Mr. Skinflint tapped her on the shoulder with his cane, and told her that nobody would hire a cry-baby; so Letty sat up straight, and choked her tears down, and at a signal from Mr. Skinflint took up her little bundle and followed Mrs. Finley.

On she went, past a great many fine shops and fine houses, Letty keeping close behind her. Letty's head felt quite giddy, and she was very faint, for her naughty father had gone off, and poor Letty had had no breakfast that morning.

After turning a great many squares, Mrs. Finley went down a very narrow street, where a great many noisy, dirty children were playing on the sidewalks,—where a great many women were leaning (on their red elbows) out of the windows, and a great many coarse, rough men were sitting on the steps, smoking pipes, in their shirt sleeves.

At one of these houses Mrs. Finley stopped, and Letty followed her up the steps, through the entry, and into the parlor. A table stood in the middle of the floor, covered with dirty breakfast dishes, where myriads of flies were making a meal. A little baby with a pink nose and bald head, was playing on the floor with a head-brush and a skillet; while a boy, about Letty's age, was mopping out a sugar bowl with his fingers, and two little girls, in yellow pantalettes and pink dresses, were trying to hide away a dress cap of their mother's, which they had been cutting up for their dollies. On a side table were Mr. Finley's "shaving things," a dirty dickey, and sundry little bits of paper with floating islands of soap-suds, left there by his razor.

"Well—here we are at last," said Mrs. Finley, fanning herself with a great newspaper. "You see, Letty, there's plenty to do here. Now I'm going up stairs, to put on a calico long-short, and take a nap; and you are to wash these dishes, and put them in the closet; clear away the table; sweep the room and dust it; wash these children's faces, and keep them quiet; put some water in the tea-kettle and set it boiling; tend the door, and keep a look out for the milk-man.

"Ma'am?" said Letty, looking bewildered.

"M-a-'a-m"—mocked Mrs. Finley, "where's your ears, child? let's see if I can find 'em," and she gave Letty's little ear a smart pull.

"Please, ma'am, it is all so new to me," said Letty, trying to keep from crying; "will you please tell me where to find the broom to sweep with, or the water to wash the dishes, and which closet I am to put them in, and where's the towel to wipe the children's faces?"

"Oh—my—senses!" said Mrs. Finley, "what a little fool;—use your eyes a little more and your tongue less, and you'll find things, I guess; and now let me see every thing right end up when I come down stairs. Do you hear?"

"Yes, ma'am," said Letty, drawing a long sigh as Mrs. Finley closed the door.

"Came from the poor-house, didn't you?" said Master John Finley, cracking a whip over Letty's head. "Well, I'm glad you've come here at any rate; I haven't known what to do with myself all vacation. It will be prime fun, I'm thinking, to tease you, you little scared rabbit; and I'll tell you, to begin with, that my name is Mr. John Finley, and that I'm my mother's pet, and that whatever I say is pretty likely to be done in this house;—so you'd better be careful and keep on the right side of me," said the wicked boy, as he gave her arm a knock, and sent the waiter of dishes out of her hand upon the floor.

"Oh! Master John," said Letty; "see what you have done—oh!"—and Letty wrung her little white hands.

"See what I've done?" said John. "I like that, Miss Letty, or Hetty, or whatever you call yourself; but what's that string round your neck for?—what's on the end of it, hey?"—and he gave it a rude twitch, snapped it in two, and picked up a little locket that Letty wore in her bosom.

"Oh, Master John," said Letty, "give it back, do,—it's all I have to make me happy now,—my mamma gave it me when she died. She used to wear it once when she was rich. Oh, Master John, don't, please, take it away from me."

"Look here! cry-baby," said John, putting the locket in his jacket pocket, "you never'll see that locket again. I shall say, too, that you broke all those dishes, and if you contradict it, I'll take that locket to a police-man, and tell him you stole it. Won't you look pretty going to jail with your long black curls? Answer me that, Miss Hetty Letty?"

Letty only answered by her sobs.

"What's all this?" said Mrs. Finley, opening the door; "one might as well try to sleep in Bedlam. Merciful man! who broke all those dishes? John Madison Harrison Polk! who broke all those dishes, I say?"

"I told her she'd catch it, mother, when you came down," said John; "see if she dare deny it?"

"Letty," said Mrs. Finley, seizing her by the shoulders and giving her a shake, "did you break that breakfast set?"

Letty thought of John, and the police-man, and the jail, and was silent.

"John," said Mrs. Finley, "go bring me your father's horse-whip from behind the kitchen door."

"Oh, Mrs. Finley," said Letty, growing very white about the mouth, and trembling violently all over; "don't whip me; my mamma never whipped me. Oh, mamma—mamma!"

Down came the heavy whip on Letty's fair head and shoulders;—"There—take that, and that, and that!" said Mrs. Finley, "and remember that I didn't take you into my house to quarrel with my children, and break up dishes; and now take yourself up into the dark garret, and get into bed, and don't you get up till Mr. Finley comes home to dinner, and let's see if he can manage you."

Letty pushed her hair from before her eyes, and staggered to the door; then, up the stairs where they told her, into the garret; then, she groped her way to bed; then, she laid her head on the pillow; but she didn't cry—no—not even when she thought of her mamma,—the tears wouldn't come; but her head was very hot, and her hands burning. There she lay, hour after hour, talking to herself about a great many things; and had it been light enough you would have seen how flushed her cheeks were, and how very strangely her eyes looked.

* * *

"The child has a brain fever," said the Doctor to Mrs. Finley.

"No wonder," said the wicked woman, "she had such a dreadful fall down the cellar stairs. You see how she bruised her face and neck."

The Doctor looked very sharp at Mrs. Finley—so sharp that she stooped down, pretending to pick something from the floor, that he needn't see her blush.

"I don't know how I am to nurse a sick child," grumbled Mrs. Finley; "there's John Madison Harrison Polk, and Sarah Jenny Lind, and Malvina Cecelia Victoria, and Napoleon Bonaparte, four children of my own to look after. It's a hard case, Doctor."

"Not so hard a case as little Letty's," said the kind Doctor. "Those bruises never came from falling down stairs, Mrs. Finley; that child has been cruelly abused. I may tell of it, and I may not,—that depends upon whether she lives or dies; but I am going to take her home to my own house, and see what good doctoring can do for her. She looks like my little dead Mary, and for her sake I'll be a father to her."

So Letty was carried on a litter to Doctor Harris' house; and there, for a great many weeks, she lay in her little bed, quite crazy—her beautiful hair shaved off, and her little head blistered to make her well. The Doctor's wife was a sweet, kind lady;—she thought, too, that "Letty looked like her little dead Mary," and often, when she held her little burning hand, the tears would come to her eyes, and she would pray God to let her live, for she had no child to love now, and she wanted Letty for her own little girl.

Well, after a long, long while, Letty's senses came slowly back. She put her little hand to her forehead and tried to remember what had happened;—she didn't know what to make of the nice, pretty room, and soft bed with its silken curtains;—she thought she was dreaming, and rubbed her eyes and looked again, and then hid her face in the sheet for fear she should see Mrs. Finley, or John, or the police-man;—and then Mrs. Harris put her finger on Letty's lip and told her not to talk now, because she was sick and weak, but that she was always going to live with her, and be, not her servant, but her own dear little girl; and then Letty kissed Mrs. Harris' hand, and shut her eyes, and went to sleep as quietly as if she were on her mother's bosom.

By and by, little by little, she got strong and well again; her checks grew plump and rosy; her hair came out in little black, curls all over her head, and she was just the happiest little girl—as happy as you are when you climb on your mother's lap and kiss her, as if you never wanted to stop.

She had a little room of her own, close by her new mother's, with a cunning little bed, and wash-stand, and bureau, and rocking chair. She had plenty of playthings, too,—(not little Mary's, for mothers can't give away their little children's playthings when they are dead.) Letty had playthings of her own;—but sometimes, Mrs. Harris would unlock a little trunk, and show her a little cake, all dried up, with the marks of tiny little teeth in it; and a slate on which was a word left unfinished by little Mary; and a little chest of doll's clothes, with such nice little womanly stitches in them; and a little fairy thimble; and then the tears would fall into the trunk as she locked it up again, and then Letty would throw her arms about her neck and say, "Don't cry—Letty loves you."

And now, my little darling readers, there is one verse in the Bible which Aunt Fanny wants you to remember; it is this:

"When thy father and thy mother forsake thee, then the Lord will take thee up."



FRONTIER STORIES.

"Joseph," said his mother, "I want you to run over to Aunt Elsie's and borrow a pair of flat-irons; she said she would lend them to me, till I could get some from the settlement."

"Yes, mother," said little Joe; "and I can whittle my stick going along. I'm afraid Bill Sykes will get his arrows made first; and if I ain't but eight years old, he shan't beat me at anything."

So Joe perched his cap on the top of his head, and started off through the woods, with his jack-knife for company.

"Aunt Elsie" was a widow, who lived just half a mile from Joe's mother's. Everybody loved her, she was so motherly, and so ready to do a kindness; every man, woman and child in the neighborhood, would have run their feet off for her, if it would have done her any good.

Yes, Aunt Elsie was a regular sunbeam; and yet she had known sorrow and trouble enough, for, as I told you, she was a widow; but she looked forward to a better home than any this world can furnish, and so she bore her trials just as one would the little wearinesses and discomforts of a journey, when every hour is bringing him nearer and nearer to his own dear fireside, with its loving hearts.

Well, little Joe went whistling and whittling along, thinking of Bill Sykes and his arrows. Half a mile was no great distance to go; he might finish one arrow going along; that is, if his jack-knife didn't break, or if he didn't whittle off one of his fingers by mistake. He wished the wood wasn't quite so hard: he wondered whether Bill Sykes would make his arrows of hickory: he wondered whether Bill's brother Tom, wouldn't make them for him—just as like as not, now, he would, and then Bill would be sure to have the best ones: too bad! Joe wished he had a brother, too; he wished——ph-e-w! What's that?

A bear! as sure as you are alive! (and may not be long.) What's to be done now? Joe was a nice fat little boy, and the bear might be hungry. He wasn't afraid: pooh!—no. A little backwoods boy afraid? They are made of different stuff than the little ruffled-collar boys that tag about with the nursery maid at their heels, in Broadway.

Joe examined his jack-knife, and took another look at the bear, as he lay behind the bushes. Old Bruin was fast asleep.

All right;—Joe's mother wouldn't have to wait for her flat-irons; so he stepped carefully along (not to disturb Bruin's nap) and reached Aunt Elsie's, with a whole skin.

Aunt Elsie was very glad to see Joe, for she loved children, and always ran to the cupboard to get them a piece of wholesome frontier pie, or gingerbread, or bit of hoe-cake; but Joe said he couldn't stop; because his mother had her clothes already sprinkled and folded ready for the irons, and had told him to hurry back as fast as ever he could.

Did he tell Aunt Elsie about the bear? Do you suppose a frontier boy would take refuge under a woman's apron?

No, sir!

If you should mention such a thing to him, he would tuck up his pinafore, roll up his jacket sleeves, and show you his little brown fists, in a trice!

No, sir; he never alluded to the bear, but taking a flat-iron in each hand, went whistling along as if no such animal had ever walked out of Noah's ark into the back woods.

Well, he had got through "Hail Columbia," and "Auld Lang Syne," when he spied Bruin again; and this time he was wide awake, too.

He began whistling Yankee Doodle; first, to show his independence, and secondly, because he knew if anything would take the nonsense out of the letter B, it was Yankee Doodle!

"I'll iron him with these flat-irons, anyhow," said Joe to himself, "if he comes here to eat me." But whether the bear wasn't hungry, or whether he didn't like the looks of the flat-irons, or whether Joe's house was a little too near, or whether it was all three, I can't say; all I know is that he never touched a paw to him, and Joe and his flat-irons arrived home in perfect safety.

"I'm so glad you are come, Joe," said his mother, taking the irons and putting them over the fire to heat. "I've a heap of work to do, and besides I felt uneasy like, after you went off alone through the woods, for fear you might possibly meet a bear."

"I did," said Joe, quietly whittling away at his arrow.

"Did? Sakes alive! Where? how? when? Did he bite you?" and she caught him up by the waistband and held him up to the light, and turned him round to see where he was damaged.

Joe told her all about it, and she flew and bolted all the doors, and every now and then she'd set down her flat-iron, and putting her arms a-kimbo, say, "Sakes alive! 'spose that bear had ate him up?" That night she insisted on his eating a whole pie for supper, gave him two lumps of white sugar, and put an extra blanket on his bed, and all night long she was traveling back and forth in her night cap, from her bed to his, to feel if Joe was safe between the sheets.

Now, while Joe's asleep, if you like that story, I will tell you another about Aunt Elsie.

* * *

One day she went to her door and blew her horn, as if all creation was let loose; (you know I told you that when frontier folks want to call the neighbors together that's the way they manage.)

Well, there was a general stampede to see what was to pay with Aunt Elsie. Some said the bears must have run off with her little girl;—some said an Indian might have strayed into her log hut, and frightened her;—some said the house might be on fire, and they all said they'd stand by Aunt Elsie as long as there was a timber left of them, whatever was to pay. Zeke Smith said, (Zeke was an old bachelor,) that "he'd thought for a great while, that it wasn't safe for Elsie to live there alone without some man to protect her;" and Jim Brown who was a widower, said "it was a lonesome piece of business and no mistake;" and they all rushed through the woods to see which should pitch into the house first and help her the fastest.

Well—what do you think was to pay when they got there?

Her old cow was choking with a turnip!

Now I'm going to tell you one more backwoods story while I'm about it.

* * *

A great roaring fire was burning in Zeke Smith's log house; and all the Tims, and Joes, and Bills, and Jacks, and Sams had come in to see him. They peeled chestnuts and threw the shells into the fire, and the shells cracked and snapped, and the blaze lit up all their weather-beaten, bronzed faces, and they drank cider out of a great mug, and talked about one thing and another that you and I don't care about; and then Zeke Smith said he lost a sheep last night.

"So did I," said Pete Parker.

"I lost two hens," said Joachim Jones.

"I lost a ram," said Bill Bond.

"Don't say so!" said Zeke. "Well, that is a loss. There's a bear about,—that's certain; and it's just as certain that we are the boys to kill him. I should like to see a bear get out of the way of my rifle!"

"Or mine"—

"Or mine," said they all.

Well, they agreed to start the next morning, by daylight, to hunt up the bear. They fixed their rifles the night before, and in the morning got up bright and early, and got into their great boots, and buttoned up their coats and strided off, with provisions in their pouches, for they were determined not to come back without him.

On they tramped, over bush and bog and briar; the dogs running before and scenting round among the bushes. All day, no luck. Night came on, and still no luck; so they "camped out," and started fresh again the next morning.

About dark the dogs scented the bear, sure enough,—and what a monstrous fellow he was—black as Topsy, too! Never mind, his time had come now. He ran up an old stub, and sat perched on the top. They pointed their rifles—took aim—not a rifle went off! and Bruin sat grinning at them.

Wern't they furious? I wouldn't undertake to repeat what they said, 'cause it wouldn't answer. The bear came down from the stub, and ran off into a swamp; so they had the hunt all over again. They primed their guns anew and picked the flints (for percussion locks had not then been invented,) so that their rifles would be sure to go off; for you may be certain that they wouldn't have that story told in "the settlement," for a barrel of their best cider. So taking their newly-primed rifles, off they started again, with their teeth set together, looking as fierce as so many Hospidars. If Bruin had understood what stuff a disappointed backwoodsman is made of, he would have kept out of their way—but he didn't; and as their rifles this time had the genuine "stand and deliver" in 'em, there was nothing left for him to do, but to cross his paws and surrender.

Didn't they drink cider and crack nuts over the old fellow's remains? Certainly; they never would have showed their heads at "a raising" again, I can tell you, hadn't they captured him.



A PEEP THROUGH MY QUIZZING GLASS.

Well, I don't know as there is any use in my sitting here at the window any longer. Bricks and mortar, mortar and bricks! and little strips of yards not big enough to swing a cat round in. You may, perhaps you will, ask with the Frenchman, "Vat for you want to swing a cat round?"

But there's a choice even in those yards. Now just look at them—there is one, that, small as it is, has its little circular grass plat, with a hedge of china asters about it, and a little vase in the middle, from which hang tendrils of the pretty mountain myrtle; a woodbine creeps over the fence and my favorite tree (the willow) is struggling for life in yonder corner, and prettier than all, out dances a little fairy, with shining locks neatly parted, and a clean white pinafore tucked round her chubby little figure. See her tip-toe round the grass plat, with eyes as blue as the morning glories she is plucking. How glad I am she has a mother who teaches her to love the beautiful, and provides her that pretty little garden.

Now just look in the next yard—it is just the same size as the other, but poor mother earth lies buried under great flat paving stones; while strewed over them are old bits of china, and carpeting, and old keg covers, and old barrels with the hoops dropping off, and an old tail-less rocking-horse, and a child's chair, trying in vain to stand on three legs, and a Buffalo skin that is sadly in need of some of "Bogles Hyperian."

There's a little child dancing out that door, too; now he stands poised on one foot, and takes a survey of the yard; unpromising, isn't it, dear? Nothing pretty to look at, is there? Aunt Fanny is sorry for you; if she could get you up here she'd tell you a story. I know very well what you would tell her; that mamma lies in bed asleep—although it is ten o'clock; that papa has eaten his breakfast alone and gone down to the store; and that Betty and Sally have it all their own way, not only in that slovenly looking yard, but all over the house, (so long as they don't trouble your mamma.) Poor little fellow—I hope some country cousin will have mercy on you, and introduce you to her cows and hens and chickens and hay and flowers—yes, and to her brown bread and milk, too, for you look like a little hot-house plant.

I wonder who lives over there? I'll just look at them through my quizzing glass. In the first place, that's a "single lady's" room (I am afraid she'll box my ears if I call her "an old maid," and if there is anything I am afraid of it is a mouse and a mad woman.)

Just look over there. There's a little tin, pint pail out on the window sill, and a stone pot. I'll bet you sixpence she "finds herself" (I know nobody finds old maids). There now, didn't I tell you so? See,—she moves a little table up to the window and holds the table-cloth close up to her eye-lashes, to see if there's a speck of dirt on it, and then twitches, and pats, and pulls it into line and plummet order; then she places thereon a small tea tray, with only one cup and saucer. I declare it makes me feel quite melancholy! Then she throws up the window, lifts the cover off the tin-pail, and turns about a thimble full of milk into a lilliputian pitcher; then she nips out a bit of butter about the size of a nutmeg, and puts it on a little cup plate; and placing a small roll and a little black teapot on the table, she sits down to her solitary meal. Now she clasps her hands and bows her head—and now I am sorry for what I've said about her, because I see she is a good, religious woman, else she wouldn't ask a blessing. I hope she will get it; and I hope somebody will ask her out to tea two or three times a week, and take her now and then of a long evening to a lecture, or a concert, or a panorama, or anywhere else she fancies going. Don't you?

There's an old bachelor's room;—fussy old thing! he has been one good hour trying to tie that cravat bow to suit him; now he has twitched it off his neck in a pet, and thrown it on the floor; if his wash woman don't "catch it," for not putting more starch in it, my name isn't Fanny. Just see him trim his whiskers—(red ones, too!) I could warm my hands by them, freeze me if I couldn't! Now that breastpin has got to find its latitude; that you see will be a work of time. He has got it in the wrong place, to begin with; well, I suppose he will get down to his store, by the time he has lost a dozen customers, or so—he is too busy shaving himself, to go down there to shave them! that's a settled point.

Look now at that window!—a young mother comes to it with a little new baby,—its little neck is as limpsy as your doll's; and its hands look just like those your cook fries when she makes fancy doughnuts. She loves it, though; just as well as if it wasn't as red as a brick, and bows up its little worked sleeves, and combs its five hairs, and thinks it a "perfect beauty." She has got her work cut out for the winter, hasn't she? The times that baby will have to be taken up and put down—washed—dressed and undressed—nursed, rocked and trotted—laid on its back, and laid on its stomach—and laid on its side. Just as if I didn't know!—I could tell her a great many things she don't know about taking care of that baby.

Young mothers are very experiment-y. Do you know what that means? Well, they worry a baby out of a year's growth, for fear it will worry; your mother knows all about it—ask her if she didn't do just that way with you till Grandma and Aunt Charity taught her better? First babies are poor little victims. I can remember how I used to be plagued! Stifled alive for "fear I should get cold;" trotted up and down when there was a great pin sticking into my shoulder—and held so close to the candle to be looked at, that I came near being blind as a mole. It's a wonder to me that I am here now, writing this juvenile book; if I hadn't been a baby of spirit, I should have keeled over, and died of sheer torment long before I got into short clothes.

Well, there's another window. An old lady sits at it; not so very old, either, for she's as brisk as a musquito. Her head flies round if any one opens the door, as if it were strung on wires. I don't believe she has any fire in her room, for she keeps hitching round after the sun all day—and when he bids her good afternoon, she comforts her shoulders with a blanket shawl; then, her lamp is always out long before I go to bed, and nobody who has a good fire, ever wants to go to bed and leave it; they'll find a thousand things to do—a letter to write, or a book to read, or some chestnuts to eat; or, if they haven't anything else to do, they will sit and look at the fire. I am sure I've been forced to look at more disagreeable objects than that, for many an hour.

There's a woman at another window, writing, or rather she has got her table before her, and her inkstand, and the pen between her fingers; all that she wants is a few ideas; see, she rolls up her eyes like a pussy in a fit, and looks up, and looks down, and makes a love knot on the paper with her pen, and coaxes her temples with her fingers; but it's no use, there's nothing there! So she may as well get off her stilts and darn her stockings.

There are two little girls at another window playing with their dollies. Now I like that—it's a good thing—it teaches them how to sew, and to cut out little garments, and to contrive and fix up things, so that when they have live dollies it will come handy to cut out their frocks. I always like to see little girls play with dollies, and big girls, too, if they want to; it is better than a novel; better than a thousand other things that girls do now-a-days, who fancy themselves ladies as soon as they twist up their ringlets with a comb. Heigh-ho, it makes me sigh to think there are so few children in 1853.

Over there at another window in the same block, is a very sad sight. A drunken husband! See how patiently his poor wife is trying to coax him not to go out. She is fearful he may fall in the street, and get hurt, and then she feels ashamed to have him seen in such a plight; now she gently removes his hat—then he puts it on again; now her arm is about his neck—but only to have it rudely pushed aside, poor woman. I hope she believes in God, and knows how to lean upon Him.

Now her husband has gone, and she sits down and covers her face with her hands, and weeps. They are bitter tears—she thinks of the time he took her proudly away from a happy home, and promised she should be dear to him as his own life blood. Perhaps she cannot go to that home now—perhaps her father and mother (happily for them) have not lived to see her joy so soon turned to sorrow; or, if she could go there, she loves her husband still too much to leave him. She hopes each morning that he will come home and love her at night—and she tidies up the hearth, and makes the fire bright, and keeps his supper warm, and wipes away her tears, and braids her hair in shining plaits as he once loved to see it, and looks often at the little mantel clock, and then out the window. By and by she hears his step; oh, it is the same old story—he reels, cursing, into her presence—perhaps aims at her a blow.

Her little child lies there sleeping. She is glad he is not old enough to know his father's shame. Sometimes she even prays the babe may die. She knows, were she taken away, how much it must suffer. Then, she remembers the time when its father was steady and kind and industrious, and she thinks of those who roll about in carriages, on the money taken from her husband's pocket, and that of other poor victims like him. And then the angry flush mounts to her temples, and she says, "Is there no law to punish these wicked rumsellers?" Poor thing! that wailing cry has gone up from Maine to Georgia—from many a houseless wife and shivering child!

God hears it! I had rather be in their place than the rumseller's.

Well, now it is quite dark, and I must light my lamp and shut my shutters, or some of those folks may be peeping in and taking notes of me!—who knows? Wouldn't that be a joke?



THE ENGLISH EMIGRANTS.

It was very weary on ship board. Julien and Victor had spied out all there was to be seen the first week they set sail, and the sailors had told them all the stories they could possibly think of. Mrs. Adrian (their mother) was too sick to leave the cabin, and the little boys were getting very impatient to reach shore.

How would America look? What sort of houses did they have there? What sort of children? Would they be good play-fellows? These were the things little Julien and Victor were thinking about.

Their father was thinking of the price of provisions, and about house rent, and the probabilities of his finding customers for his tailoring work; and whether they should all have to live in the shop, and whether his sickly wife would thrive under the changeable climate, and whether they should make a home, or always be like "strangers in a strange land."

And their mother; she was thinking of the gray-haired old father who had blessed her for the last time, and of the sunny homes of England, with their wealth of shrub and tree and blossom, and of a dear little girl whom she left sleeping in a quiet church-yard, between whom and herself the swift blue waves were building up a wall of separation.

Land ho! shouted the old tars.

Land ho! echoed the merry little boys.

And this was America! this New-York! How very odd and strange everything was! How anxious the people all looked! How slender!—how pale!—and what a hurry they all seemed to be in! How they jostled about, as if they were afraid they shouldn't get their share of terra-firma! How the cab-men and porters and hack-drivers were just as independent as the gentlemen and ladies they worked for! and how showily and gaily the ladies dressed, just to take a promenade.

It was all very funny.

The children and their mother looked with all their eyes; they could not make up their minds whether they should like it or not; but that was not the first thing to be considered; they must first decide where to live.

Mr. Adrian concluded to go to B——, about two days' journey by the railroad. So their trunks were taken from the ship and carried to the baggage cars. Little Julien and Victor had nice seats by the window, and it was very delightful to see the green fields after having seen nothing but the dashing billows for so many weeks. They felt as glad as Noah's dove did, when she spread her wings from the door of the ark, after "the waters were abated." They threw their limbs about, whenever the cars stopped for the great "iron horse" to lay in some wood for his supper, as if they were determined to make up for the time they had been cramped on ship-board.

"Things are not so very cheap after all, over here in America," said Mr. Adrian, with a sigh, as he took possession of the room that was to serve them for shop, parlor, kitchen and bed-room. "Well, we must be patient and industrious; I will put up my sign to-day, and if you and the children (turning to his wife) are only in good health, I shall have courage to work."

So the sign was put up: "John Adrian, tailor, from England—all orders promptly and neatly executed." Then John took out his shears and "goose," crossed his legs and seated himself with a jacket to make, in front of the window, where pedestrians could see that he was at his post, ready for orders.

Julien and Victor, the rosy little Englishmen, didn't fancy much the small room they lived in. It was almost as much of a prison to them as the vessel; they liked better to play in the streets. Their mother looked out the window at them, with a sigh, for her children had been carefully brought up, and she shuddered at the bad words they were hearing, and the groups of idle, noisy, vicious children, swarming about the neighborhood. Oh, how should she keep her little boys pure and unspotted?

Three weeks had passed by. Little Julien came in, one day, from his play, when his mother met him at the door, saying, "Run, Julien, quick—quick—for the doctor."

"Where, mother—where shall I find him?"

"Oh! I don't know," said the distracted woman, chafing her husband's temples; "ask somebody—quick, dear Julien, for the love of God!—the death dew is on your father's forehead."

"Cholera," said the doctor. "I can do nothing for him, my poor woman; the disease is raging fearfully here; he cannot live an hour."

"Nothing to be done?" said the poor wife, fixing her eyes on her dying husband, and watching his spasms; "nothing to be done? Oh, sir, don't tell me that."

But even while she spoke the dark shadow fell. The loving eyes grew glassy; the hand she held relaxed its hold, and that "change," so subtle, so fearful, (that all have seen yet none may tell,) flitted over his face.

Death came for more than one victim, to that doomed house. First one little head drooped, then another, then the soft eyes closed, and the little lip said, quiveringly, "It is all dark; kiss us, dear mother;" and Mrs. Adrian was a childless widow.

Dear children, God be praised that the world is not all a desert—that there are hearts that feel, eyes that weep, and hands that minister to the sorrow-stricken. Mammon has left some hearts that he has not shrivelled, some eyes that he has not blinded, some hands that he has not fettered.

Poor Mrs. Adrian! She knew that there were strangers about her, and that their voices were kind, and their hands busy straightening the dear limbs, and smoothing the cherished locks, and placing them reverently in "the narrow house;" she knew that the hearse came at their bidding, and bore her dead away; she knew that they led her back to that forsaken room, and held the tempting morsel to her grieved lip, and she felt their warm tears drop upon her cheek, and their kind hands upon her throbbing forehead; but it was all like a dream to her.

Oh, my dear children, where could she have turned in that dark hour if not to Heaven? What if she had said, with the unbeliever, "There is no God?" How could she try to lean on reeds that bent and broke beneath her? Oh, no, no! when sickness and trouble come, our hearts must have a God. Heaven only can bring healing to a heart so stunned with pain; and there the poor English woman sought it.

Did God ever forsake those who threw themselves on His great loving heart for comfort?

Never!

If Mrs. Adrian could not smile, she did not weep. True, she looked for rosy little faces she never more might see; listened for tripping little feet she never more might hear; but, dear children, peace came gently down upon her heart, like dew upon the closed flowers, and she said, with bowed head, "'Tis well."



NEW-YORK SUNDAY.

Dear children: There is the bell for church; but Sunday is not Sunday, here in New-York. I wish I were going to church in the country with you, where everything is quiet, and sweet, and holy,—where people go to church to worship God, and not to see and to show the fashions. No, it is not Sunday here, if the bells do say so.

Why? Because there's a woman, at the corner of that street, spreading out on her stall, apples and candy, and bananas, and oranges, and cookies, and sugar-toys, and melons, and cocoa-nuts, and ginger beer; because there's a cigar shop—(the shutters, closed to be sure,) but with the door wide open, and the owner already beginning to trade with customers; because, there's a man selling bouquets, and a confectioner's saloon open, and people eating ice-creams in it; and little ragged news boys, who have been screeching ever since day-light, "New York Herald—Times—Sunday Despatch—dreadful collision and lass o' life—Times, Despatch, and Herald"—and drunken men whom you meet at every few blocks, and people going everywhere but into the church doors.

Well, you go into a city church,—it is not like yours in the country, where the blessed sunlight shines cheerfully in, and the sweet breeze wafts through the open windows the breath of clover blossoms and new mown hay; where the minister preaches to poor people, who are not forced to carry a dictionary to church; where people don't frown and hastily button the pew door when a stranger comes in; where neighbors smile kindly on each other, and never gather up the folds of their dress lest it should sweep against a shilling de-laine; where good "Old Hundred" and "St. Martins" are sung, instead of twistified, finical, modern tunes, that old-fashioned folks can't follow; where the minister is not too stately to pat the little children on the head coming out the porch, or to give them a pleasant smile to make them feel that they are part of his parish; where they all walk home, not over crowded, dusty pavements, but under the leafy trees, with hearts filled with a quiet joy, seeing "the cattle on a thousand hills," the springs which run among the hills, "and the birds which build their houses in the branches;" where the golden sun goes down, not on the bloated drunkard and noisy Sabbath breaker, but on the hale old man "of silver hairs," teaching the cherub on his knee to lisp the evening hymn—upon kneeling groups under cottage roofs, where envy and hatred and ill-will find no resting place for their swift and evil feet. That is what Aunt Fanny calls Sunday.

Children, there is one thing I like in New-York: almost all the churches have "the ivy green" clambering over the windows and turrets, and pretty willow trees drooping their graceful branches about the doorways. I love to see it, because I love the beautiful, and because it is pleasant to get even a glimpse of nature in the artificial city. But I don't like the stained glass windows. I don't like to see the congregation with green eyes and pink noses and blue cheeks and yellow lips. It excites my troublesome bump of mirthfulness, (and that's wrong, you know, in church;) beside, I catch myself examining the windows, to see if there are any two of them alike, and counting the red and pink and blue diamonds, and squares, and wondering whether, were they transposed this way and that way, the effect would not be better. And then I know that most of those windows are so arranged that they can't be opened, to let in the fresh air, and that gives me a stifled feeling, and I involuntarily untie my bonnet strings, and draw a long breath, to see if my breathing apparatus is all right!

No, I don't like these modern improvements (?) in churches: in fact, to tell you the truth, I had rather worship, like the old Covenanters, among the green hills—the blue sky for a roof, the gnarled old tree trunks for pillars, the branches for galleries, and the birds for an orchestra; and unless the minister preached because his heart was so full of love to God that he couldn't help preaching, I should rather hear my Maker preach to me, in the soft whisper of the leaves, the happy hum of the tiny insect, and the low, soft murmur of the stream.

Now, my dear children, don't mistake me. It is our duty to go to church; and it is wrong to think of anything else in church but worshipping God; but there's so much display, and show, and fashion now-a-days, in the churches—so much to distract the thoughts—so much hollow pretension to piety, that I sometimes feel, as I told you, that I would rather worship amid the green hills, like the old persecuted Covenanters. Oh! there was heart in their worship! they sang every hymn as if they might sing the next one in Heaven.

So ought we! Are you tired of my sermon?

Well, what do you think I saw here in New-York to-day? A boy of eight years old walking in the street, with his hands in his jacket pockets, smoking a cigar! I didn't know whether to laugh or to cry at the little monkey. Finally, I laid my hand on his shoulder and said,

"You don't like that nasty cigar, I hope, my dear child." He blushed, and taking it out of his mouth, said,

"Yes, I do, but I'll throw it away if you want me to."

"Thank you," said I, "for your politeness, but it is not of myself I was thinking. I can easily get out of the way of it, you know, but it is such a shocking bad habit to get into; so young as you are, too. Oh, you have no idea how much it costs to smoke. You must always offer a friend one, else he will call you 'a stingy fellow.' Why, my dear boy, only think, it will take all your pocket money to buy cigars. You forget that by and by, you will want a store in Broadway, full of goods, and clerks to sell them, and a house to live in, and may be a wife, too; ah, you needn't laugh, for I don't believe you'll be able to get a wife if you keep on smoking till you get old enough to be engaged. By that time you'll be so stupefied, that nobody will have you!

"Yes, and many a time when you want a pair of new boots, you'll have to do without them because you can't possibly go without your cigar, and you haven't money enough for both. Now, I'd just like to know if a smart little fellow like you is going to be made such a slave of, by a miserable little dirty roll of tobacco?"

Well, he said he would not smoke any more, but I've been afraid ever since to turn a corner, for fear I shall see the precocious young man walking behind a cigar.

Oh, the country is the place for boys,—on a nice farm, where there is ploughing, and hoeing, and digging, and sowing, and reaping going on; where they can jump upon a horse, without any saddle, and ride him to water, with his mane for a bridle; where they can help build fences, and help make hay, and help milk cows, and drive them to pasture; where they can go blackberrying, and strawberrying, and chestnuting, and everything but bird-nesting. I wouldn't like to leave my purse in the way of a boy who went bird-nesting. I should know he had a bad heart.

Yes, the country is the place for boys. There are no oyster saloons there; no cigar shops for them to loitre round; no gangs of bad, idle boys to teach them all sorts of mischief;—plenty going on in the country to amuse them innocently—terrible rattlesnakes to be slaughtered; woodchucks to be hunted; hawks to be shot (who make mince-meat of the poor little chickens); maple sugar and cider to make; husking frolics to go to. Just as if I didn't know what was best for boys, if I am a woman. I tell you, some of the greatest heroes in the world have had women for mothers.



THE BOY WHO LIKED NATURAL HISTORY.

Hal Hunt lived at the "Seven Corners;" he was just six years old last Fourth of July; and as "independent" as you might suppose, with such a birth-day to boast of.

He was on the gun-powder order, I can tell you; bound to make a fizz wherever he went, always popping up in odd places, and frightening nervous old ladies, and little two-year-olders, who had ventured away from their mothers' apron strings. Every cat and dog, for ten miles round, made for the nearest port when Hal and his torn straw hat loomed up in the distance.

Hal never was in a school room in his life; but it didn't follow that he did no studying for all that. On the contrary, he sat there, on the steps of his father's grocery store, with his chin between his little brown palms, doing up more thinking than the schoolma'am would have allowed, except in recess.

Hal was very fond of Natural History;—in fact, he had about made up his mind, that as soon as he owned a long-tailed coat, he would own a menagerie. Pigs, geese, hens, ducks, cows, oxen, nothing came amiss to him that went into Noah's ark. He expected to have a grand time when he got that menagerie—setting them all the cars, and hearing them growl behind their bars.

One day he sat on the door-step running it over in his mind, when the old rooster, followed by his hens, marched in a procession past the door.

There was the speckled hen, black and white, (with red eyes) looking like a widow in half mourning; there was the white one that would have been pretty, hadn't she such a turn for fighting that her feathers were as scarce as brains in a dandy's head; there was the black one, that contested her claims with the white hen, to a kernel of corn, and a place in the procession next the rooster, in a manner that would have delighted the abolitionists.

Hal watched them all, and then it struck him, all of a sudden, that he had never seen a hen swim. He had seen ducks do it, and swans, and geese, but he never remembered to have seen a HEN swim.

What was the reason? Didn't they know how? or wouldn't they do it?

Hal was resolved to get at the bottom of that problem without delay; so he jumped up and chased one round till he fell down and tore his jacket, and the hen flew up in a tree.

Then he tried for the speckled widow; she of course was too sharp for him.

At last he secured the brown one, and hiding her under his jacket started for the "creek," about a quarter of a mile off. He told the hen, going along, that if she didn't know how to swim, it was high time she did, and that he was going to try her any how; the hen cocked up her eye but said nothing, though she had her thoughts.

The fact was she never had been in the habit of going out of the barn-yard, without asking leave of the rooster, who was a regular old "Blue Beard;" and she knew very well that he wouldn't scratch her up another worm, for a good twelve-month, for being absent without leave. So she dug her claws into Hal's side, every now and then, and tried to peck him with her bill, but Hal told her it was no use, for go into that creek she should.

Well, he got to the creek at last, and stood triumphantly on a little bank just over it. He took a good grip of his hen, and then lifted up his arm to give her a nice toss into the water.

He told her that now she was to consider herself a duck, instead of a hen, (what a goose!) then over he went splash into the water himself. The question was not now whether the hen could swim, but whether he could; he floundered round and round, and screeched like a little bedlamite, and was just thinking of the last fib he told, when his brother Zedekiah came along and fished him out.

Hal prefers now to try his experiments on his father's door-step; as to the hen, poor chicken-hearted thing! she didn't dare to show her wet feathers to her lordly old rooster; so she smuggled herself into neighbor Jones' barn-yard and laid her eggs wherever it suited the old farmer, for the sake of her board.



KNUD IVERSON.

I suppose that every boy and girl who reads my "Little Ferns," has heard or read of martyrs. You have all owned a primer with the picture of "John Rogers," who was burned alive for being a good man; then, you remember "Stephen," of Bible memory, who was stoned to death, for the same reason.

In 1853, when Religion walks in satin slippers, perhaps you think that no martyrs can be found. Dear children, Aunt Fanny sees them every day; bearing tortures worse than the fire, or the rack, and opening their burdened hearts to God alone.

But it is not of these that I would speak now. I am going to tell you of a little boy martyr.

"Knud Iverson" was a little Norwegian, a countryman of the famous "Ole Bull," the great violinist.

Knud's parents had come over from Norway to this country, and settled in Chicago. (You will find that place if you look in your Atlas, and I should like to have you find it, because I want you to remember all about this dear little boy.)

Knud had been early taught how to be a good boy. His parents' words did not pass into his ears to be forgotten. Knud remembered everything they said; and, what was better, he practiced it. They were quite sure that when Knud was out of their sight, he behaved just as well as if their eyes were on him. Can your father and mother be as sure of YOU?

Knud loved to go to Sabbath school; he never was absent from his class once. He was not frightened away by a drop of rain, or a warm sun; he loved to go. His mother did not have to say to him, "Come, come, Knud! don't you know it is time you were preparing to go to school?" or, "Come, come, Knud! it is time you were looking over your Sunday school lesson." No; he was always ready; his lesson in his head, and love for God in his heart; and away he trudged, cheerful and happy, to gladden the eyes of his kind teacher by being promptly in his place.

Perhaps you think because Knud loved to pray that he didn't love to play. Not at all. You didn't know that good boys enjoy play much better than bad ones, did you? Well, they do; because their consciences are not troubling them all the while, as those of bad boys are.

Yes, Knud loved to play; but he could never play with bad boys, or help them to do wrong. And he wasn't a coward, either, as you will see. He spoke right up, and told them kindly what he thought, and begged them not to do evil, either.

One day he was walking peaceably along, thinking happy thoughts, when a party of bad boys came up to him, saying: "Knud, we know where there is some splendid fruit, and we want some, and what is more, we are determined to have some; and we want you to go with us and help us to get it."

"What, steal?" said Knud; fixing his clear, pure eyes on the naughty boys. "Steal! I would not do it for all the world."

"But you shall," said a great, strong boy, bigger than Knud.

"You shall?" echoed all the other boys, "or, we will drown you, Knud; yes, drown you in the river, just as sure as you stand there."

Knud looked at them. He saw that they were in earnest. They were stronger than he, and Knud knew that they could kill him, for there was nobody near to help him. His father and mother were not within call. Knud loved his father and mother; he thought this world a very fair and pleasant one, with its birds, its sunshine and its flowers; but, did he tremble and drop on his knees before those wicked boys and say, "Don't kill me—don't—I will do anything if you won't kill me!"

No, no; dear, noble, courageous little fellow! He stood up and faced them all, and said, "I cannot steal; no—not even if you kill me!"

You would have thought that they would have put their arms about his neck and begged his forgiveness, but they were little monsters. I cannot bear to think there are children with such bad hearts, because we look to see them innocent, and good, and pure. But you will weep when I tell you that they seized Knud and dragged him down to the river and plunged him in, and that the waters closed over the sunny little head, that is now wearing a martyr's crown.

You pity Knud? I pity his murderers.

Do you think that they can sleep peaceably at night? No; in their dreams they hear the plashing waves, and see a pallid, upturned face, with pure and pleading eyes, from which they turned away!

Ever at their side, at golden morn, and busy noon, and dewy eve, a little form, unseen by other eyes, shall follow—follow—follow. Ever in their startled ears, a little childish voice, that no noise may drown, no earthly power may hush, shall ring, "Oh, I cannot steal, not even if you kill me! I cannot steal!"



CHILDREN IN 1853.

I went with a friend, the other day, to look at some "rooms to let." She liked the rooms, and the man who owned them liked she should have them; but when she mentioned she had children—he stepped six paces off—set his teeth together—pulled his waist-coat down with a jerk, and said—"Never—take—children,—ma'am!"

Now, I'd like to know if that man was born grown up?

I'd like to know if children are to have their necks wrung like so many chickens, if they happen to "peep?"

I'd like to know if they haven't just as much right in the world as grown folks?

I begin to feel catamount-y about it!

I'd like to know if boarding-house keepers, (after children have been in a close school-room for five or six hours, feeding on verbs and pronouns,) are to put them off with a "second table," leaving them to stand round in the entries on one leg, smelling the dinner, while grown people (who have lunched at oyster shops and confectioner's saloons) sit two or three hours longer than is necessary at dessert, cracking their nuts and their jokes?

I'd like to know if, when they have a quarter given them to spend, they must always receive a bad shilling out of it at the stores, in "change"?

I'd like to know if people in omnibuses are at liberty to take them by the coat collar, lift them out of a nice seat, take it themselves, and then perch them on their sharp knee-bones, to jolt over the pavements?

I have a great mind to pick up all the children, and form a colony on some bright island, where these people, who were made up in a hurry, without hearts, couldn't find us; or if they did, we'd just say to them when they tried to come ashore—Never take grown-up folks here, sir! or, we'd treat them to a "second dinner,"—bill of fare, cold potatoes, bad cooking butter, bread full of saleratus, bones without any meat on them, watery soups, and curdled milk—(that is to say, after we had picked our nuts long enough to suit us at dessert!) How do you suppose they'd like to change places with "children" that way?

Now here's Aunt Fanny's creed, and you may read it to your mother if you like.

I believe in great round apples and big slices of good plain gingerbread for children.

I believe in making their clothes loose enough to enable them to eat it all, and jump round in when they get through.

I believe in not giving away their little property, such as dolls, kites, balls, hoops, and the like, without their leave.

I believe in not promising them a ride, and then forgetting all about it.

I believe in not teasing them for amusement, and then punishing them for being "troublesome."

I believe in not allowing Bridget and Betty to box their ears because the pot boils over, or because their beaux didn't come the evening before.

I believe in sending them to school where there are backs to the benches, and where the schoolma'am has had at least "one offer."

I believe no house can be properly furnished with out at least a dozen children in it.

I believe little children to be all that is left us of Paradise; and that any housekeeper harboring a person who "don't like them," had better count up her silver, without loss of time!

THE END



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THRILLING TEMPERANCE TALE.

Dick Wilson,

THE RUMSELLER'S VICTIM:

Or, Humanity pleading for the Maine Law.

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"The author of this work has done good service to the cause, by a series of spirit-stirring sketches, founded on fact."—Northern Christian Advocate.

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FANNY FERN'S NEW BOOK.

Fern Leaves

FROM

FANNY'S PORTFOLIO.

One elegant 12mo volume.

With Eight Illustrations. 400 Pages. Price $1,25.

She has a mine of fun, tenderness, and truth somewhere, and though the jewels she polishes for the world are not large, they are of the purest water and bright.—Eliza Cook's Journal, (England.)

Sweet, womanly, and surcharged with a tender pathos, we predict that her "Leaves" will become favorites.—N. Y. Tribune.

There is not a hearth that will not commune with her—there is not a heart that will not echo back the breathings of her nature.—Buffalo Republic.

They relate to almost everything of feeling, duty, foible, and things of beauty, and leave a moral impress.—N. Y. Evangelist.

So true to life, they can hardly be called fictions.—Literary Advertiser.

Winning upon the affections as a tender, thoughtful, and pathetic moralist.—Arthur's Home Gazette.

The product of an inventive and beautiful mind, and a pure, gentle and loving spirit.—Albany Argus.

There are pictures of love, of beauty, and of suffering here, equal to the best sketches of Dickens.—N. Y. Mirror.

We do not believe the author exists, who can equal her sketches.—Canada Christian Advocate.

As her "Leaves" wear a healthy hue, it matters not how widely they float upon the breeze of popularity.—New-York Recorder.

They are the genuine offspring of an original mind, the characteristic product of New England.—Home Journal.

SECOND SERIES.

Fern Leaves from Fanny's Portfolio,

SECOND SERIES—uniform with the First—(in January, 1854.)

PUBLISHED BY MILLER, ORTON & MULLIGAN, Auburn and Buffalo.



NEW AND POPULAR BIOGRAPHY.

THE LIFE

OF

LADY JANE GRAY.

BY D. W. BARTLETT.

One vol. 16mo., muslin. Price $1,00.

"His work is done carefully. His style is clear and graceful, and his sympathies are always engaged by the best aspects of whatever he takes in hand."—Boston Daily Commonwealth.

"A volume which will be eagerly sought. * * The reader has in one vol., one of the most interesting portions of English history."—Cayuga Chief.

"A judicious biography of one of the most charming heroines of history."—N. Y. Daily Times.

"A charming book. We have read it with the most thrilling interest."—Religious Herald.

"Mr. Bartlett always writes well, and he sustains his high reputation in this work, which is well set off by the publishers."—Boston Olive Branch.

"A very readable book."—Hartford Courant.

"We could wish that this volume might find a place in every young lady's library, to the displacement of some of the pernicious novels of the day."—Albany Courier.

"Very well written, and certainly worthy of becoming widely known."—Arthur's Home Gazette.

"His chapters and sentences are symmetrically constructed, while his ready perception appropriates all the points of interest in his subject, and rejects that which is irrelevant or not authentic."—Hartford Times.

"An easy, graceful writer—he seldom fails to add interest to the subject on which he writes."—Christian Secretary.

PUBLISHED BY MILLER, ORTON & MULLIGAN, Auburn and Buffalo.



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LIFE OF GENERAL LAFAYETTE,

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LIFE OF JOHN QUINCY ADAMS,

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LIFE OF LOUIS KOSSUTH,

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LIFE OF WINFIELD SCOTT,

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With Great Britain, with portraits of Generals Brown, Macomb, Scott, Jackson, Harrison and Gaines, by John S. Jenkins, muslin, 12mo. 1 25

LIVES OF JAMES MADISON AND JAMES MONROE,

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LIFE OF ANDREW JACKSON,

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VOICE TO THE YOUNG,

Or, Lectures for the Times, by W. W. Patton, 12mo. muslin, 62

MISSIONARY OFFERING,

A Memorial of Christ's Messengers in Heathen Lands, dedicated to Dr. Judson, 8 engravings, 12mo. muslin, 1 00

PURE GOLD,

Or, Truth in its Native Loveliness, by Rev. D. Holmes, muslin, 1 00

METHODIST PREACHER,

Containing 28 Sermons upon Doctrinal Subjects, by Bishop Hedding, Dr. Fisk, Dr. Bangs, Dr. Durbin, and other eminent preachers of the M. E. Church, octavo, 1 00

EPISCOPAL METHODISM AS IT WAS AND IS,

Being a History of the M. E. Church in the United States, &c., by Rev. P. Douglass Gorrie, 12mo. muslin, 1 00

LIVES OF EMINENT METHODIST MINISTERS,

By Rev. P. Douglass Gorrie, 12mo. muslin, 1 25

FREMONT'S EXPLORING EXPEDITION,

Through the Rocky Mountains, Oregon and California, with additional "El Dorado" matter, with several portraits and illustrations, 435 pages, 12mo. muslin, 1 25

SIR JOHN FRANKLIN,

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FRONTIER LIFE,

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HISTORY OF THE MORMONS,

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HISTORY OF THE WAR WITH MEXICO,

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DARING DEEDS OF AMERICAN HEROES,

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BORDER WARS OF THE WEST,

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YOUNG'S SCIENCE OF GOVERNMENT,

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THE END