"It's too bad," exclaimed Harry Knights, as he turned from the window,

where for the last ten minutes he had been silently watching the heavy

drops of rain as they pattered against the glass. "It's too bad,"

repeated he, "we can have no out-of-door play this afternoon;" and as he

spoke his face wore a most rueful expression. I was one among a number

of Harry's schoolmates who had gone to spend the day at the farm of Mr.

Knights, Harry's father. The eldest of our number was not more than

fourteen; and for a long time we had looked forward to this day with

many bright anticipations of fun and enjoyment. The important day at

length arrived, and so early did we set out upon our excursion that we

reached Harry's home before eight o'clock in the morning. We spent the

forenoon in rambling over the farm, searching out every nook and corner

which possessed any interest to our boyish minds. Accompanied by Harry

we visited all his favorite haunts--which included a fine stream of

water, where there was an abundance of fish; also a ledge of rocks which

contained a curious sort of cave, formed by a wide aperture in the

rocks; and, last though "not least," a pond of water which, owing to its

extreme beauty of appearance, Harry had named the "Enchanted Pond." He

had said so much to us regarding the uncommon beauty of the spot that

some of the boys, myself among the number, had often been inclined to

ridicule him; but when we came within view of it, I for one ceased to

wonder at his admiration; for before nor since, I never looked upon so

lovely a scene. The pond was situated upon the back portion of the farm,

in a clearing which had been made by a settler who had occupied the land

for some years before it was purchased by Mr. Knights. The form of the

pond was entirely circular, and it was surrounded by a green field, in

which had been left standing, here and there, some fine old trees to add

to the effect. I remember when I first gained a view of the spot, it

reminded me of a surface of polished silver, bordered with emeralds. As

we drew nigh we could see that its smooth waters were thickly dotted

with the pure blossoms of the pond-lily. I have never since visited the

spot, but the view I obtained of it that day, now so long ago, is still

vividly present to my mind. By the time we again reached the farm-house,

the dinner-hour had arrived; and our long continued exercise in the open

air had so much improved our appetites that we did ample justice to the

good things set before us. Dinner being over, we observed, what had

before escaped our notice, that the sky was becoming overcast with dark

clouds, and soon a heavy rain began to fall, which put an end to all our

plans of out-of-door enjoyment for the afternoon. As I mentioned at the

beginning, Harry was very much disappointed, for outside sports were his

especial delight; and for a time his face looked almost as dark and

forbidding as the sky itself. We tried to cheer him up, saying we would

have some quiet games in the large dining-room, and we did succeed in

getting him to join us; but somehow or other our games afforded us no

enjoyment, and the question, "what shall we do with ourselves?" began to

pass from one to the other among the group of eager, restless boys.

"Would you like me to tell you a story, boys?" enquired Harry's mother,

after observing for a time our vain attempts at enjoyment. Mrs. Knights

was a lady of high culture, and possessed the happy faculty of rendering

herself an agreeable companion to either the young or old; and more than

one pair of eyes grew bright with pleased anticipation when she proposed

telling us a story; and, of course, we all eagerly assented to her

proposal. Seating herself in our midst, she took up a piece of

needlework, saying, "I can always talk best when my hands are employed,"

and began as follows:

"I suppose none of you, perhaps not even my own Harry, is

aware that my home has not always been in Canada; but I will now inform

you that the days of my childhood and youth were passed in a pretty town

near the base of the Alleghany Mountains in the State of Virginia. I

will not pause at present to give you any further particulars regarding

my own early years, as the story I am about to relate is concerning one

of my schoolmates who was a few years older than myself. The pastor of

the Church in the small village where my parents resided had but one

son; and, when quite a little girl, I remember him as one of the elder

pupils in the school I attended. I was too young at that time to pay

much attention to passing events, but I afterward learned that, even

then his conduct was a source of much anxiety and sorrow to his parents;

his ready talent, great vivacity, and love of amusement continually led

him into mischief and caused him to be disliked by many of their

neighbors. It was in vain that the villagers complained, in vain that

his father admonished and his mother wept; still the orchards were

robbed, the turkeys chased into the woods, and the logs of wood in the

fireplaces often burst into fragments by concealed powder. Time passed

on, till he reached the age of sixteen years, when spurning the

restraints of home, the erring boy left his father's house and became a

wanderer, no one knew whither; but it was rumored that reaching a

seaport town he had entered a merchant vessel bound upon a whaling

voyage for three years. During the last year of his stay at home his

conduct had been very rebellious, and his father almost looked upon him

as given over to a reprobate mind. After his departure, his father was

seldom heard to mention his name, but his friends observed that his hair

fast grew white, and upon his brow rested an expression of constant

grief and anxiety. He was a man that seldom spoke of his own troubles to

any one; but it was plain to be seen that his erring boy was never

absent from his thoughts, and there was a feeling and pathos in his

voice when he addressed his congregation, especially the younger portion

of it, which had never been noticed before. It was his custom upon the

first Sabbath evening in each month to deliver an address to the youth

of his flock, and it was noticed that his appeals had never been so

earnest before, as after the departure of his son; but he seldom, if

ever, mentioned his name, not even to his grief-stricken wife. Our

pastor was not what could properly be styled an old man, but it was

thought that his grief, like a canker-worm, sapped at the fountains of

life; his bodily health became impaired, his vigor of mind departed,

and, ere he had seen sixty years, death removed him from earth, to a

home of happiness in Heaven. The widow was now bereft of both husband

and child. She was comforted concerning her departed husband, knowing

that it was well with him; but she sorrowed continually for her absent

boy; and often, during the lonely hours of night, as the moaning of the

winds fell upon her ear, she would start from her sleepless pillow and

utter a prayer for her poor boy who might even then be tossing on the

restless ocean, or perhaps wrecked upon a dangerous coast. She was a

woman of good education, and much power of thought, and she at length

found a partial relief from her sorrow by writing small works for

publication. But how is it all this time with the wandering 'Prodigal?'

Nine years have passed away since he left his home, when an agent for

the sale of books for a large publishing house was spending a few days

in one of the large cities of the West. During his stay in the place,

his business as agent often led him into public places; and on several

occasions he noticed a young man that attracted his attention. There was

nothing prepossessing in his appearance; on the contrary, he bore the

marks of dissipation in his countenance; his clothing was old and

soiled, and once or twice he saw him when partially intoxicated. The

agent was a middle-aged man, and was a close observer of those with whom

he came in contact, and somehow or other he felt a strange interest in

this young man for which he could not account; and meeting him so

frequently, he determined to speak to him. As a pretext for accosting

him he offered to sell him some books, although he had no hopes of

success. The young man regarded him with visible surprise, when he

enquired if he would not like to purchase a book. 'I have no money to

spend for books,' replied the man, yet as if unable to resist the

impulse, he leaned over the table, on which the agent had placed several

books, and began looking them over; and finally selected one, inquired

the price, and paid for it. They soon after parted, and the agent

thought they should probably meet no more, as he expected soon to leave

the city. He returned to the hotel where he boarded, and after tea

seated himself on the piazza, to enjoy the cool evening air; when the

same young man suddenly approached him, and grasping his hand said, in a

voice choked with emotion: 'Tell me, sir, where, O! where did you get

that book?' This young man was the erring but still loved son of the

Virginian widow, who for these long dreary years had roamed over the

earth, unfriended and unaided, vainly imagining his own arm sufficient

to ward off the ills of life. He had wandered here from the coasts of

the Pacific, where he had been wrecked; his money was nearly gone, and

his health had become impaired by hardship and exposure as well as his

dissipated course of life. As he afterwards said, he had no intention of

reading the book when he purchased it merely out of civility to the

stranger who accosted him so kindly; but after the agent left him he

opened the book, and a cold dew broke out upon his forehead, for on the

title-page he read the name of his _mother_ as the author. Her thoughts

were continually upon her lost son, and in her mind's eye she often

traced his downward career. She imagined him worn and weary, his days

spent in unsatisfying folly, and his moments of reflection embittered by

remorse; unconsciously, in writing this little book she had drawn from

her own feelings and addressed one in this situation. She pointed to him

the falseness of the world, and bade him judge of the fidelity of the

picture by his own experience; and she taught him the way of return to

the paths of peace. And thus it was that the little book which the

wretched young man had selected--some would say so accidentally, others,

so providentially--proved the means of his return from the paths of sin

and folly to those of sobriety and usefulness. He soon told his story to

his attentive listener, and informed him of the relationship he bore to

the author of the book he had purchased. As he concluded, he said, 'Oh,

my mother, why did I leave you to become the hopeless being I am?' 'Not

hopeless,' replied his companion in gentle tones. 'You have youth on

your side, and may yet be a useful and happy man. I now understand the

unaccountable interest which I felt in you when meeting you on several

occasions before I spoke to you, and I feel that Providence directed me

in the matter.' The agent stayed two days longer in the city, and then

departed, the young man with him, for with the promptitude of his

nature, to resolve was to act. He directed his course toward Virginia,

the star of hope leading him on, and finally approached his native

village. No words are adequate to describe the meeting between the

lonely widow and her long lost, but now returning and penitent son. When

informed that his father had been for some years dead, the shock to him

was great, overpowering, but he uttered no repining word. 'I could not,'

said he, 'expect the happiness of meeting both my parents again after

causing them so much sorrow, and let me be humbly thankful that it is

allowed me to cheer the declining years of my aged mother.' I well

remember," said Mrs. Knights, "the return of the young man to his home,

it was but a short time before I left Virginia; but I have been informed

by friends still residing there that he was for several years the staff

and support of his mother, of whom it might be said, 'her last days were

her best days.' After the death of his mother, as he had no living tie

to bind him to the spot, he removed to another section of country, where

he married and is now a useful and respected member of society. And now

boys," said Mrs. Knights, "allow me in conclusion to say to you all as

one, as you value your own well-being in time and eternity, be sure that

you honor and obey your parents; think of what the end of this young man

might have been, and shun his example. But I see that the hour for tea

is near at hand; and for a time I will leave you to amuse yourselves,

while I assist in preparing your tea; and if you have been interested in

my story, I may tell you another when you next pass a rainy afternoon at

our house." We all thanked the kind lady for the interesting story, and

I fear one very much hoped that the next day we chanced to pass at Mrs.

Knights' farm would prove to be rainy in the afternoon.

THE STUDENT'S DREAM.

Arthur Wilton had been for several years a student; but he was one of

the plodding sort, who make but slow progress. The principal barrier to

his improvement arose from one defect in his character; and that was the

habit in which he constantly indulged, of deploring the past, without

making any very strong efforts toward amendment in the future. He was

one evening seated in his room; a ponderous volume lay open on his

study-table, and for a time he vainly tried to fix his attention

thereon, till finally he closed the book, and leaning back in his chair,

his brows contracted, and the lines about his mouth grew tense, as if

his thoughts were anything but pleasing. As usual he was bemoaning his

misspent hours.

"Ah," said he, speaking in soliloquy, "they are gone, never more to

return, the careless happy days of childhood, the sunny period of youth,

and the aspiring dreams of mature manhood. I once indulged in many

ambitious dreams of fame, and those dreams have never been realized.

Many with whom I set out on equal ground have outstripped me in the race

of life, and here am I alone. Many who were once my inferiors have

nearly overtaken me, and doubtless they too will soon pass me by. What I

very much prize is a true friend, and yet no friend approaches with a

word of sympathy or encouragement; would that some would counsel me, as

to how I may better my condition." Thus far had Arthur Wilton proceeded

in his soliloquy, when his eyelids were weighed down by drowsiness, and

he soon sank into a deep slumber. In his dream an aged man, with a most

mild and venerable countenance stood before him, who, addressing him by

name, said: "Thy heart is full of sorrow; but if you will listen to, and

profit by my words, your sorrow shall be turned into joy. You have been

grieving over the hours which have been run to waste, without pausing to

reflect, that while you have been occupied with these unavailing

regrets, another hour has glided away past your recall forever; and will

be added to your already lengthened list of opportunities misimproved.

You grieve that your name is not placed on the lists of fame. Cease from

thy fruitless longings. Discharge faithfully your present duties, and if

you merit fame it will certainly be awarded you. You also complain that

no friend is near you. Have you ever truly sought a friend, by the

unwearied exercise of those affections, and in the performance of those

numberless offices of kindness by which alone friendship is secured and

perpetuated?

'All like the _purchase_, _few_ the _price_ will pay;

And this makes friends such miracles below.'

Hast thou hoped for the society of the wise and good? Then with

diligence and untiring zeal you should seek to fit yourself for such

companionship. Have your early companions got before you in the race of

life; and yet you remain at ease, dreaming over the past? Awake, young

man, ere yet your day is done, and address yourself to your work with

renewed energy; look forward to the future instead of brooding over the

past, and be assured you will acquire wisdom, friends and every other

needful blessing." With these words the aged man disappeared, and the

student awoke. His fire had gone out and his lamp burned but dimly. He

rose, replenished his fire, trimmed his lamp, and resumed his studies

with ardor. This dream was not lost upon Arthur Wilton. Instead of now

wasting his time in regrets for the past, he looked forward with a

steady purpose of improvement, and from that period no harder student

was to be found in the college; and he finally graduated with high

honors. In after years he often related this dream to those of his

acquaintances whom he thought in danger of falling into the same habit

to which he himself had been so prone in his youthful days.

UNCLE EPHRAIM.

For some years, when a child, I used daily to pass the dwelling of

Uncle Ephraim, on my way to and from school. He was not my uncle; indeed

he bore no relationship whatever to me, but Uncle Ephraim was the

familiar appellation by which he was known by all the school-boys in the

vicinity. He was among the oldest residents in the section, and although

a very eccentric person, was much respected by all his neighbors. How

plainly do I yet remember him, after the lapse of so many years! His

tall figure, shoulders that slightly stooped, his florid complexion,

clear blue eyes, and hair bleached by the frosts of time to snowy

whiteness. The farm on which he resided had improved under the hand of

industry, till since my earliest recollection, it was in a state of high

cultivation. His dwelling was an old-fashioned structure, placed a

little back from the main road, and almost hidden from view by thick

trees. In an open space, a little to one side, was the draw-well with

its long pole and sweep; and I have often thought that I have never

since tasted such water as we used to draw from that well, as we used

often to linger for a few moments in Uncle Ephraim's yard on our return

from school during the hot summer afternoons. He must have been fond of

children; for he was a great favorite among the boys; and he often gave

us permission to gather fruit from the trees in the garden, provided we

broke none of his prescribed rules. But the unlucky urchin who

transgressed against a command, forfeited his good opinion from

henceforth, and durst no more be seen upon his premises. I happened to

be among the fortunate number who retained his approbation and good-will

during all our acquaintance.

It was from Uncle Ephraim I received the first money I could call my

own. In those days school-boys were not supplied very liberally with

pocket-money, and when on one occasion I rendered him some slight

service, for which he bestowed on me a piece of money, I felt myself

rich indeed, and the possession of as many hundreds now would fail to

afford me the same pleasure as did the few cents which made up the value

of the coin.

Like all others, he had his failings and weak points; but he had

also many very estimable traits of character. Among his failings very

strong prejudices were most noticeable, and if for any reason he became

prejudiced against one, he could never after see any good whatever in

them. He also possessed rather an unforgiving temper when injured by any

one. But on the other hand he was a friend to the poor; and seldom sent

the beggar empty-handed from his door. He also gave largely to the

support of the gospel, as well as to benevolent institutions. One very

noticeable and oftentimes laughable peculiarity was his proneness to

charge every thing that went wrong to the state of the weather. I think

it was more from a habit of speech than from any wish to be

unreasonable. I remember one day passing a field when he was trying to

catch a horse that to all appearance had no idea of being captured. He

tried various methods of coaxing him into the halter, and several times

nearly succeeded, but just when he thought himself sure of him, the

animal would gallop off in another direction. Out of all patience, he at

length exclaimed, "What does possess that critter to act so to-day?"

then glancing at the sky, which at the time happened to be overcast by

dull murky clouds, he said: "It must be the weather." I chanced one day

to be present when Uncle Ephraim was busily occupied in making some

arithmetical calculations regarding his farm-products. The result not

proving satisfactory he handed his slate to a friend for inspection, and

it was soon discovered that he had made a very considerable error in his

calculation. When the error was pointed out to him, he looked up with a

perplexed countenance, saying; "It is the weather: nothing else would

have caused me to make such a blunder." His son happened to marry

against his wishes; so much so, that he had the ceremony performed

without his father's knowledge; who afterwards, making a virtue of

necessity, wisely made the best of the matter. On learning that his son

was actually married without his knowledge, the only remark he made was

this: "What could have induced Ben to cut up such a caper as to go and

get married without my leave; it must have been the weather, nothing

else," and as if he had settled the question to his own satisfaction he

was never heard to allude to the matter again. Years passed away, till

one day the tidings reached us that Uncle Ephraim was dangerously ill.

He grew rapidly worse, and it was soon evident that his days on earth

would soon be numbered. I have a very distinct recollection of stealing

quietly in, to look upon him as he lay on his dying bed; of the tears I

shed when I gazed upon his fearfully changed features. He was even then

past speaking or recognizing one from another; and before another sun

rose he had passed from among the living. I obtained permission to go in

once more and look upon him as he lay shrouded for the grave. I was then

a child of ten years, but even at that early age I had not that morbid

terror of looking upon death, so common among children. With my own

hands, I folded back the napkin which covered his face, and gazed upon

his aged, but now serene, countenance. There was nothing in his

appearance to inspire terror, and for a moment I placed my hand on his

cold brow. He had ever been very kind to me, and I regarded him with

much affection, and the tears coursed freely down my cheeks when I

looked my last upon his familiar countenance now lifeless and sealed in

death. I have forgotten his exact age, but I know it exceeded seventy

years. It so happened that I did not attend his funeral; but he was

followed to the grave by a large number of friends and neighbours, many

of whom still live to cherish his memory.

STORY OF A LOG CABIN.[A]

[A] I lately came across this sketch in an old Magazine, bearing the

date of 1842, and, thinking others might be as much interested by it as

I was myself, I transcribe it in an abridged form to the pages of this

volume.

It was a dreary day in autumn. Like the fate which attends us all, the

foliage had assumed the paleness of death; and the winds, cold and damp,

were sighing among the branches of the trees; and causing every other

feeling rather than that of comfort. Four others and myself had been out

hunting during the day, and we returned at nightfall tired and hungry to

our camp. The shades of night were fast gathering around us; but, being

protected by our camp, with a blazing fire in front, we soon succeeded

in cooking some of the game we had shot during the day; and as we ate,

the old hunters, who were my companions grew garrulous, and in turn

related their numerous adventures. "You have lived in Dayton for some

time," said an old hunter, addressing one of his companions. "Have you

ever seen during your rambles the remains of a log cabin about two miles

down the Miami Canal?" "I recollect it well, but there is a mystery

attached to those ruins which no one living can solve. The oldest

settlers found that cabin there; and it _then_ appeared in such a

dilapidated state as to justify the belief that it had been built many

years previous." "Do you know any thing about it?" I eagerly asked. "I

know all about it," replied the old hunter; "for I assisted in building

it, and occupied it for several years, during the trapping season. That

cabin," he continued, as a shade passed over his features, "has been the

scene of carnage and bloodshed. But why wake up old feelings--let them

sleep, let them sleep;" and the veteran drew his brawny hand over his

eyes. All the curiosity of my nature was roused; and the old men seated

by his side gazed upon him enquiringly, and put themselves in a

listening attitude. The speaker, observing this, sat silent for a few

moments, as if collecting his thoughts, and then related the following

tale:

"There has come a mighty change over the face of this

country since the time when I first emigrated here. The spot where now

stand your prettiest towns and villages was then a howling wilderness.

Instead of the tinkling of the cow-bells and the merry whistle of the

farmer-boy as he calls his herd to the fold, might be heard the wild cry

of the panther, the howl of the wolf, and the equally appalling yell of

the aborigines. These were 'times to try men's souls'; and it was then

the heart of oak and the sinews of iron which commanded respect. Let me

describe to you some scenes in which such men were the actors; scenes

which called forth all the energy of man's nature; and in the depths of

this western wilderness, many hundreds of Alexanders and Cæsars, who

have never been heard of. At the time I emigrated to Ohio the deadly

hatred of the red men toward the whites had reached its acme. The rifle,

the tomahawk and the scalping knife were daily at work; and men, women

and children daily fell victims to this sanguinary spirit. In this state

I found things when I reached the small village opposite the mouth of

Licking river, and now the great city of Cincinnati. Here in this great

temple of nature man has taken up his abode, and all that he could wish

responds to his touch; the fields and meadows yield their produce, and,

unmolested by the red man whom he has usurped, he enjoys the bounties of

a beneficent Creator. And where is the red man? Where is he! Like wax

before the flame he has melted away from before the white man, leaving

him no legacy save that courageous daring which will live in song long

after their last remnant shall have passed away. At the time when I

first stepped upon these grounds the red man still grasped the sceptre

which has since been wrenched from his hand. They saw the throne of

their father beginning to totter. Their realm had attracted the cupidity

of a race of strangers, and with maddening despair, they grasped their

falling power, and daily grew more desperate as they became more

endangered. I among the rest had now a view of this exuberant west, this

great valley of the Hesperides; and I determined to assist in

extirpating the red man, and to usurp the land of his fathers. Among the

men who were at the village, I found one who for magnanimity and

undaunted courage merits a wreath which should hang high in the temple

of fame, and yet, like hundreds of others, he has passed away unhonored,

unsung. His name was Ralph Watts, a sturdy Virginian, with a heart

surpassing all which has been said of Virginia's sons, in those

qualities which ennoble the man; and possessing a courage indomitable,

and a frame calculated in every way to fulfil whatever his daring spirit

suggested. Such was Ralph Watts. I had only been in the town a few days,

when Ralph and I contracted an intimacy which ended only with his death.

I was passing the small inn of the town, when a tall man, with a hunting

shirt and leggings on, stepped out and, laying his hand on my shoulder,

said: 'Stranger, they say you have just come among us, and that you are

poor; come along. I have got just five dollars, no man shall ever say

that Ralph Watts passed a moneyless man without sharing with him the

contents of his pocket--come along.' Ralph and I soon became inseparable

friends. His joys as well as his sorrows were mine; in a word, we shared

each other's sympathies; and this leads me to the scene of the log

cabin. We often hunted together, and while on our last expedition, took

an oath of friendship which should end only with death--and how soon was

it to end! We left the infant Cincinnati one summer morning at the

rising of the sun, and with our guns on our shoulders, and our pouches

well supplied with ammunition, we struck into the deep wilderness,

trusting to our own stout hearts and woodscraft for our food and safety.

We journeyed merrily along, whiling away the hours in recounting to each

other those trivial incidents of our lives which might be interesting,

or in singing snatches of song, and listening to its solemn echo as it

reverberated among the tall trees of the forest. Towards evening we

reached our first camping ground--a spot near where the town of Sharon

now stands. Here we pitched our tent, built our fire, cooked our

suppers, and prepared to pass away the evening as comfortably as two

hunters possibly could. All at once the deep stillness which reigned

around us was broken by a low cry similar to that of a panther. We both

ceased speaking and listened attentively, when the cry was repeated

still nearer, as if the arrival was rapidly advancing upon us; and thus

the cry was repeated, again and again, till its shrillness seemed not

more than a hundred yards distant, when the voice changed to that of a

yell, whose tones were so familiar to the ear of my companion as to

exert quite a visible effect upon his actions. We both sprang to our

feet and, seizing our guns, stood ready to fire at a moment's warning.

"Halloo!" cried a deep voice, just outside our camp, but instead of

answering it we nerved ourselves for a desperate encounter, feeling

assured that several Indians were lurking outside our tent. "Halloo,

white brudder, come out," cried the same voice in broken English. We

consulted for a moment and finally decided to trust, for once, to Indian

faith. Ralph first stepped forth and demanded in no very amiable voice,

what was wanting. "Come out white brudder," was the answer. After

assuring ourselves that there was but one person near we walked forward

and found a large Indian sitting by the fire, both hands spread before

the flame to protect his eyes from the light, that his keen gaze might

rest unmolested upon us. As soon as he saw us a writhing grin spread

over his painted features, and rising he offered us each his hand in a

very friendly manner. The Indian drew from his belt a large pipe,

gaudily painted, and from which depended a profusion of wampum, beads,

and eagles' feathers. He lighted the pipe, and after taking a whiff,

passed it to Ralph, who, following his example, passed it to me. After

taking a puff I handed it to the Indian, who replaced it in his belt.

This very important ceremony being finished, the Indian made known his

business. After bestowing a thousand anathemas upon his red brethren, he

informed us that he had left the red man forever, and was willing to

join his white brothers, and to wage an exterminating warfare against

his own kindred. We strove to extort from him the cause of this

ebullition of passion, but he only shook his head in reply to our

questions, and uttered a guttural "ough." We at first suspected him of

some treacherous plot; but there was such an air of candor and

earnestness in the communication he now made, that we threw aside all

suspicion and confided in him. He stated that there was a large party of

Indians in our rear, who had been tracking us for several hours; and

that it was their intention early in the morning to surround us, and

take us prisoners for victims at the stake; "but," said he, "if my white

brudder will follow his red brudder he will lead him safe." We instantly

signified our willingness to trust ourselves to his guidance, and,

shouldering our blankets and guns, we left our camp, and followed our

guide due north at a rapid gait. For several miles we strode through the

thick woods, every moment scratching our faces and tearing our clothing,

with the thick tangled brush through which we had to pass, but

considering this of minor importance we hurried on in silence, save when

we intruded too near the nest of the nocturnal king of the forest, when

a wild hoot made us start and involuntarily grasp our rifles. "Sit on

this log and eat," said our red guide. Finding our appetites sharpened

by vigorous exercise, we sat on the log and commenced our repast, when

our guide suddenly sprang from his seat, and with a hideous yell bolted

into the forest and was soon lost to our sight. This conduct instantly

roused our fear; and with one accord we sprang to our feet. We gazed

around. Turn which way we would, the grim visage of a painted warrior

met our terrified gaze, with his tomahawk in one hand, and his rifle in

the other. "Perfidious villain," exclaimed Ralph, "and this is an

Indian's faith." An Indian of gigantic size, dressed in all the gaudy

trappings of a chief, now strode towards us. Ralph raised his gun, and

closed his eye as the sight of the weapon sought the warrior's breast.

"Don't shoot, and you will be treated friendly," cried the savage in

good English. "So long as I live," said Ralph, "I'll never put faith

again in an Indian's word." The gun went off, and the savage, with an

unearthly cry, bounded high in the air, and fell upon his face a corpse.

A scream, as if ten thousand furies had been suddenly turned loose upon

the earth, rang around us; and ere we could start ten steps on our

flight, we were seized by our savage foes, and, like the light barque

when borne on the surface of the angry waves, were we borne, equally

endangered, upon the shoulders of these maddened men. We were thrown

upon the earth, our hands and feet were bound till the cords were almost

hidden in the flesh; and then, with the fury of madmen, they commenced

beating us with clubs, when another chief, who appeared to be of higher

standing than the one who had just lost his life, rushed into the crowd,

hurling the excited warriors to the right and left in his progress, and

mounting upon a log he harangued them for a few moments with a loud

voice. They at once desisted, perhaps reconciled by the prospect of soon

seeing us burnt at the stake. We were carried to their encampment, where

we were still left bound, with two sentinels stationed to guard us. In

this painful state we remained all day; when towards evening another

company of warriors arrived, and then vigorous preparations were made

for burning us. A stake was planted in the ground, and painted a variety

of fantastic colors; the brush was piled around it at a proper distance;

and every other necessary arrangement made; while we sat looking on,

subject to the continual epithets of an old squaw, whose most consoling

remarks were: "How will white man like to eat fire," and then she would

break into a screeching laugh, which sounded perfectly hideous. A cold

chill pervaded my frame as I gazed upon these ominous signs of death;

but how often is our misery but the prelude of joy. At the moment that

these horrid preparations were finished, a bright flash of lightning

shattered a tall hickory, near by; and then the earth was deluged with

rain. The Indians sought the shelter, but left us beneath the fury of

the storm, where we remained for several hours; but seeing that it

increased rather than diminished, they forced us into a small log hut

and leaving a man to guard us, bolted the door firmly and left us for

the night. What were our reflections when left alone? Your imagination

must supply an answer. But we did not entirely gave way to despondency.

We were young and robust, and our spirits were not easily subdued.

Instead of becoming disheartened our approaching fate emboldened us, and

by looks, whose expression made known our minds to each other, we

resolved to effect our escape or be slain in striving for it. Anything

was preferable to the fiery torture which awaited us. Our guard proved

just the man we wanted, for, having during the evening indulged rather

freely in drinking whiskey, he soon sank into a profound slumber. Long

and anxiously had we watched the man, and now our wishes were

consummated. I contrived with much exertion to draw my knife from my

pocket, and commenced sawing at the tough thong which confined my wrist.

My heart beat high with joy, and already we felt that we were free, when

the guard sneezed, opened his eyes, rolled them round the room, and

discovered that he had been asleep. I slipped the knife into my pocket

without his notice, and he discovered nothing to rouse his suspicions,

although he regarded us closely for a long time. He finally sat down,

lit his pipe and commenced smoking. After puffing away for half an hour,

which seemed to drag by with the tediousness of a week, he laid his

tomahawk (which contains the pipe) by his side, and after nodding for

some time he again stretched himself upon the rough floor, and soon his

deep snoring fell upon our ears. O! what music was that sound to us. I

again drew the knife from my pocket, and with desperation freed my

hands, and in one minute more Ralph stood like myself a free man. With

the stealthy tread of a cat we reached the door, softly slid back the

bolt, and once more we stood in the open air. The rain had ceased, the

clouds had swept by, and the full moon pale and high in the heavens

threw her light upon the tree tops, bathing them in liquid silver.

Silently but rapidly we bounded through the forest, our fears of pursuit

urging us onward; and by daylight were within twelve miles of the log

cabin whose history I am telling. At that time there dwelt in that

cabin, with his family, a trapper by the name of Daniel Roe. When we

reached there we found Roe at home, to whom we recounted our adventure.

He only laughed at our fears that the Indians might track us thus far,

and we finally listened to his laughing remarks and concluded to rest in

his cabin for several days. We heaped folly upon folly; for instead of

putting the house in a state of defence, and preserving as much silence

as possible we commenced trying our skill by shooting at a mark. We

continued this exercise through the afternoon, partook of a hearty

supper, chatted till bed-time, and then retired. Ralph soon fell sound

asleep, but I could not; I felt a presentiment of approaching danger;

still there was no visible signs of it, yet I could not shake off a

peculiar nervousness which agitated me. I lay still for some time

listening to the deep and regular breathing of Ralph, and ever and anon

as an owl screamed I would start, despite the familiarity of the cry.

Just as I turned in my bed, and was trying to compose myself for sleep,

I heard a cry very similar to the hoot of an owl; still there was

something about the sound which did not sound right. My heart commenced

beating rapidly and a sweat started from my brow. I rose softly and

looked through the chinks of the logs, but there was nothing to be seen.

I listened attentively for at least an hour; but heard no sound to

confirm my fears; and finally ashamed of my own nervousness, I could not

call it _cowardice_, I slipped into bed, determined to sleep if

possible. But soon I heard that same sound on the still air. I rose,

dressed myself, but still I could see no form like that of an Indian.

Just as I was on the point of abandoning my fears as idle and childish,

I cast my eyes through an aperture between the logs; and saw the dusky

forms of several Indians moving about the yard. I sprang to the bedside,

and awoke Ralph, and in a few moments more, Roe, Ralph, and myself,

stood with ready guns, waiting for a chance to shoot. A shot passing

through one of the savages, told the rest they were discovered; and now

a regular firing began. The Indians simultaneously uttered a fiendish

shout, such as no person can imagine who has not heard the Indian

war-scream; and then brandishing their tomahawks rushed upon the house

and began hewing at the door. In a moment we were all down stairs, and

our fire became so fatal that they were forced to retire several times;

but with desperate courage they returned to the attack. I never

experienced the feeling of utter despair but once in my life; and that

was then. Roe came running down stairs (whither he had gone for more

ammunition) and with a face white from terror, informed us that the

ammunition was expended. Here we were, surrounded by a host of savages,

fastened in a small house, with nothing to defend ourselves, and the

helpless women and children under the roof. 'Let us open the door, and

decide the contest hand to hand,' said Ralph Watts. 'O! my family, my

wife and children,' groaned Daniel Roe, 'let us defend the house to the

last.' And with nerves strung like iron, and hearts swelled to

desperation, we waited in silence for the savages to hew their way

through the door. The work was soon over, the savages uttered one

deafening yell as the door gave way; and clubbing our guns we wielded

them with giant energy. The dark forms of the savages crowded the

door-way, their eyes glared madly at us, and their painted features

working into a hundred malignant and fiendish expressions, which,

together with their horrid yells, and the more heart-rending cries of

women and children, all formed a scene of the most harrowing

description. The battle was soon over. By some mishap I was hurled head

foremost out the door; but so intent were the savages upon the battle

within, that they did not once notice me, as they rushed forward to the

scene of action. Seeing that all was lost, and that to remain would only

be throwing away my life uselessly, I sprang to my feet and slipping

around the corner of the house I made my way over the old

fortification[B] and soon left the noise far behind me. Much has been

written and said of grief, but how little do we know of its poignant

nature, till we suffer the loss of some dear friend. 'Tis when we behold

an object of deep affection lying passive and dead--but a thing of clay

unconscious of the pain it gives, that we feel _that_ sorrow, which

language is too feeble to express. I found it so, when upon returning to

the cabin a few hours afterward, I found the dead bodies of all my

friends mutilated and weltering in their blood. Around the body of poor

Ralph lay six Indians, with their skulls beat in; his gun furnishing

evidence, by its mutilated state, of the force with which he had used

it. My story is soon finished. As the tears streamed from my eyes, I dug

a grave where I deposited the remains of my friends, and after placing a

large stone above their resting place, I departed, wishing never to

return to the spot again, and I never have."

[B] Near the spot where the cabin stands are the remains of immense

works, but by whom and when built will forever remain hidden.

HAZEL-BROOK FARM.

Robert Ainslie, with his family, emigrated from Scotland about the

year of 1843, and settled upon a new farm in the backwoods, in the

township of R. in Eastern Canada. I can say but little regarding his

early life, but have been informed that he was the eldest of quite a

large family of sons and daughters; and also that he was a dutiful son

as well as a kind and affectionate brother. It seems that he married

quite early in life, and at that period he tended a small farm adjoining

the one occupied by his father. The utmost harmony existed between the

two families, and they lived in the daily interchange of those little

offices of love and kindness which render friends so dear to each other.

Several years glided by in this happy manner, but reverses at length

came; and Robert formed the plan of emigrating to America. But when he

saw how much his parents were grieved by the thought of his seeking a

home on the other side of the Atlantic, he forbore to talk farther of

the matter, and decided to remain at home for another year at least.

That year, however, proved a very unfortunate one; his crops were

scanty; and toward the spring he met with some severe losses, by a

distemper which broke out among his farm stock. As the season advanced,

he became so disheartened by his gloomy prospects, that he decided to

carry out his former plan of emigrating to Canada; where he hoped by

persevering industry to secure a comfortable home for himself and those

dear to him. He had little difficulty in persuading his wife to

accompany him, as her parents with her two brothers and one sister had

emigrated some two years previous. It was more difficult, however, for

him to persuade his father and mother that his decision was a wise one.

"If ye maun leave us," said his mother, "can ye no seek anither hame

nearer han', an' no gang awa across the water to yon' wild place they

ca' Canada?" "We maun try to be reasonable, woman," said his father,

"but I canna deny that the thought o' our first born son gaun sae far

awa gie's me a sair heart." It was equally hard for the son to bid

farewell to the land of his birth, and of a thousand endearing ties; but

prudence whispered that now was his time to go, while he had youth and

health, to meet the hardships that often fall to the lot of the

emigrant. When his parents saw how much his mind was set upon it they

ceased to oppose his wishes, and with his wife and children, he soon

joined the large numbers who, at that period, were leaving the British,

for the Canadian shores.

As may be readily supposed, the parting between the two families was a

very sad one; but the last adieus were finally exchanged, and the poor

emigrants were borne away on the billows of the Atlantic. During the

first few days of their voyage they all, with the exception of their

youngest child, suffered much from sea-sickness. This child was a little

girl about three years old; and it seemed singular to them, that she

should escape the sickness from which nearly all the passengers

suffered, more or less. They soon recovered; the weather was fine, and

many of their fellow passengers were very agreeable companions, and they

began really to enjoy the voyage. But this happy state of things was but

of short duration. Their little girl, wee Susie, as they called her, was

seized with illness. They felt but little anxiety at the first, thinking

it but a slight indisposition from which she would soon recover; but

when day after day passed away with no visible change for the better

they became alarmed, and summoned the physician, who pronounced her

disease a slow kind of fever, which he said often attacked those who

escaped the sea-sickness. He told the anxious parents not to be alarmed,

as he hoped soon to succeed in checking the disease. But with all the

physician's skill, aided by the unceasing attention of her fond parents,

the sad truth that wee Susie was to die soon became evident. When the

sorrowing parents became sensible that their child must die, they prayed

earnestly that her life might be prolonged till they should reach the

land. But for some wise reason their prayer was not granted; and when

their voyage was but little more than half accomplished she died, and

they were forced to consign her loved form to a watery grave. The lovely

prattling child had been a general favourite with all on board, and her

sudden death cast a gloom over the minds of all. Words would fail me to

describe the grief of the parents and the two affectionate little

brothers when they realized that "wee Susie" was indeed gone, and that

they could never enjoy even the melancholy satisfaction of beholding her

resting-place. Mr. Ainslie's domestic affections were very strong, and

to him the blow was terrible. He now deeply regretted removing his

family from their Scottish home, entertaining the idea, that had they

not undertaken this journey their child might have been spared; and he

wrote bitter things against himself for the step he had taken. Deep as

was the mother's grief, she was forced to place a restraint upon it that

she might comfort her almost heart-broken husband. Upon one occasion, in

reply to some of his self upbraidings, she said, "I think, Robert,

you're ow're hard on yoursel' now, when ye tak the blame o' puir Susie's

death; ye surely canna think itherwise than the dear bairn's time had

come; an' had we bided at hame it would ha' been a' the same; for we

dinna leeve an' dee by chance, and the bounds o' our lives are set by

Him who kens a' things." These consoling words from his sympathising

wife tended to lighten, in some measure, the burden of sorrow which

oppressed his heart. The weather during the latter part of their voyage

was stormy and uncomfortable, and they were truly glad when they at

length reached the Canadian port. At the city of Montreal they parted

with all those who had been their fellow passengers, as all except

themselves were bound for the Upper Province, while they intended

joining their friends in Lower Canada.

In the days of which I am speaking the emigrant's journey from the

city of Montreal to the townships was toilsome in the extreme; and the

same journey, which is now accomplished in a few hours by railway, was

then the work of several days; and the only mode of conveyance for

themselves and their luggage, were the horse-carts hired for the

occasion. But their fatiguing journey was at length terminated; and they

arrived safely at the bush settlement in R., where the friends of Mrs.

Ainslie resided. That now thriving and prosperous settlement was then in

its infancy, and possessed but few external attractions to the new

comer; for at the period when Mrs. Ainslie's parents settled there it

was an unbroken wilderness. It is needless for me to add that the

wayworn travellers met with a joyous welcome from the friends who had

been long anxiously looking for their arrival. Mr. and Mrs. Miller were

overjoyed to meet again their daughter from whom they had been so long

separated by the deep roll of the ocean; and almost their first enquiry

was for the "wee lassie," who when they left Scotland was less than a

twelve month old. Mr. Ainslie was unable to reply, and looked toward his

wife as if beseeching her to answer to their enquiry. She understood the

mute appeal, and composing herself by a strong effort said: "My dear

father an' mither, a great grief has o'erta'en us sin' we left hame',

an' our hearts are well-nigh broken; we buried wee Susie in the caul

waters o' the ocean." She endeavoured to relate to them the particulars

of the child's death; but her feelings overcame her, and for some

moments they could only weep together. When Mr. Miller was able to

command his voice he said, "God is good, my children, an' overrules a'

things for our good, let us bow before Him in prayer;" and when they

rose from their knees, they felt calmed and comforted, by the soothing

influence of prayer. With the two boys, Geordie and Willie, fatigue soon

got the better of their joy at meeting with their friends, and they were

soon enjoying the sound sleep of healthful childhood; but with the elder

members of the family, so much was there to hear and to tell that the

hour was very late when they separated to seek repose. Mr. Ainslie

decided upon purchasing a lot of land, lying some two miles north of

the farm occupied by Mr. Miller. Although it was covered with a dense

forest, its location pleased him, and the soil was excellent, and he

looked forward to the time when he might there provide a pleasant home.

They arrived at R. on the first of July. There were beside Mr. Miller

but three other families in the settlement; but they were all very kind

to the newly arrived strangers, and they assisted Mr. Ainslie in various

ways while he effected a small clearing upon his newly purchased farm.

They also lent him a willing hand in the erection of a small log house,

to which he removed his family in the fall, Mrs. Ainslie and the

children having remained with her parents during the summer; and kind as

their friends had been, they were truly glad when they found themselves

again settled in a home of their own, however humble. They were people

of devoted piety, and they did not neglect to erect the family altar the

first night they rested beneath the lowly roof of their forest home. I

could not, were I desirous of so doing, give a detailed account of the

trials and hardships they endured during the first few years of their

residence in the bush; but they doubtless experienced their share of the

privations and discouragements which fell to the lot of the first

settlers of a new section of country. The first winter they passed in

their new home was one of unusual severity for even the rigorous climate

of Eastern Canada, and poor Mrs. Ainslie often during that winter

regretted the willingness with which she bade adieu to her early home,

to take up her abode in the dreary wilderness. They found the winter

season very trying indeed, living as they did two miles from any

neighbour; and the only road to the dwelling of a neighbour was a

foot-track through the blazed trees, and the road, such as it was, was

too seldom trodden during the deep snows of winter, to render the

foot-marks discernible for any length of time. Their stores had all to

be purchased at the nearest village, which was distant some seven miles,

and Mr. Ainslie often found it very difficult to make his way through

the deep snows which blocked up the roads, and to endure the biting

frost and piercing winds on his journeys to and from the village. In

after years when they had learned to feel a deep interest in the growth

of the settlement, they often looked back with a smile to the

"home-sickness" which oppressed their hearts, while struggling with the

first hardships of life in the bush. Mr. Ainslie and his family,

notwithstanding their many privations, enjoyed uninterrupted health

through the winter, and before the arrival of spring they already felt a

growing interest in their new home. Mrs. Ainslie regarded the labours of

the workmen with much attention during the winter, while they felled the

trees which had covered nearly ten acres of their farm. As each tree

fell to the ground it opened a wider space in the forest and afforded a

broader view of the blue sky. A stream of water, which in many places

would have been termed a river, but which there only bore the name of

Hazel-Brook, flowed near their dwelling, and as the spring advanced, the

belt of forest which concealed it from view having been felled, she

gained a view of its sparkling waters when the warm showers and genial

rays of the sun loosened them from their icy fetters; and she often

afterwards remarked that the view of those clear waters was the first

thing which tended to reconcile her to a home in the forest. With the

coming of spring their "life in the woods" began in earnest. When the

earth was relieved of its snowy mantle, the fallen trunks of the trees,

with piles of brush-wood, were scattered in every direction about their

dwelling. But the fallow was burned as soon as it was considered

sufficiently dry, the blackened logs were piled in heaps, and the ground

was prepared for its first crop of grain. The green blades soon sprang

up and covered the ground, where a short time before was only to be seen

the unsightly fallow or the remains of the partially consumed logs.

It was a long time before Mr. and Mrs. Ainslie became reconciled to

the change in their circumstances, when they exchanged the comforts and

conveniences of their home beyond the sea, for the log cabin in the

wilderness. Cut off as they were from the privileges of society to which

they had been accustomed from childhood, they felt keenly the want of a

place of worship, with each returning Sabbath, and next to this, the

want of a school for their two boys; for taken as a people the Scotch

are intelligent; and we rarely meet with a Scotchman, even among the

poorer classes, who has not obtained a tolerable education. And the

careful parents felt much anxiety when they beheld their children

debarred from the advantages of education; but to remedy the want as

much as lay in their power, they devoted the greater part of what little

leisure time they could command to the instruction of their boys. They

had been regular attendants at their own parish church in the old

country; and very sensibly they felt the want, as Sabbath after Sabbath

passed away, with no service to mark it from other days. "It just

seems," said Mr. Ainslie, "that sin' we cam' to America we ha'e nae

Sabbath ava." In order to meet the want in some measure, he proposed to

the few neighbours which there formed the settlement, that they should

assemble at one house, on each Sabbath afternoon, and listen to the

reading of a sermon by some one present. "I think it our duty," said he,

"to show our respect to the Sabbath-day by assembling ourselves

together, and uniting in worship to the best o' our ability. I ha'e

among my books a collection o' sermons by different divines, an' I am

verra willin' to tak' my turn in the readin' o' ane, an' I'm sure you

should a' be agreeable to do the same." His proposal met with the hearty

approval of all his neighbours, and for some years each Sabbath

afternoon saw most of the neighbours collected together for the best

mode of worship within their reach. The bush settlements at this period

were much infected by bears, and they often proved very destructive to

the crops of the early settler, and also a cause of no little fear. I

believe the instances have been rare when a bear has been known to

attack a person, although it has happened in some cases; but the

immigrant has so often listened to exaggerated accounts regarding the

wild animals of America, that those who settle in a new section of

country find it difficult to get rid of their fears. On one occasion

when the Sabbath meeting met at Mr. Ainslie's house, Mrs. Ainslie urged

her mother to remain and partake of some refreshment before setting out

on her walk homeward. "Na, na," replied the old lady. "I maun e'en gang

while I ha'e company, I dinna expec' to leeve muckle longer at ony rate,

but wouldna' like to be eaten by the bears;" and for several years the

one who ventured alone to the house of a neighbour after dark was looked

upon as possessing more courage than prudence. But although the settlers

often came across these animals, on the bush-road, I never heard of one

being attacked by them. An old man, upon one occasion, returning in the

evening from the house of friends, and carrying in his hand a torchlight

composed of bark from the cedar tree, met a large bear in the thick

woods. Being asked if he was not frightened, he replied, "Deed I think

the bear was 'maist frightened o' the twa', for he just stood up on his

twa hind legs, and glowered at me for a wee while till I waved the torch

light toward him, when he gi' an awfu' snort, and ran into the woods as

fast's ever he was able, an' I cam awa' hame no a bit the war, an' I

think I'll never be sae' muckle feared about bears again." But these

early settlers certainly found these animals very troublesome from their

frequent depredations upon their fields of grain, and they often spent a

large portion of the night watching for them, prepared to give them

battle, but it was not often they saw one on these occasions, for these

animals are very cunning, and seem at once to know when they are

watched. It sometimes also happened that during the early period of this

settlement people lost their way in the bush while going from one house

to another. A woman once set out to go to the house of a neighbour who

lived about a mile distant. Supposing herself on the right path she

walked onward, till thinking the way rather long she stopped and gazed

earnestly around her, and became terrified as she noticed that the trees

and rocks, and every other surrounding object had a strange unfamiliar

look; and she knew at once that she had taken a wrong path.

Becoming much alarmed, she endeavoured to retrace her steps, but

after walking a long time would often return to the spot from which she

set out. She left home about ten o'clock in the forenoon, and her

friends, alarmed at her long stay, called together some of their

neighbours and set out to look for her, knowing that she must have lost

her way in the forest. They continued their search through the

afternoon, sounding horns, hallooing, and calling her name, as they

hurried through the tangled underbrush, and other obstructions, and at

sunset they returned to procure torches with which to continue their

search through the night; her friends were almost beside themselves with

terror, and all the stories they had heard or read of people being

devoured by wild animals rushed across their minds. But just when they

had collected nearly every settler in the vicinity, and were preparing

their torches to continue the search, the woman arrived safely at home,

with no further injury than being thoroughly frightened and very much

fatigued. She stated that she had walked constantly, from the time when

she became aware she was lost, and that she was so much bewildered that

she at the first did not know their own clearing, till some familiar

object attracted her attention. As the neighbours were going to their

homes, after the woman's return, they were, naturally enough, talking of

the matter, regarding it as a cause of deep thankfulness that no harm

had befallen her. Mr. G., one of the number, although a very

kind-hearted man, had an odd dry manner of speaking which often provoked

a laugh. It so happened that the woman who was lost was very small, her

stature being much below the medium height. Laughter was far enough from

the mind of any one, till old Mr. G., who had not before made a remark,

suddenly said, "sic a wee body as you should never attemp' to gang awa'

her lane through the bush without a bell hanged aboot her neck to let

people ken where to find her in case she should gang off the richt

road." This was too much for the gravity of any one; and the stillness

of the summer night was broken by a burst of hearty laughter from the

whole company; and the old man made the matter little better, when the

laugh had subsided by saying in a very grave manner, "Well, after a' I

think is would be a verra wise-like precaution wi' sic a wee bit body as

her." Time passed on; other settlers located themselves in the vicinity,

and the settlement soon began to wear a prosperous appearance. As soon

as circumstances allowed, a school-house was erected, which, if rude in

structure, answered the purpose very well. For some time the school was

only kept open during the summer and autumn, as the long distance and

deep snows forbade the attendance of young children during the winter

season. They had as yet no public worship, except the Sabbath meetings

before mentioned, which were now held in the schoolhouse for the greater

convenience of the settlers. Mr. Ainslie was a man of much industry; and

although his home was for some years two miles from any neighbour, it

soon wore a pleasing appearance. The most pleasing feature in the scene

was the beautiful stream of water which ran near his dwelling, and after

which he named his farm. In five years from the time when he first

settled in the bush, he exchanged his rude log house for a comfortable

and convenient framed dwelling, with a well-kept garden in front, and

near his house were left standing some fine shade-trees which added much

to the beauty of the place. In process of time, the excellent quality of

the soil in that range of lots attracted others to locate themselves in

the vicinity; and Hazel-Brook farm soon formed the centre of a fast

growing neighbourhood. Two sons and another daughter had been added to

Mr. Ainslie's family during this time; and the birth of the little girl

was an occasion of much joy to all the family. They had never forgotten

"wee Susie," and all the love which they bore to her memory was lavished

upon this second daughter in the family. The elder brothers were anxious

to bestow the name of their lost favourite upon their infant sister, but

the parents objected, having rather a dislike to the practice, so

common, of bestowing upon a child a name that had belonged to the dead;

and so the little girl was named Jennette, after her grandmother, Mrs.

Miller. About this time old Mr. Miller died. He was an old man, "full of

days," having seen nearly eighty years of life. He had ever been a man

of strong constitution and robust health, and his last illness was very

short; and from the first he was confident that he should never recover.

When he first addressed his family upon the subject they were

overwhelmed with grief. "Dinna greet for me," said he in a calm and

hopeful voice, "I ha'e already leeved ayont the period allotted to the

life o' man. I ha'e striven in my ain imperfect way to do my duty in

this life, an' I am thankfu' that I am able to say that I dinna fear

death; and I feel that when I dee I shall gang hame to the house o' a

mercifu' Father." So peaceful was his departure, that, although

surrounded by his mourning friends, they were unable to tell the exact

moment of his death. Like a wearied child that sleeps, he quietly passed

away. They had no burial ground in the settlement, and he was laid to

rest several miles from his home. His family, with the exception of one

son, had all married and removed to homes of their own some time

previous to his death; and to this son was assigned the happy task of

watching over the declining years of his widowed mother. Mr. Miller, as

a dying injunction, charged this son never to neglect his mother in her

old age, and most sacredly did he observe the dying wishes of his

father. Mrs. Miller was also of advanced age. For three years longer she

lingered, and was then laid to rest beside her departed husband.

Twenty years have passed away since we introduced Robert Ainsley

with his family to the reader. Let us pay a parting visit to Hazel-Brook

farm, and note the changes which these twenty years have effected. The

forest has melted away before the hand of steady industry, and we pass

by cultivated fields on our way to the farm of Mr. Ainslie. The

clearings have extended till very few trees obstruct our view as we gaze

over the farms of the numerous settlers, which are now separated by

fences instead of forest trees. But the loveliest spot of all is

Hazel-Brook farm. The farm-house of Robert Ainslie, enlarged and

remodelled according to his increased means, is painted a pure white,

and very pleasant it looks to the eye, through the branches of the

shade-trees which nearly surround it. The clear waters of Hazel-Brook

are as bright and sparkling as ever. The banks near the dwelling are

still fringed with trees and various kinds of shrubs; but farther up the

stream all obstructions have been cleared away, and the sound of a

saw-mill falls upon the ear. Let us enter the dwelling. Mr. and Mrs.

Ainslie, although now no longer young, evince by their cheerful

countenance that they yet retain both mental and bodily vigour. As yet

their children all remain at home, as the boys find ample employment

upon the farm, and at the mill; While Jennette assists her mother in the

labours of the household. For many years the setting sun has rested upon

the gleaming spire of the neat and substantial church erected by the

settlers; and now upon the Sabbath day, instead of listening to a sermon

read by a neighbour, they listen to the regular preaching of the gospel,

and each one according to his means contributes to the support of their

minister. It was Mr. Ainslie who first incited the settlers to exert

themselves in the erection of a suitable place for worship. Some of his

neighbours at the first were not inclined to favour the idea, thinking

the neighbourhood too poor for the undertaking. But he did not suffer

himself to become discouraged, and after considerable delay the frame of

the building was erected. When the building was once begun, they all

seemed to work with a will, and to the utmost of their ability. Those

who were unable to give money brought contributions of lumber, boards,

shingles, &c., besides giving their own labour freely to the work; and

in a short time the work had so far advanced that they were able to

occupy the building as a place of worship, although in an unfinished

state. But the contributions were continued year after year, till at

length they were privileged to worship in a church which they could call

their own. Mr. Ainslie was a man of talents and education, superior to

most of the early settlers in that section, and it was his counsel,

administered in a spirit of friendship and brotherly kindness, which

worked many improvements and effected many changes for the better as the

years rolled by. As we turn away with a parting glance at the pleasing

scene, we cannot help mentally saying,--surely the residents in this

vicinity owe much to Robert Ainslie for the interest he has ever taken

in the prosperity and improvements of the place, and long may both he

and they live to enjoy the fruit of their united labours.

OLD RUFUS.

The memory of Old Rufus is so closely connected with the days of

my childhood that I cannot refrain from indulging in a few recollections

of him. The name of Old Rufus was not applied to him from any want of

respect; but it was owing to his advanced age, and long residence in our

vicinity, that he received this appellation. His name was Rufus Dudley.

I remember him as an old man when I was a very young child; and his

residence in the neighbourhood dated back to a period many years

previous to the time of which I speak. He was born in the state of New

York, where he resided during the early portion of his life, and where

he married. His wife died before his removal to Canada. When he first

came to the Province he located himself in a town a few miles from the

village of C., where he married a second time. When first he removed to

R. he was for some years employed in a saw-mill and earned a comfortable

support for his family. My knowledge of his early residence in R. is

indefinite, as he had lived there for many years previous to my

recollection, and all I know concerning the matter is what I have heard

spoken of at different times by my parents and other old residents of

the place. It would seem, however, that his second marriage was, for

him, very unfortunate, for to use his own words, "he never afterward had

any peace of his life." I have been informed that his wife was possessed

of a pleasing person and manners, but added to this she also possessed a

most dreadful temper; which when roused sometimes rendered her insane

for the time being; and finally some trouble arose between them which

ended in a separation for life. They had two grown-up daughters at the

time of their separation who accompanied their mother to a town at a

considerable distance from their former home. In a short time the

daughters married and removed to homes of their own. Their mother

removed to one of the Eastern States. She survived her husband for

several years, but she is now also dead. Soon after he became separated

from his family Old Rufus gave up the saw-mill and removed to a small

log house, upon a piece of land to which he possessed some kind of

claim, and from that time till his death, lived entirely alone. He

managed to cultivate a small portion of the land, which supplied him

with provisions, and he at times followed the trade of a cooper, to eke

out his slender means. His family troubles had broken his spirit, and

destroyed his ambition, and for years he lived a lonely dispirited man.

He was possessed of sound common sense and had also received a tolerable

education, to which was added a large stock of what might be properly

termed general information; and I have often since wondered how he could

have reconciled himself to the seemingly aimless and useless life which

he led for so many years. But in our intercourse with men, we often meet

with characters who are a sore puzzle to us; and Old Rufus was one of

those. When quite young I have often laughed at a circumstance I have

heard related regarding the violent temper of his wife; but indeed it

was no laughing matter. It seems that in some instances she gave vent to

her anger by something more weighty than words. Old Rufus one day

entered the house of a neighbor with marks of blows on his face, and was

asked the cause. He never spoke of his wife's faults if he could avoid

it; but on this occasion he sat for a moment as though considering what

reply to make, and finally said: "O! there is not much the matter with

my face any way, only Polly and I had a little brush this morning." I

know not how serious the matter was, but Old Rufus certainly came off

second in the encounter. This aged man is so deeply connected with the

early scenes of my home life that I yet cherish a tender regard for his

memory; although the flowers of many summers have scattered their

blossoms, and the snows of many winters have descended upon his grave.

He was upon familiar terms with almost every family in the

neighbourhood, and every one made him welcome to a place at their table,

or a night's lodging as the case might be; and I well remember the

attention with which I used to listen to his conversation during the

long winter evenings, when, as was often the case, he passed a night in

our dwelling. I recollect one time when the sight of Old Rufus was very

welcome to me. When about nine years of age, I accompanied my brothers

to the Sugar bush one afternoon in Spring; and during a long continued

run of the sap from the maple trees it was often necessary to keep the

sugar kettles boiling through the night to prevent waste. On the

afternoon in question, my brothers intended remaining over night in the

bush, and I obtained permission to stay with them, thinking it would be

something funny to sleep in a shanty in the woods. The sugar-bush was

about two miles from our dwelling, and I was much elated by the prospect

of being allowed to assist in the labors of sugar-making. My brothers

laughingly remarked that I would probably have enough of the woods, and

be willing to return home when night came, but I thought otherwise.

During the afternoon I assisted in tending the huge fires, and the

singing of the birds, and the chippering of the squirrels as they hopped

in the branches of the tall trees, delighted me, and the hours passed

swiftly by, till the sun went down behind the trees and the shades of

evening began to gather about us. As the darkness increased, I began to

think the sugar-bush not the most desirable place in the world, in which

to pass the night, and all the stories I had ever heard of bears, wolves

and other wild animals rushed across my mind, and filled me with terror.

I would have given the world, had it been at my disposal, to have been

safely at home; and it was only the dread of being laughed at, which

prevented me from begging my brothers to take me there. And when

darkness had entirely settled over the earth, and the night-owls set up

their discordant screams, my fears reached a climax. I had never before

listened to their hideous noise, and had not the slightest idea of what

it was. I had often heard old hunters speak of a wild animal, called the

catamount, which they allowed had been seen in the Canadian forests

during the early settlement of the country. I had heard this animal

described as being of large size, and possessing such strength and

agility, as enabled them to spring from the boughs of one tree to those

of another without touching the ground, and at such times their savage

cries were such as to fill the heart of the boldest hunter with terror.

I shall never forget the laugh which my grown-up brothers enjoyed at my

expense when trembling with terror, I enquired if they thought a

catamount was not approaching among the tree-tops. "Do not be alarmed,"

said they, "for the noises which frighten you so much proceeds from

nothing more formidable than owls." Their answer, however, did not

satisfy me, and I kept a sharp look-out among the branches of the

surrounding trees lest the dreaded monster should descend upon us

unawares. Old Rufus was boiling sap, half a mile from us, and it was a

joyful moment to me, when he suddenly approached us, out of the

darkness, saying, "Well boys don't you want company? I have got my sap

all boiled in, and as I felt kinder lonesome, I thought I would come

across, and sleep by your shanty fire." The old man enquired why I

seemed so much terrified, and my brothers told him that I would persist

in calling a screech-owl, a catamount. Old Rufus did not often laugh,

but he laughed heartily on this occasion, and truly it was no wonder and

when he corroborated what my brothers had already told me, I decided

that what he said must be true. His presence at once gave me a feeling

of protection and security and creeping close to his side on the cedar

boughs which formed our bed, while the immense fire blazed in front of

our tent, I soon forgot my childish fears, in a sound sleep which

remained unbroken till the morning sun was shining brightly above the

trees. But it was long before I heard the last of the night I spent in

the bush; and as often as my brothers wished to tease me, they would

enquire if I had lately heard the cries of a catamount? Time passed on

till I grew up, and leaving the paternal home went forth to make my own

way in the world. Old Rufus still resided in R. When a child I used to

fancy that he would never seem older than he had appeared since my

earliest recollection of him; but about the time I left home there was a

very observable change in his appearance. I noticed that his walk was

slow and feeble, and his form was bending beneath the weight of years

and his hair was becoming white by the frosts of time. I occasionally

visited my parents, and during these visits I frequently met with my old

friend; and it was evident that he was fast losing his hold of life. He

still resided alone much against the wishes of his neighbours, but his

old habits still clung to him. I removed to a longer distance and

visited my early home less frequently. Returning to R., after a longer

absence than usual, I learned that the health of Old Rufus had so much

failed, that the neighbours, deeming it unsafe for him to remain longer

alone, at length persuaded him to remove to the house of a neighbour,

where each one contributed toward his support. His mind had become weak

as well as his body; indeed he had become almost a child again, and it

was but a short time that he required the kind attentions which all his

old neighbours bestowed upon him. I remained at home for several weeks,

and ere I left, I followed the remains of Old Rufus to the grave. I have

stood by many a grave of both kindred and stranger; never before or

since have I seen one laid in the grave without the presence of some

relative; but no one stood by his grave who bore to him the least

relationship. It was on a mild Sabbath afternoon in midsummer that we

laid him to rest in the burial ground of R.; and if none of his kindred

stood by to shed the tear of natural affection, there was many a cheek

wet with the tear of sensibility when the coffin was lowered to its

silent abode. I am unable to state his exact age, but I am certain that

it considerably exceeded eighty years; and from what I can recollect of

his life, I have a strong hope, that death opened to him a blessed

immortality beyond the grave.

THE DIAMOND RING.

"And has it indeed come to this," said Mrs. Harris, addressing her

daughter Ellen, "must I part with my mother's last gift to obtain

bread?" Mrs. Harris, as she spoke, held in her hand a costly diamond

ring, and the tears gathered in her eyes, as the rays of light falling

upon the brilliants caused them to glow like liquid fire. This costly

ornament would have struck the beholder as strangely out of place in the

possession of this poor widow, in that scantily furnished room; but a

few words regarding the past history of Mrs. Harris and her daughter

will explain their present circumstances. Mrs. Harris was born and

educated in England, and when quite young was employed as governess in a

gentleman's family. Circumstances at length caused the family with whom

she resided to cross the Atlantic and take up their abode in the ancient

city of Quebec. The young governess had no remaining ties to bind her to

England. Her parents had been dead for many years; she had no sisters,

and her only brother, soon after the death of their parents, went to

seek his fortune in the gold regions of California. Some years had

passed since she heard any tidings from him, and she feared he was no

longer among the living, and when the family with whom she had so long

resided left England for America, they persuaded her to accompany them.

In process of time she was married to a wealthy merchant, and removed to

Western Canada. Their union was a very happy one, and for some years,

they lived in the enjoyment of worldly prosperity and happiness. But it

often happens that sad and unlooked-for reverses succeed a season of

long continued prosperity; and it was so in this case. I am not aware

that Mr. Harris's failure in business was brought about through any

imprudence on his part; but was owing to severe and unexpected losses.

He had entered into various speculations, which bid fair to prove

profitable, but which proved a complete failure, and one stroke of ill

fortune followed another in rapid succession, till the day of utter ruin

came. He gave up every thing; even his house and furniture was

sacrificed to meet the clamorous demands of his hard-hearted creditors;

and his family was thus suddenly reduced from a state of ease and

affluence to absolute poverty. Mr. Harris possessed a very proud spirit,

and his nature was sensitive, and he could not endure the humiliation of

remaining where they had formerly been so happy. He knew the world

sufficiently well to be aware that they would now meet with coldness and

neglect even from those who had formerly been proud of their notice, and

shrank from the trial, and with the small amount he had been able to

secure out of the general wreck, he removed to the city of Toronto, some

three hundred miles from their former home. They had but little money

remaining when they reached the city, and Mr. Harris felt the necessity

of at once seeking some employment, for a stranger destitute of money in

a large city is in no enviable position. For some time he was

unsuccessful in every application he made for employment, and he was

glad at length to accept the situation of copyist in a Lawyer's Office,

till something better might offer. His salary barely sufficed for their

support, yet they were thankful even for that. His constitution had

never been robust, and the anxiety of mind under which he labored told

severely upon his health. He exerted himself to the utmost, but his

health failed rapidly; he was soon obliged to give up work, and in a

little more than a year from the time of their removal to Toronto, he

died, leaving his wife and daughter friendless and destitute. Their

situation was extremely sad, when thus left alone; they had made no

acquaintances during the year they had resided in the city, and had no

friend to whom they could apply for aid. After paying her husband's

funeral expenses, Mrs. Harris found herself well-nigh destitute of

money, and she felt the urgent necessity of exerting herself to obtain

employment by which they at least might earn a subsistence. The widow

and her daughter found much difficulty at first in obtaining employment.

Some to whom they applied had no work; others did not give out work to

strangers; and for several days Mrs. Harris returned weary and

desponding to her home, after spending a large portion of the day in the

disagreeable task of seeking employment from strangers; but after a time

she succeeded in obtaining employment, and as their work proved

satisfactory they had soon an ample supply; but just when their

prospects were beginning to brighten Mrs. Harris was visited by a severe

illness. They had been able to lay by a small sum previous to her

illness, and it was well they had done so, for during her sickness she

required almost the constant attention of her daughter, which deprived

them of any means of support; but after several weeks of severe illness

she began slowly to recover, and this brings us to the time where our

story opens. The ring which Mrs. Harris held in her hand had been for

many, many years an heir-loom in the English family to which she

belonged. To her it was the dying gift of her mother, and the thoughts

of parting with it cost her a bitter pang. But she had no friends to

whom she might apply for aid; and to a refined and sensitive nature,

almost anything else is preferable to seeking charity from strangers.

The ring was the only article of value which she retained, and sore as

was the trial, she saw no other way of meeting their present wants, than

by disposing of this her only relic of former affluence and happiness;

and she trusted, that by the time the money which the sale of the ring

would bring should be expended, they would be again able to resume their

employment. With a heavy heart Ellen Harris set out to dispose of this

cherished memento. She remembered an extensive jewelry shop, which she

had often passed, as she carried home parcels of work, and thither she

made her way. The shop-keeper was an elderly man with daughters of his

own, and he had so often noticed this pale sad-looking young girl as she

passed his window, that he recognized her countenance the moment she

entered the shop; and when in a low timid voice she enquired if he would

purchase the ring, he was satisfied that he was correct in his former

conjecture, that she belonged to a family of former wealth and

respectability. But young as she was there was a certain reserve and

dignity in her manner, which forbade any questions on his part. The man

had for many years carried on a lucrative business in his line and he

was now wealthy; and knowing that he could afford to wait till the ring

should find a purchaser he had no fears of losing money on so valuable

an article; and, as is not often the case in such transactions, he paid

her a fair price for the ring, although less than its real value. Ellen

returned, much elated by her success; the money she had received for the

ring seemed to them in their present circumstances a small fortune.

"Little did once I think," said the widow, as she carefully counted the

bank-notes, "that a few paltry pounds would ever seem of so much value

to me; but perhaps it is well that we should sometimes experience the

want of money, that we may learn how to make a proper use of it; and be

more helpful to those less favored than ourselves." The money they

obtained more than sufficed for their support, till Mrs. Harris so far

recovered, as to allow them again to resume their employment. They now

had no difficulty in obtaining work, and although obliged to toil early

and late, they became cheerful and contented; although they could not

but feel the change in their circumstances, and often contrast the happy

past, with their present lot of labor and toil.

The shopkeeper burnished up the setting of the diamonds and

placed the ring among many others in the show-case upon his counter. But

so expensive an ornament as this does not always find a ready purchaser,

and for some months it remained unsold. One afternoon a gentleman

entered the shop to make some trifling purchase, and, as the shopkeeper

happened to be engaged with a customer, he remained standing at the

counter, till he should be at leisure, and his eye wandered carelessly

over the articles in the show-case. Suddenly he started, changed

countenance, and when the shopkeeper came forward to attend to him he

said in voice of suppressed eagerness, "will you allow me to examine

that ring," pointing as he spoke to the diamond ring sold by Ellen

Harris. "Certainly, Sir, certainly," said the obliging shop-keeper, who,

hoping that the ring had at last found a purchaser, immediately placed

it in his hand for inspection. The gentleman turned the ring in his

hand, and carefully examined the sparkling diamonds as well as the

antique setting; and when he observed the initials, engraved upon the

inside, he grew pale as marble, and hurriedly addressed the astonished

shopkeeper saying, "In the name of pity, tell me where you obtained this

ring?" "I am very willing to inform you," said the man "how this ring

came into my possession. Several months ago a young girl, of very

delicate and lady-like appearance, brought this ring here and desired me

to purchase it. She seemed very anxious to dispose of the ornament, and,

thinking I could easily sell it again, I paid her a fair price and took

the ring, and that is all I can tell you about the matter." "You do not

know the lady's name?" said the gentleman anxiously. "I do not," replied

the man, "but I have frequently seen her pass in the street. The

circumstance of her selling me this valuable ring caused me to notice

her particularly, and I recognized her countenance ever after." "Name

your price for the ring," said the gentleman,--"I must purchase it at

any price; and the next thing, I must, if possible, find the young lady

who brought it here, I have seen this ring before, and that is all I

wish to say of the matter at present; but is there no way in which you

can assist me in obtaining an interview with this young lady?" "I have

no knowledge of her name or residence; but if you were in my shop when

she chanced to pass here I could easily point her out to you in the

street." "You may think my conduct somewhat strange," said the

gentleman, "but believe me my reasons for seeking an interview with this

young lady are most important and if you can point her out to me in the

street I will endeavour to learn her residence, as that will be

something gained." Before the gentleman left the shop he paid for the

ring, and placed it in his pocket. For several days, he frequented the

shop of the jeweller with the hope of gaining a view of the lady. At

length one morning the shop-keeper suddenly directed his attention to a

lady passing in the street, saying, "there, Sir, is the young lady from

whom I purchased the ring." He waited to hear no more, but, stepping

hastily into the street, followed the lady at a respectful distance; but

never losing sight of her for a moment till she entered her home two

streets distant from the shop of the jeweller. He approached the door

and rang the bell. The door was opened by the same young lady, whose

manner exhibited not a little embarrassment, when she beheld a total

stranger; and he began to feel himself in an awkward position. He was at

a loss how to address her till, recollecting that he must explain his

visit in some way, he said: "Pardon the intrusion of a stranger; but, by

your permission, I would like to enter the house, and have a word of

conversation with you." The young girl regarded the man earnestly for a

moment; but his manner was so gentlemanly and deferential that she could

do no less than invite him to enter the little sitting-room where her

mother was at work, and ask him to be seated. He bowed to Mrs. Harris on

entering the room, then seating himself he addressed the young lady,

saying: "The peculiar circumstances in which I am placed must serve as

my apology for asking you a question which you may consider

impertinent. Are you the young lady who, some months since, sold a

diamond ring to a jeweller on Grafton street?" Mrs. Harris raised her

eyes to the stranger's face, and the proud English blood which flowed in

her veins mantled her cheek as she replied, "before I permit my daughter

to answer the questions of a stranger, you will be so kind as to explain

your right to question." The stranger sprang from his seat at the sound

of her voice, and exclaimed, in a voice tremulous from emotion, "don't

you know me Eliza, I am your long lost brother George." The reader will,

doubtless, be better able to imagine the scene which followed, than I am

to describe it. Everything was soon explained, many letters had been

sent which never reached their destination; he knew not that his sister

had left England, and after writing again and again, and receiving no

reply, he ceased altogether from writing. During the first years of his

sojourn in California, he was unfortunate, and was several times brought

to the brink of the grave by sickness. After a time fortune smiled upon

his efforts, till he at length grew immensely rich, and finally left the

burning skies of California to return to England. He landed at New York

and intended, after visiting the Canadas, to sail for England. The

brother and sister had parted in their early youth, and it is no wonder

that they failed to recognize each other when each had passed middle

age. The brother was most changed of the two. His complexion had grown

very dark, and he had such a foreign look that, when convinced of the

fact, Mrs. Harris could hardly believe him to be one and the same with

the stripling brother from whom she parted in England so many years ago.

He was, of course, not aware of his sister's marriage, and he listened

with sorrow to the story of her bereavement and other misfortunes. "You

must now place a double value upon our family ring," said he, as he

replaced the lost treasure upon his sister's hand; "for it is this

diamond ring which has restored to each other the brother and sister who

otherwise might never have met again on earth. And now, both you and

your daughter must prepare for a voyage to dear old England. You need

have no anxiety for the future; I have enough for us all and you shall

want no more." Before leaving the City, accompanied by her brother, Mrs.

Harris visited the grave of her husband; and the generous brother

attended to the erection of a suitable tombstone, as the widow had

before been unable to meet the expenses of it. Passing through the Upper

Province they reached Montreal, whence they sailed for England. After a

prosperous voyage they found themselves amid the familiar scenes of

their childhood, where they still live in the enjoyment of as much

happiness as usually falls to the lot of mortals.

THE UNFORTUNATE MAN.

On a sultry afternoon in midsummer I was walking on a lonely

unfrequented road in the Township of S. My mind was busily occupied, and

I paid little attention to surrounding objects till a hollow, unnatural

voice addressed me, saying: "Look up my friend, and behold the

unfortunate man." I raised my eyes suddenly, and, verily, the appearance

of the being before me justified his self-bestowed appellation--the

unfortunate man. I will do my best to describe him, although I am

satisfied that my description will fall far short of the reality. He was

uncommonly tall, and one thing which added much to the oddity of his

appearance was the inequality of length in his legs, one being shorter

by several inches than the other, and, to make up for the deficiency, he

wore on the short leg a boot with a very high heel. He seemed to be past

middle age, his complexion was sallow and unhealthy, he was squint-eyed,

and his hair, which had once been of a reddish hue, was then a grizzly

gray. Taken all together he was a strange looking object, and I soon

perceived that his mind wandered. At first I felt inclined to hurry

onward as quickly as possible, but, as he seemed harmless and inclined

to talk to me, I lingered for a few moments to listen to him. "I do not

wonder," said he, "that you look upon me with pity, for it is a sad

thing for one to be crazy." Surprised to find him so sensible of his own

situation I said: "As you seem so well aware that you are crazy, perhaps

you can inform me what caused you to become so." "Oh yes," replied he,

"I can soon tell you that: first my father died, then my mother, and

soon after my only sister hung herself to the limb of a tree with a

skein of worsted yarn; and last, and worst of all, my wife, Dorcas Jane,

drowned herself in Otter Creek." Wondering if there was any truth in

this horrible story, or if it was only the creation of his own diseased

mind, I said, merely to see what he would say next, "What caused your

wife to drown herself; was she crazy too?" "Oh no," replied he, "she was

not crazy, but she was worse than that; for she was jealous of me,

although I am sure she had no cause." The idea of any one being jealous

of the being before me was so ridiculous that it was with the utmost

difficulty that I refrained from laughter; but, fearing to offend the

crazy man, I maintained my gravity by a strong effort. When he had

finished the story of his misfortunes, he came close to me and said, in

slow measured tones: "And now do you think it any wonder that I went

raving distracted crazy?" "Indeed I do not," said I; "many a one has

gone crazy for less cause." Thinking he might be hungry, I told him I

would direct him to a farm-house, where he would be sure to obtain his

supper. "No," replied he, "this is not one of my hungry days; I find so

many who will give me nothing to eat that when I get the offer of a meal

I always eat whether I am hungry or not, and I have been in luck to-day,

for I have eaten five meals since morning; and now I must lose no more

time, for I have important business with the Governor of Canada and must

reach Quebec to-morrow." I regarded the poor crazy being with a feeling

of pity, as he walked wearily onward, and even the high-heeled boot did

not conceal a painful limp in his gait. But I had not seen the last of

him yet. Some six months after, as I was visiting a friend who lived

several miles distant, who should walk in, about eight o'clock in the

evening, but the "unfortunate man." There had been a slight shower of

rain, but not enough to account for the drenched state of his clothing.

"How did you get so wet?" enquired Mr. ----. "O," replied he, "I was

crossing a brook upon a log, and I slipped off into the water; and it

rained on me at the same time, and between the two, I got a pretty smart

ducking." They brought him some dry clothing, and dried his wet garments

by the kitchen fire, and kindly allowed him to remain for the night. For

several years, this man passed through S. as often as two or three times

during each year. He became so well known in the vicinity, that any one

freely gave him a meal or a night's lodging as often as he sought it.

Every time he came along his mind was occupied by some new fancy, which

seemed to him to be of the utmost importance, and to require prompt

attention. He arrived in S. one bitter cold night in the depth of

winter, and remained for the night with a family who had ever treated

him kindly, and with whom he had often lodged before. He set out early

the next morning to proceed (as he said) on his way to Nova Scotia.

Years have passed away; but the "unfortunate man" has never since been

seen in the vicinity. It was feared by some that he had perished in the

snow; as there were some very severe storms soon after he left S.; but

nothing was ever learned to confirm the suspicion. According to his own

statement he belonged to the state of Vermont, but, from his speech, he

was evidently not an American. Several years have passed away since his

last visit to S., and it is more than probable that he is no longer

among the living.

THE OLD SCHOOLHOUSE.

I lately visited the time-worn building, where for a lengthened period,

during my early years, I studied the rudiments of education; and what a

host of almost forgotten memories of the past came thronging back upon

my mind as I stood alone--in that well remembered room. I seemed again

to hear the hum of youthful voices as they conned or recited their daily

tasks, and, as memory recalled the years that had passed since we used

there to assemble, I could not avoid saying mentally: "My schoolmates,

where are they?" Even that thought called to mind an amusing story

related by a much loved companion who for a time formed one of our

number.