A few people think "Effie Afton" can tell stories tolerably well. But

she can't, reader! We speak candidly, for we know "a heap" more about

her than you do. There may be those in the wide world who hug themselves

in the belief that she can tell _little_ fibs and _large_ fibs pretty

flippantly. Well, let them continue thus to believe, if they choose! We

shall not pause to say ay, yes, or nay; and we also entertain a private

opinion, now publicly expressed, that there are people within the

limited circle of our acquaintance who can not only give utterance to

_little_ and _large_ fibs, but make their whole lives and actions play

the lie to their thoughts and feelings. But as to "Effie's" telling long

magazine tales,--pshaw! she is the most unsystematic creature in the

world. She just humps down in a big rocking-chair, with one sort of

_foolscap_ in her _hand_, and another sort on her _head_, with an old

music-book to lay the sheets on, a lead-pencil for a pen, and thus

equipped, writes chapter one, and dashes _in medias res_ at once,

without an idea as to how, where, or when the story thus commenced is to

find its terminus or end. This is the way she does, reader; for we have

seen her time and again. Well, she scratches on "like mad" till her old

lead-pencil is "used up." Then she sharpens the point, and rushes on

wilder than before. She don't eat much, and if any one calls her to

dinner, never heeds them; but when she conceives herself arrived at a

suitable stopping-place, drops her paper, runs to the pantry, snatches a

piece of gingerbread, and back to her scribbling again, munching it as

she writes.

This is precisely the way she brings her "stories" into existence; but,

lest we write her out of favor too rapidly, we'll leave the subject, and

back to our tale again, recommencing with a new chapter, which is--

CHAPTER IX.

"And there are haunts in that far land--

O, who shall dream or tell

Of all the shaded loveliness

She hides in grot and dell!"

O, often, often, far from this, have we watched the great red sun

sinking behind the vast stretching prairie, while all the broad west

seemed like a surging flood of gold beyond an ocean of green; and often

have we beheld day's glorious orb looming above the soft blue waters of

the placid bay, while the joyous birds soared up the sparkling dome of

heaven, their little throats almost bursting with thrilling melody, and

the balmy south wind came laden with the perfume of ten thousand

ordorous flowers!

O, sweet land upon the tropic's glowing verge, what star-bright memories

we have of thee! How deeply treasured in our heart of hearts are all thy

joys and pleasures,--ay, and griefs and sorrows too! But as the spot

where this long-crushed and drooping spirit heard those first, low,

preluding strains, foretokenings that its long-enfeebled energies were

wakening from their death-like slumber to breathe response to the

thousand tones in sea and air that called so loudly on them to arouse

once more to life and action, it will ever be most truly dear. And when

again life's fetters clog with the ice and snow of those frigid lands,

we'll long to fly again to those climes of song and sunny ray, and

forget earth's cankering cares in the contemplation of Nature's

luxuriant charms. But we grow abstract.

Come with us, reader, if you will, over the prairies of Texas, gorgeous

with their many-colored flowers, dotted with the dark-green live-oaks,

and watered by pellucid rivers. To that log-house, standing under the

boughs of a wide-spreading pecan tree, let us wend our way.

There is a gray-headed man sitting in a deer-skin-bottomed chair, on the

rude gallery, and gazing with weary eye on the lovely scenery around

him. Two young ladies are standing near, their countenances wearing

sullen expressions of discontent and sorrow.

"So this is Texas, father," remarked the elder of the two, at length. "I

wonder how you ever expect to earn a living here, for my part."

"By tilling the soil, my child, and growing cotton and sugar; fine

country for that. Land rich as mud and cheap as dirt. Why, I have

purchased five hundred acres for a mere trifle. Zounds! I feel like

amassing a new fortune here in a few years," said the old man, suddenly

rousing from his stupor.

"Well, I'm perfectly disgusted," said the younger lady, "and wish I had

run off to Australia with brother Jack and Celestina's faithless

husband."

"I wish I was in that convent upon the Mississippi, where poor sister

Celestina is now," sighed the elder.

"Pshaw, girls! you'll both marry wild Texan rangers before two years,"

said the old gentleman, who was no less a personage than Esq. Camford,

formerly the wealthiest merchant in New Orleans, but now a poor Texan

emigrant in his log-cabin on the Cibolo. Well, he was a better man now

than when rolling in the luxury of ill-gotten wealth, for adversity

never fails to teach useful lessons; and it had taught this

world-hardened, conscience-seared man, that "honesty is the best

policy."

A tremulous voice from within attracted the attention of the group on

the gallery. "Mercy, mercy, Thisbe, take that viper away, and let me out

of this bed! it is full of frightful serpents."

"Why, no 'taint neither, Missus," said poor Thisbe, struggling to lift

her mistress from the pillows; "there beant a snake nowheres about, only

a little striped 'izard, and I driv' him away."

The husband now entered.

"O, Adolphus!" exclaimed the nerve-stricken wife, "that you should have

brought me to a death like this! to be shot by Indians, devoured by

bears, and bitten by rattlesnakes!"

"Thunder and Mars! nobody's dead yet, and this is a fine, healthy,

growing country," said the squire, in a loud, good-humored voice.

"Alas! what am I to eat?" continued the nervous lady, "I can have no

claws and crackers in these wilds."

"Let Thisbe catch you a young alligator from the river; that will be

something new for a relish."

"O, Adolphus! how can you mock at the horrors that surround us? My

nerves, my nerves! you will never learn to regard them."

"No, probably not," returned the husband; "but let me tell you, Nabby, I

don't believe nerves are of any available use out here in Texas. They'll

do for effect in the fashionable saloons of a city; but what think a

wild Camanche would say if he chanced some broiling-hot morning to catch

you in dishabille, and you begged him to retreat and spare your nerves?

Why, it would be all gibberish to him."

"O, Adolphus! how can you horrify me thus? And these lovely jewels to be

devoured by hyenas and swallowed by crocodiles! O, my nerves! Thisbe, my

nerve-reviver this moment!"

"There ain't a bit on't left, Missus; 'twas all in the trunk dat tumbled

out o' the cart when we swum through dat ar river," said the poor

servant, in a tone of anxious dismay.

"Heaven save me now!" exclaimed the panic-stricken lady. "Adolphus, you

must go to New Orleans to-morrow and bring me some."

"Thunder and Mars! You forget we are eight hundred miles from there, and

what do you suppose would become of you all before I got back? You would

be mounted on pack-mules, carried off to the Indian frontier, and made

squaws of."

"O, father, don't leave us, I entreat of you!" sobbed Susette, on

hearing these words.

"Why did I not die ere I came to this?" groaned Mrs. Camford. "Why did I

not die when my eldest jewel and brilliant son were torn from my

embrace? Alas! for what awful fate am I reserved?"

"Come, Nabby, this would do on the boards of the St. Charles, but toads

and lizards can't appreciate theatricals. Pheny, can't you manage to get

up some sort of a dinner out of the corn-meal and sweet potatoes I

bought of the old Mynheer this morning; and there's a few eggs and a ham

in the larder too. I declare I relish this new life already;--it is a

change, Pheny, isn't it?" asked the father, looking in his fair

daughter's face.

"Yes," answered she, "and if it wasn't for the snakes and lizards, I

wouldn't complain."

"Never mind them," returned the squire, bravely; "they shan't hurt you.

We'll have a nice, cosey home here a year from to-day."

CHAPTER X.

"It was the calm, moonshiny hour,

And earth was hushed and sleeping;

The hour when faithful love is e'er

Its fondest vigils keeping."

Clear as amber fell the moonlight on the forms of Wayland and Winnie

Morris, as arm in arm they roamed the calm, delightful shores of Lake

Pontchartrain.

"Well, sister," said Wayland, "four weeks have passed since I last saw

you, and how have you sped in your capacity of teacher?"

"O, bravely, Wayland! 'Tis so delightful to feel I am of some importance

in the world, and that I'm laying up money to repay my brother, as far

as I am able, for all he has done for me! You should see me in my little

school-room, with my pupils round me. I fancy no queen e'er felt more

pride and satisfaction in beholding her subjects kneeling before her,

than I do with my infant class leaning their tiny arms on my lap and

looking in my face as they repeat from my lips the evening prayer."

"I am pleased to find you so content and happy," said Wayland.

"O, I am indeed so, and indebted to you for all I enjoy!" returned

Winnie.

"And what of Jack Camford, sis?" asked the brother, with a mischievous

smile.

"O, I have not forgotten him yet, naughty Wayland!" answered she; "I

dream of him most every night."

"Well, I would not seek to control your dreams, sis; but I fancy they'll

occur less and less often, and by and by cease altogether."

"You think I never loved Jack," said Winnie.

"I think you had a girlish fancy for him. As to woman's holy, unchanging

love, you have never yet experienced it, my little sister."

"When shall I, then? I'm sixteen, and a preceptress."

"Yes."

"But don't you think Jack loved me, Wayland?"

"I think he had a boy's fancy for you, which may deepen into love with

time, or may be wholly dissipated from his bosom."

"But why did you object to him so strongly? You well-nigh broke my heart

at one time. It was not like you to hate the son for the parent's

crimes."

"No, it was not for the father's errors that I bade you shun the son;

but because I discovered in him a frivolous, faulty character, that had

no strength of purpose, or fixed principles of action; and I dreaded the

influence such a person might exert over your youthful, pliant mind."

"Now, what if he should return some of these years, and lay his life,

love and fortune at my feet?" suggested Winnie, archly.

"Should he return with the elements that make the man stamped on his

face and conduct, I would never object to his addresses to my sister, if

she favored them," said Wayland.

"How the poor Camfords have suffered!" remarked Winnie, after a pause.

"They have, indeed," returned Wayland; "all our wrongs have been

expiated, and I raised not a finger to avenge them. My mother on her

death-bed bade me remember 'Vengeance was the Lord's,' and, thanks to

her name, I have done so."

"Where are the family?" inquired Winnie.

"Emigrated to Texas; and my brother editor, Mr. Lester, has purchased

their former residence, and I am boarding there at present. He has

extended to you a cordial invitation to pass your next vacation at his

mansion."

"O, he is very kind! I shall be delighted to do so. Do you still like

editing as well as formerly, brother?"

"Yes, it is an occupation suited to my tastes; and some of these years,

when I have sufficient capital, I want to go home to old Tennessee, and

erect a pretty rural cottage on the site of our former abode, and there

pass away life in peace and quietude with you, dear sister, if such a

prospect is pleasing to your mind. Or are you more ambitious?"

"No, brother; ambition is for men, not women," said Winnie.

"Yes, for men who love it," responded Wayland; "but my highest ambition

is to be happy; and I look for happiness alone in rural quiet and

seclusion. Do you accede to my project, sis?"

"With all my heart."

"Then see that you keep that heart free, and not, before I carry my plan

into execution, have given it to the charge of some gallant knight, and

left me desolate in my pretty cottage on the verdant shores of

Tennessee."

"Ay, and see that you don't find some fairer flower to bloom in that

cottage home, and rudely toss me from the window," exclaimed Winnie,

with a merry laugh.

"No fear of that," said Wayland; "now I must leave you. Expect me in a

week again."

And with an affectionate salute the brother and sister parted.

CHAPTER XI.

"Ay, there are memories that will not vanish,

Thoughts of the past we have no power to banish;

To show the heart how powerless mere will;

For we may suffer, and yet struggle still;

It is not at our choice that we forget--

That is a power no science teaches yet,

The heart may be a dark and closed-up tomb,

But memory stands a ghost amid the gloom."

Miss Jerusha Sharpwell and Mrs. Fleetfoot had dropped in to take tea

with Mrs. Sykes on a pleasant September evening. The latter lady, as in

duty bound, was highly pleased to see her dear friends, and forthwith

ordered Hannah, her servant-girl, to make a batch of soda rolls, with a

bit of shortening rubbed in, and just step over to Mrs. Frye's, and ask

that good lady "if she would not be so very kind and obliging as to lend

Mrs. Sykes a plateful of her nice, sweet doughnuts, as she had visitors

come in unexpectedly, and was not quite prepared to entertain them as

she could wish." Thus were the guests provided for.

"How happened it you were absent from the last sewing circle, sister

Sykes?" inquired Miss Sharpwell. "We had an unusually interesting

season. Several new names were added to our list, and sister Fleetfoot,

here, entertained us with a most amusing account of Pamela Gaddie's

marriage with Mr. Smith, the missionary to Bengal."

"Indeed! I regret I was denied the pleasure of listening to the recital;

but company detained me from the circle."

"Ah! who was visiting you?" asked Mrs. Fleetfoot.

"The Churchills, from Cincinnati," answered Mrs. Sykes. "You know they

are particular friends of my husband."

"Yes; is their son married yet?"

"No; and he called on Alice Orville every day while he was here."

"La, do tell me!" said Jerusha. "How long was he with you, Mrs. Sykes?"

"A day and a half," returned that lady. "He came up in the morning-train

and returned next evening."

"Well," said Mrs. Fleetfoot, "they do say Alice Orville is engaged to

Fred. Milder."

"Sakes alive!" exclaimed Miss Jerusha. "I never heard a word about it

before! Well, Mrs. Milder was always standing up for Mrs. Orville. I

thought it meant something. Now I remember, Fred. was at the last sewing

circle and walked home with Alice. I thought strange of it then, for it

was hardly a dozen yards to her house, and some of us young ladies had

to walk five times as far all alone. Who told you of the engagement?"

"La, I can't remember now!" said Mrs. Fleetfoot; "but I've heard of it

ever so many times."

"Well, they'll make a pretty couple enough," observed Mrs. Sykes;

"though I rather fancied Alice was engaged to somebody off south, 'cause

she seems sort of downcast sometimes, and keeps so close since she got

home."

"O, la, that's cause she's got wind of the story that was going about

here before she came back! I wonder if there was any truth in it?" said

Mrs. Fleetfoot.

"I don't know; I never put much confidence in flying stories," remarked

Jerusha.

"Neither do I!" said Mrs. Sykes; "or take the trouble to repeat, if I

chance to hear them."

"Nor I!" chimed in Mrs. Fleetfoot. "If there is anything I mortally

abhor, it is a tattler and busybody."

"Our sentiments, exactly!" exclaimed the other two ladies in concert.

Hannah now entered and announced tea, and the trio of scrupulous,

conscientious ladies repaired to the dining-room to luxuriate on short

rolls and Mrs. Frye's neighborly doughnuts.

Mrs. Orville had a pleasant residence on the lake shore, and everything

wore a brighter aspect in the eyes of the mother, since her beloved

daughter had returned to enliven the old home by her sunshiny presence.

But Alice had passed from the gay-hearted child to the thoughtful woman

in the two years she had been away, and there was a mild, pensive light

in her dark eye that spoke of a chastened spirit within. Still, she was

usually cheerful, and always, even in her most melancholy hours, an

agreeable companion. Beautiful in person, highly educated and

accomplished, her conversation, whether tinged with sadness or enlivened

by wit and humor, exercised a strange, fascinating power over her

listeners.

Alice had left New Orleans with the expectation of having her cousin

Josephine spend the ensuing winter with her at the north; but shortly

after her arrival home a letter from her cousin informed her of their

fallen fortunes, and proposed emigration to Texas. As Alice knew not to

what part of that State to direct a reply, all further correspondence

was broken off between the parties. From Wayland Morris she never heard,

and knew naught concerning him, save by occasional articles from his pen

in southern journals, which were noticed with commendation and applause.

She tried hard to forget him; "for it is not right," she said, "to waste

my life and health on one who never thinks of me. But why did he awaken

a hope in my breast that he loved me, if that hope was to be withdrawn

as soon as it became necessary to my happiness?"

"Alice, Alice!" exclaimed Mrs. Orville, as the fair girl stood in the

recess of a vine-covered window, absorbed in thoughts like these, "Mr.

Milder is coming through the gate; will you go out to receive him?"

Alice roused from her reverie, and saying "Yes, mother," very quietly,

hastened through the hall to meet her visitor.

"Good-evening, Mr. Milder!" said she, with a graceful courtesy. "Come

into the parlor. I have been laying the sin of ungallantry upon you for

the last three days."

"It is the last charge I would have expected preferred against me by

you, Miss Orville!" said he, smiling.

"What other would you sooner have expected?" she inquired, looping up

the snowy muslin curtains to admit the parting sunbeams.

"One I would have dreaded far more to hear,--that of being too assiduous

in my attendance," returned he, in a low tone.

Alice answered by changing the conversation, and, after an hour passed

in pleasant chit-chat, Fred. proposed a stroll on the lake shore. Alice

was soon ready, and they sallied forth. The weather was delightful, and

that walk along Erie's sounding shores was fraught with a life-interest

to one, and regretful sorrow to both.

"I am going to Texas, Alice!" said Milder, as they reäpproached the

mansion of Mrs. Orville.

"O, that you might find my cousin Josephine there, who is so good and

beautiful!" remarked Alice.

"Would I might, if it would afford you a moment's pleasure," he

answered, in a dejected tone.

"If you do, pray give her my love, and entreat her to write and inform

me of her welfare," said Alice, earnestly.

"I shall be highly gratified to execute your commission," he answered;

"and now, good-by, Alice! May you be as happy as you deserve!"

"And may you, also, Fred.!" said Alice, with tears in her eyes. One

lingering pressure of the hand, and he was gone.

"Noble heart!" exclaimed Alice; "why could I not love him? Alas! a

tyrant grasp is on my soul, which, while it delights to hold me in its

toils, and tantalize and torment, will not love me, or let me love

another!"

"Alice!" said a voice within.

"Yes, mother, I'm coming," replied the daughter, entering the hall with

a languid step, and proceeding to divest herself of shawl and bonnet.

"You have had a long stroll and look fatigued," remarked the fond

parent, noticing her daughter's flushed cheeks and hurried respiration,

as she flung herself into a large rocking-chair by the open window.

Where is Fred.?"

"Gone home," said Alice.

"Why did he not come in and rest a while?"

"I forgot to invite him, I believe," returned Alice, briefly.

"And did you not ask him to call at any future time?"

"No, mother; he is going to Texas."

"Indeed! How long has he entertained that idea?" asked Mrs. Orville in a

tone of astonishment.

"Not long, I fancy. I told him to find cousin Josephine and entreat her

to write to me," said Alice, fanning her face with a great, flapping

feather fan.

"I hope he may do so; and much do I wish your cousin might be here to

pass the winter, for I fear you will be lonely without some companion of

your own age," said Mrs. Orville, attentively regarding her daughter.

"O, never fear for me, mother!" returned Alice. "I assure you I have

ample resources for enjoyment in my own breast. They only need occasion

to be called forth and put in exercise."

"I hope it may prove thus," responded the tender mother. "Let us now

retire to our pleasant chamber, and I will do myself the pleasure of

listening to your rich voice, while you read a portion of Scripture, and

sing a sacred hymn."

Thus mother and daughter retired; and while the old heart that had

passed beyond the youth-life of love and passion, rested calmly in its

tranquil sleep, the young heart by its side throbbed wildly, trembled,

wept and sighed; tossing restlessly on its pillow, haunted by ill-omened

dreams and ghastly phantom-shapes too hideous for reality. For there is

no rest, or calm, or quiet, for the passion-haunted breast.

CHAPTER XII.

"'Twas one of love's wild freaks, I do suppose,

And who is there can reason upon those?

I'd like to see the one so bold."

The lively winter season was at its height in New Orleans, and all the

vast city astir with life and gayety. In the former wealthy home of the

Camfords, her wrought slippers resting on the polished grate in the

elegant parlor, sat a prim maiden lady, arrayed in steel-colored satin.

An embroidered muslin morning-cap was placed with an air of much

precision over her glossy brown _imported_ locks, and the pointed collar

around her neck was secured by a plain bow of fawn-colored ribbon.

Suddenly the door opened, and a gentleman, of fine personal appearance,

and elegantly attired, entered the apartment, with hat and gloves in

hand.

"Where is Winnie?" was the hasty inquiry.

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

"It is quite time we should go;--the theatre will be filled to

overflowing at Miss Julia's benefit," remarked the gentleman. "I wish

you would go with us, sister."

"Theatres will do for girls and _fops_," said the lady; "_my_ mind

requires something solid and weighty to satisfy it."

"Then I suppose Col. Edmunds suits you exactly," observed the gentleman,

laughing; "he is a real Sir John Falstaff in proportions."

"I'm in no mood for your frivolous jests. If you were in a rational

temper I would like to ask you a question."

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

probably."

"You were becoming quite a decent man before this fly-a-way girl came

among us. Now I wish to know when she is going away?"

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

quickly.

"Well, either she or I will leave pretty soon," returned the lady,

pursing up her lips with a stiff, determined expression; "she is such

a self-willed, obstinate little thing, and turns the house all

topsy-turvy, and makes such a racket and confusion, that I cannot and

_will_ not endure it longer. My mind requires quiet for contemplation."

"Why, she seems to me like a sunbeam; like a canary-bird in the house,

sister; warming, and filling it with music."

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

spitefully.

The gentleman laughed, and, at this juncture, in bounded the subject of

the discourse, arrayed in azure silk, a wreath of white flowers on her

head, and a wrought fan swinging by a ribbon at her delicate wrist.

"Well, I've been waiting for you these ten minutes," said the gentleman,

gazing with admiration on the lovely being before him; "let us go now,

or I fear some impertinent person may intrude upon our reserved seats.

The carriage is at the door."

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

"O, no apology, Miss Morris!" returned he, gayly; "gentlemen always

expect to wait for ladies; it is their privilege."

"Miss Mary," said Winnie, advancing toward the prim lady by the grate,

"I fear I have misplaced some of your toilet articles, for I could not

find one half of mine. The chamber-maid had given them new places, and I

took the liberty to apply to yours, but I'll put them all right in the

morning."

"O, it is very well, of course," returned the lady, sharply; "plain

enough who is mistress here."

Winnie stood irresolute, gazing with astonishment on Miss Mary's angry,

flushed countenance, and at length turned her blue eyes toward the

gentleman, who was attentively regarding her features.

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

The young girl quickly followed his direction. "Is brother Wayland to be

there?" she inquired, as the carriage rolled away.

"I urged his attendance, and he half promised to go," answered the

gentleman; "but, if he fails, cannot you be contented with me alone for

one brief evening?"

"O, yes, many!" returned Winnie. "I only wished he would go and not

confine himself to business so closely."

"I wish he would relax his editorial labors, for his health demands it,

I think," said Mr. Lester. "We must induce him to quit the chair of

office, and take a trip up the river this spring."

"I wish he would leave that dull, tedious printing-office a few weeks,"

exclaimed Winnie. "He has long entertained a project of erecting a

little cottage on the shore of Tennessee, where we used to live, for

himself and me, and I think he has sufficient money now to carry his

plan into effect; don't you, Mr. Lester?"

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

answered the gentleman.

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

He smiled to meet her startled glance, and said, "I will explain my

reasons at some future time, Winnie. We are now at the theatre."

Mr. Lester handed the fair girl from the carriage, and they made their

way through the crowd. Wayland met them on the steps, and accompanied

them home after the play.

As Winnie passed the door of Miss Mary Lester's room to reach her own,

she observed it standing wide open, and wondered to behold it thus, as

Miss Mary was accustomed to bar and bolt it close, for fear of thieves

and housebreakers. But, fatigued and sleepy, she passed on, and soon

forgot her surprise after gaining the privacy of her own apartment.

Early in the morning she was roused from slumber by a furious knocking

on her door. She sprang up and demanded, "Who is there?"

"Me, Miss Winnie, only me--Aunt Eunice; and do you know what is become

o' Missus Mary?" exclaimed an excited voice without; "her door is wide

open this morning, and nobody slept in her bed last night."

Winnie was by this time fairly roused, and, opening her door, the poor

servant-girl flounced into the room, the very picture of terror and

affright.

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

inquired Winnie.

"No, nobody is up but me, and Missus Mary always tells me to come right

to her room first thing with a pitcher o' cool water; so I went this

mornin', you see, and behold missus' door wide open and no missus thar!

O, Miss Winnie, I 'spect satin has sperritted off soul and body, 'deed I

does."

"O, no, Aunt Eunice, I think not!" said Winnie smiling; "but you had

better go to your master and inform him what has occurred."

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

Winnie proceeded to dress, in a strange perplexity of fear and

astonishment, while Aunt Eunice thumped long and loud on her master's

door.

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

"Me, Aunt Eunice," said the woman frantically, "O, massa, massa, missus

gone, and who's to pour the coffee for breakfast?"

"What are you raving about?" said the master, opening his door; "why are

you disturbing me at this early hour?"

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

"What are you talking about?" demanded Lester, not in the least

comprehending her words.

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

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

"Nothin' at all, I tells ye. Missus clean gone. Her door wide open, and

she never slept in her bed last night, massa," said the woman, gasping

for breath, as she ceased speaking.

The unusual sounds aroused Wayland, who slept near, and flinging open

his door he demanded what was the matter.

"O, Master Morris!" said aunt Eunice, turning her discourse upon him,

"missus gone--clean gone."

"Come on, Morris," said Lester. "Eunice says her mistress is spirited

away. Let's dive into the mystery and see what we can bring to light."

Wayland followed Lester up the hall stairs, wondering what this strange

disturbance might import. They traversed the passage to Miss Mary's

apartment, when, sure enough, as Eunice had affirmed, they found the

door wide open, and, to appearance, no person had occupied the room the

previous night. Lester's quick eye instantly marked, what the servant in

her fright had failed to notice, the absence of two large trunks that

used to stand beside the bed, and the _presence_ of a small folded

billet on the dressing-table. He advanced with a hasty step, broke the

seal, and read.

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

light the fires."

The woman hastened away.

"Romance at thirty-seven! elopement extraordinary, Wayland!" he

continued. "Miss Mary Lester has become in due form Mrs. Col. Edmunds,

and 'fled,' as she expresses it--(now where was the use in _flying_, for

who would have objected to the marriage? But then 'twas romantic, of

course)--to the wilds of Texas; there to enjoy the sweets of domestic

felicity with her adored husband; to which fair land she hopes I'll some

day come to visit her, when I have regained possession of my senses, and

learnt the difference 'twixt canary-birds and wild-cats."

Wayland listened with amazement depicted on his features.

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

and discuss the matter."

The gentlemen descended to the parlor, where Aunt Eunice soon presented

herself, and, with rueful countenance, said:

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

know."

"Well, Eunice, suppose you run up stairs, and ask Miss Winnie if she

will not condescend to perform that office this morning, as we find

ourselves so suddenly bereft of a housekeeper?" said Lester, in a

mock-serious tone.

Winnie of course assented, and passed into the breakfast-room, where she

found her brother and Lester already seated at the table.

"Good-morning, Miss Morris," said the latter. "A romance, such as we

read of in old knights' tales, was enacted in our house last night, in

consequence of which a forlorn bachelor has to ask of you the favor to

preside at his desolate board this morning."

"I shall be pleased to serve you," returned Winnie, assuming the head of

the table, and so prettily did she perform the duties of her new office,

that Lester forgot his muffins and sandwiches, in admiration of his

newly-installed housekeeper _pro tem_.

Miss Mary's elopement was a three days' wonder, and then the affair was

as if it had never been; save that the servants could not sufficiently

admire Miss Winnie, or sufficiently rejoice over Miss Mary's departure.

"O," said Aunt Eunice, "don't I wish massa would marry you, Miss Winnie,

and then the house would be like heaven--'deed it would!"

CHAPTER XIII.

"We've many things to say within the bounds

Of this good chapter, which is 'mong the last;

So be of better cheer; for we are well

Nigh done."

We will just step over to Texas this morning, dear reader, for well we

know the mocking-birds are singing sweetly, and the wild geese rise from

the placid bayous, and flap their broad, white wings over the bright

green prairies, on their inland flight, and the gentle breezes stir the

dark, luxuriant foliage of the wide, primeval forests, while all the air

is redolent with the odors of the ocean of flowers that cover the whole

sunny land with bloom and beauty.

It is something more than a year since we parted with Esq. Camford in

his new emigrant home, and now we have another party of friends arriving

in our young "Italy of America," even the romantic Miss Mary Lester, and

her John Falstaff husband; and Fred. Milder, too, has had time to wear

off the edge of his love disappointment on the ridgy hog-wallows of this

fair south-western land. For we don't believe there's another so

effectual antidote in the world for a fit of the blues or love dumps, as

a long day's ride in a Texan stage-coach, with three pair of wild

mustangs for horses, over these same hog-wallows; to say nothing of the

way they despatch jaundice, dyspepsia, and all the host of bilious

diseases. But don't you quite understand what hog-wallows are, reader?

Well, Heaven help you then, when you go out south or west, and pitch

into them for the first time! Invoke your patron saint to keep your soul

and body together, and prevent your limbs from flying off at tangents.

We will tell you how we once heard a Kentuckian (and God bless the

Kentucky boys in general, for they are a whole-souled race!) account for

these anomalous things. We were pitching through a group of them, some

dozen of us in a miserable wagon, when one "new comer" asked his

neighbor, "What is the cause of these confounded _humps_ in the roads?"

"They are hog-wallows," responded the one interrogated, in a pompous

tone, as if proud to display his superior knowledge of the land into

which both the speakers had but recently made their advent.

"Hog-wallows!" exclaimed the man, more in doubt than ever by his

newly-acquired knowledge, "what makes so many of them then?"

"Why, you see when the great rains come on," commenced the "wise 'un,"

"the country gets all afloat, and when it begins to dry off a little,

the wild hogs come by thousands, and roll and flop about in the mud, and

that makes all these pitch-holes, which they call hog-wallows."

"Why don't they kill the hogs and eat 'em, and not have 'em rooting up

the roads in this awful way?" asked greeny number one.

"Lord! they do kill and kill, I'm told," said greeny number two; "but

Texas is such an almighty rich country that all sorts o' critters and

things grow up spontaneously everywheres."

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

"O, they never make fences in Texas; first you'd know a hurricane would

come tearing along, and land them all in the Gulf of Mexico, quicker

than you could say 'Old Kentuck.'"

"Stars and gaiters! what a dreadful dangerous country is this we have

got into!" said number two, with a frightened aspect, as they dropped

the subject and relapsed into silence, while it was evident, from their

anxious visages, that their minds were harassed and disturbed, by

visions of hog-wallows, hurricanes and spontaneous animals.

We have heard other and more philosophical hypotheses as to the origin

of these uneven roads. Some suppose the country was once an inland sea,

and these ridges were occasioned by the continuous action of the waves;

others suppose the intense heat of the sun on the soft, clayey soil,

caused it to crack and spread asunder, leaving the surface broken and

ridgy. This latter is the more generally received opinion, we believe.

Here's half a chapter on hog-wallows, the unpoetical things! but as

utilitarians maintain nothing is made but what subserves some purpose,

we premise these humpy roads were made for the benefit of gouty men,

dyspeptic women, and love-sick lads and lasses. Thus disposed of, "we

resume the thread of our narrative," as novel-writers say. Our pen waxes

wild and intractable, whenever we get safely over the stormy gulf, and

stand on the shores of bonny, bright Texas; for we feel at home there,

hog-wallows, musquitoes, Camanches and all. Let none dare gainsay Texas

in our ears, for it is the banner state of all the immaculate

thirty-one. Come on, reader, now we have had our say, straight up to the

thriving plantation of Esq. Camford, and behold the wonders this

wonderful land can produce upon the characters of nervous,

delicately-constituted ladies. That buxom, blooming-matron in the loose

gingham wrapper, and muslin morning-cap, who stands on the gallery of

that new and tastefully-built cottage, all overshaded by the boughs of

the majestic pecan trees, giving off orders to a brace of shiny-eyed

mulatto wenches, who listen with reverential awe and attention, is none

other than the hysterical, shaky-nerved Mrs. Camford, whom we beheld

some two years ago bewailing the fate which had brought her to this

awful place, to be poisoned by snakes, mangled by bears, and murdered by

Indians. Listen to her words:

"Thisbe, take the lunch I have placed in the market-basket down to the

cotton-field boys, and ask your master to come to the house soon as

convenient; some people from the States are come to visit us:--and you,

Hagar, go to the garden and gather a quantity of vegetables for dinner.

I will be in the kitchen to assist in their preparation."

The women bowed, and hastened away on their separate errands. Mrs.

Camford now turned to enter the house, when Josephine, her cheeks

blooming with health and happiness, came bounding to her mother's side.

"O, mamma, the young gentleman, Mr. Milder, knows all about cousin

Alice! he has come right from the place in which she resides. He says

she sent a great deal of love to us all, and desired me to write to her.

Perhaps, now we know she remembers us so kindly, you will let me go

north some time, and pay my long-promised visit. Susette and her husband

talk of travelling next season, you know."

All this was uttered in the most lively and animated tone conceivable,

and Mrs. Camford smiled, and answered cheerfully, as mother and daughter

reëntered the neat, airy parlor, where our heroine of romance, Miss Mary

Lester, was sitting beside her portly, red-visaged husband, Col.

Edmunds, who had, in early life, been a Texan ranger, and acquired so

keen a relish for the wild, exciting scenes of a new country, that he

would not give his hand (his heart we suppose he could not control) to

the fair Mary, unless she would consent to forego the luxuries of

fashionable life, and follow his fortunes through the perils and

vicissitudes of an Indian frontier. She stood out to the last, hoping

the stalwart colonel would yield to her eloquent pleadings, and consent

to make his abode in New Orleans; for she conceived that brother

Augustus, having arrived at the sober age of thirty, would never marry,

and it would be the finest idea in the world for him to relinquish the

splendid estate he had acquired by his own untiring exertions, to the

hands of Col. Edmunds, while she, as the worthy colonel's most estimable

consort, would condescend to assume the direction of the servants and

household affairs, and Augustus could thus live wholly at his ease,

without a worldly care to distract his breast. What an affectionate,

self-sacrificing sister would she be, thus kindly to relieve her brother

at her own expense! But, just as this plan began to ripen for execution,

she was counter-plotted, or fancied herself to be, which led to the same

denouement. Winnie Morris came to pass a vacation with her brother,

Wayland, and the fore-doomed bachelor, Augustus Lester, most audaciously

dared to fall in love with the cackling girl. So Miss Mary declared; and

to remain in her brother's mansion, where she had hitherto exercised

unlimited sway, under such a little minx of a mistress, was too much for

human nature to endure; so, all on a sudden, she yielded in full to the

majestic colonel's wishes, and "cut sticks" for Texas, flying, as many

of us often do, from an imaginary evil, and leaving behind poor little

Winnie, innocent and unsuspecting as a lamb, with the great coffee-urn

in her trembling hand. How long the fair girl remained thus innocent and

unsuspecting, we are yet to know.

"So you are from New Orleans, Col. Edmunds," remarked Mrs. Camford. "I

do not recollect of ever having met you there; but to see any person

from our former home, though personally strangers, affords us pleasure

and gratification."

"I have only resided in New Orleans about six months, madam," returned

Col. Edmunds; "the most of my life has been spent in camp and field."

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

to the Indian frontier."

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

Camford.

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

"Just married, madam, and desperately in love yet," said the colonel.

"Always lived in the city, and thought it the greatest piece of audacity

in the world when I informed her I was going to stop at the residence of

a private gentleman with whom I was not in the least acquainted, to bait

my mules and get dinner. Not a bit acquainted with the Texan elephant,

you see, madam."

"Heaven save me, Samuel! do people in this country associate with

elephants?" exclaimed the bride, with the prettiest display of horrified

surprise.

"To be sure; I had one for a bed-fellow six or eight months when I first

came out here," returned the husband, with perfect serenity.

"O, my soul, I hope I shall never see one!" said the young wife,

nestling closer to her husband's side.

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

"You should not alarm new-comers by such bug-bear tales," remarked Mrs.

Camford, at length. "This young gentleman, Mr. Milder, is just from the

north."

"Indeed! well, he looks as if he might soon learn how to grapple with

elephants and tigers both," said the colonel, glancing on the young

man's countenance.

"Tigers!" exclaimed Mrs. Edmunds, taking fresh alarm; "do those

ferocious creatures grow here too?"

"Yes, everything grows here, Mary, about five times as large as anywhere

else," answered the bluff colonel. "But what say, young man, to going up

on the frontier with me, and seeing a bit of soldier life? You'd get to

see the whole elephant there, teeth, trunk and all."

"Why will you keep talking about that dreadful monster?" said the young

wife, who had brought a few nerves along with her. "You'll terrify me to

death, Samuel."

"You must get used to the critters, Mary, and the quicker the better, is

all I have to say," returned the husband, patting her cheek.

Esquire Camford now entered, dinner was served, and the conversation

took a higher tone. Esquire C. spoke of the country, its fertility,

rapid improvement, and exhaustless resources. Fred. Milder began to feel

an interest in a land with prospects so brilliant, and accepted with

pleasure Col. Edmunds' invitation to travel on westward in company with

him. The travellers were persuaded to pass the night; and during the

visit Mrs. Camford came to know that Mrs. Edmunds was a sister of the

Mr. Lester who had purchased her former sumptuous residence from the

hands of the creditors, at the time of their failure in New Orleans.

Still the knowledge did not waken regretful feelings, or excite a pang

of envy in her breast; for she had learned to regard a cottage with

content as better than wealth and pomp with pride and misery to distract

the spirit.

The morrow dawned beautifully. Round and red the sun arose beyond the

far, green prairie, when the mules and carriages were brought to the

door, and the little party of travellers recommenced their journey.

Fred. Milder cast a lingering glance after the pretty Josephine, as she

wished him a delightful tour up the country, and bade him not forget to

call and give her an account of all his adventures on his return. He

promised faithfully not to forget, and, with kind adieus, the party

moved on their way.

Josephine sat down after her usual morning tasks were completed, and

indited a long epistle to her cousin Alice; giving a general description

of her Texan home; not failing to mention her mother's happy recovery

from nerves, and Susette's marriage with a promising young planter; also

the pleasant visit they had enjoyed from Mr. Milder; and ended by saying

she hoped another season, when papa was a little richer, to make her

long-contemplated visit to the north.

CHAPTER XIV.

"Youth, love and beauty, all were hers,

Why should she not be happy?"

Where would you like to go now, reader? We are desirous to take you by

the path that will lead through this story by the shortest cut, and, as

we dare not doubt but that will be the course of all others most

grateful to your tastes and feelings, we'll clear Texas at a bound, for

there'll blow a whistling "Norther" there soon, we apprehend, and that

would tangle our hair worse than it is tangled now, and we have not had

time to comb it since this story commenced. So, imagine "Effie," dear

reader, with her brown locks wisped up in the most unbecoming manner

possible, a calico morning-gown wrapped loosely about her, and not over

clean, her fingers grimmed with pencil-dust, and her nose too,

perhaps--for she has a fashion of rubbing that useful organ, for ideas,

or something else, we know not what.

Just imagine this, reader, and if you don't throw down the story in

actual disgust, you'll be more anxious to get through it than we are

even.

Now away with episode, and here are we in the fair "Crescent City"

again, at the palace-like residence of Augustus Lester, Esq. The lord of

the mansion is at home, reclining on a silken sofa, which is drawn

before one of the deep, bloom-shaded windows of the elegant

drawing-room. He is in genial, after-dinner mood, and that fairy-looking

being, sitting by his side on a low ottoman, is our former friend,

Winnie Morris. But she bears another name now, for she has been three

months a wife--Augustus Lester's girl-bride!

Were that affectionate sister's misgivings of her bachelor brother's

intentions toward that wild-cat girl altogether chimerical, then?

Present appearances would indicate them not to have been altogether

groundless; but really, when the fair Mary fled so precipitately, the

idea of making Winnie Morris his bride had never entered her brother's

cranium. He had regarded her as a pretty child, and delighted in her

sunshiny, buoyant spirit, and felt he would like to keep her near to

cheer and enliven his mansion; but from the moment he saw her presiding

with so much quiet dignity and grace at his table, on that eventful

morning, he resolved to win her heart if possible. The task was by no

means difficult, for an object to which we look up with gratitude and

reverence, 'tis next to impossible not to love. She forgot, in her

devotion to the lofty, high-souled man, her childish fancy for the

frivolous-minded boy, and when Wayland, on her bridal morning, asked

mischievously, "Where was Jack Camford vanished?" she replied, "In a

gold mine beyond the seas, I suppose, brother; but why mention his name

to make discord on this happy hour?"

"It is strange Wayland does not return," remarked Augustus, at length,

rousing from a light doze, and drawing his young wife close to his side.

"I thought you were fast asleep, Auguste," said she; "and here I have

been fanning you so attentively, to keep the mosquitoes away. Well, it

is time for Wayland to come, isn't it? He has been absent more than two

months. You know how he chided me for breaking the promise I made to be

mistress of that pretty cottage he proposed to build up in Tennessee.

Perhaps he is erecting it, and intends to dwell there in proud,

regretful solitude."

"Or, perhaps he is in search of some fair lady to be its mistress, who

may prove less recreant to her promise," suggested Lester.

"May be so," returned Winnie, laughing.

"I look for a letter from him every day," remarked the husband; "there

was a mail-boat in when I came up to dinner. I'll call at the

post-office this evening; very possibly one has arrived."

"I hope so," answered Winnie.

The bell now rang, and company was announced. Leaving the young couple

to entertain their guests, we have stolen away in search of the absent

Wayland, and bring him once more on the tapis, to give some account of

his protracted wanderings, and learn what are his hopes and prospects

for the future. By what devious track we shall be pleased to pursue the

rover, our next chapter will reveal.

CHAPTER XV.

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

Being rather benevolently inclined ourselves, we feel a desire to look

in once more upon the "Ladies Literary Benevolent Combination for

Foreign Aid," which is to-day congregated at the residence of Mrs.

Rachel Stebbins, president of this humane and Christian body. She is

sitting in majestic presence on her throne of office, with her

gold-bowed spectacles astride her stately nose, and her devoted subjects

clustering around her, their tongues and fingers nimble as ever in the

good cause of universal philanthropy. Prominent in the ranks is Mrs.

Sykes, while ever following her, like a shadow, is her bosom friend,

Miss Jerusha Sharpwell. Mrs. Fleetfoot also appears in the rear; a sort

of shadow of a shade, or refrain to the song. Little Miss Gaddie

composes and sings alone now; her sister, Miss Pamela, having

accompanied her missionary husband to the shores of benighted Bengal, to

aid in his labors for the conversion of the heathen world.

"Well," said Miss Jerusha, as she sank down in a soft-cushioned chair

beside Mrs. Sykes, with a pair of checked muslin night-caps in her hand;

"what's the good word with you, sister, these suffocating days?"

"La! nothing, sister Jerusha, as I know of. My girl, Hannah, has gone

off and left me, so I have to keep close at home and slave myself with

hard work all the time, and have no opportunity to learn what's going on

about town," answered Mrs. Sykes, in a doleful voice.

"Why, where has your girl, Hannah, gone?" asked Miss Jerusha,

sympathetically; "I never heard a word about her leaving your service."

"She didn't leave me of her own free will;--catch Hannah to go away from

this roof, unless she was bejuggled by other folks. But she'll repent

her rashness when 'tis too late, I'm afeard," said Mrs. Sykes.

"Why, didn't you know Hannah Smith had gone to work for the widow

Orville?" inquired Mrs. Fleetfoot, looking up from the blue yarn sock

she was knitting, which was destined, no doubt, to convert some

half-naked Burman boy from the errors of paganism. "La, I heard of it a

fortnight ago!"

"You did,--did you, Mrs. Fleetfoot?" exclaimed Mrs. Sykes, in rather a

hasty tone; for a mild-hearted Christian; "well, she hasn't been gone

from me a week yet."

"Do tell! Well, I heard she thought of going, then, or something like

it, I can't exactly remember what," drawled Mrs. Feetfoot, not a whit

disconcerted by the contradiction her words had received.

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

"Yes, just as the summer's work was coming on, too; but she'll have to

suffer for it," said Mrs. Sykes, with a fearfully resigned expression of

countenance.

"Of course she will," returned Miss Sharpwell; "but what could Mrs.

Orville want with a hired girl,--nobody but herself and Alice in the

family? It seems a selfish, malicious desire to inconvenience you, her

coaxing Hannah off."

"La!" put in Mrs. Fleetwood, "didn't you know Mrs. Orville had got a

whole houseful of company from the south? I knew it a month ago."

"She hasn't got anybody in the world but two cousins of Alice's, and a

husband of one of them, and they haven't been there a week, till

to-morrow evening," said Mrs. Sykes.

"O, is that all? Well, I heard something about it, I couldn't exactly

recollect what it was," again drawled Mrs. Fleetfoot, closing the toe of

her yarn sock, and holding it up to admire the proportions; no doubt

breathing a silent prayer that it might be useful in saving some "soul

from death."

"Well, Mrs. Fleetfoot," observed Mrs. Sykes, "did you know that Fred.

Milder had come home from Texas to marry Alice Orville?"

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

everybody knows."

"Why, I never heard of it before," said Miss Jerusha, pinning a little

blue bow on the top of the muslin cap, to make it look _tasty_, as she

observed.

"Neither did I," answered Mrs. Sykes, casting, as we thought, but it

could not be, however, a glance of malicious triumph on Mrs. Fleetfoot;

"but he travelled home in company with Mrs. Orville's visitors, and I

often see him walking on the lake-shore with the young, unmarried lady,

Miss Josephine, I believe, is her name; and I just thought in my own

mind that would be a match."

"Very likely," said Miss Jerusha.

"Well, I remember now, 'twas that strange lady I heard he was engaged

to, and not Miss Alice," remarked Fleetfoot, with perfect equanimity;

"and Alice, they say, has got a beau off south, and that's what makes

her so mopish at times."

"Perhaps it is as sister Fleetfoot says," observed Jerusha; "for Alice

is certainly changed from what she used to be. She never attends our

circle now, and seldom goes to church. I wonder how she does pass her

time?"

"'Tis more than I can tell," answered Mrs. Sykes; "there was always

something mysterious about those Orvilles, to me. But I shall be obliged

to go home, sister Jerusha, to attend to my work, as I've no servant,"

continued the wronged lady, rising, and depositing her work in the

treasurer's box.

"I'm sorry you must go, sister Sykes," said Jerusha; "but be of good

cheer, and I'll drop in and see you in the course of the week."

"Pray, do, sister Sharpwell; I need all the aid and sympathy of

Christian hearts to sustain my soul," said Mrs. Sykes, with a ruefully

pious countenance, as she took her departure.

The meeting progressed. Fast flew the nimble fingers of the devoted

laborers in the good cause; and could the poor heathen have known what

mighty exertions this band of benevolent, self-denying females, who

basked in the noontide glory of the sun of righteousness, were making

for their liberation from the thrall of pagan darkness and superstition,

we doubt not that they would have prostrated themselves by millions

before the shrine of their great idol, Juggernaut, and devoutly invoked

him to pardon and forgive the poor, deluded victims of a false religion,

and bring them all under his sublime sway and holy dominion.

At length, Miss Gaddie was called on to sing the parting hymn. The lady

president delivered herself of a most eloquent and oratorical harangue,

during which the benevolent rose to a tremendous pitch, which nothing

could calm off but the call to supper.

This well-furnished meal dispensed, the "Ladies' Literary Benevolent

Combination for Foreign Aid" adjourned to the next Wednesday, at the

house of Mrs. Dorothy Sykes, Highflyer Street; which Christian lady

was aghast with terror and dismay, when she learned this batch of

benevolence was assigned over to her for its next meeting.

"O, mercy!" she feelingly exclaimed; "and I've no girl to assist me, and

my house will be turned topsy-turvy, new parlor carpet ruined,--and,

besides, they'll eat us out of house and home, and Mr. Sykes is _so_

close-fisted!"

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

Truly, benevolence does cost a great deal!

CHAPTER XVI.

"My task is done; my song hath ceased; my theme

Has died into an echo. It is fit

The spell should break of this protracted dream.

The torch shall be extinguished which hath lit

My midnight lamp,--and what is writ, is writ;

Would it were worthier, but I am not now

That which I have been, and my visions flit

Less palpably before me--and the glow

Which in my spirit dwelt, is fluttering, faint and low."

The cousins, Alice Orville and Josephine Camford, sat together in a

vine-clad arbor on the shore of Lake Erie.

"I cannot express the joy I feel at beholding you again, dear Pheny;

learning of your welfare, and finding you so happy in the contemplation

of the future," said Alice.

"None can tell what the future may bring," answered Josephine. "All is

vague and uncertain. I never believe anything is to be mine till I

really possess it."

"And so you won't believe Fred. Milder is yours till the nuptial knot is

tied?" said Alice, smiling.

"No, not fully,--not without a shadow of doubt," returned Josephine,

laughing in turn.

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

"Never!" was the quick response.

"Nonsense! Where's that pale, intellectual young man, who used to call

so frequently on you when you first arrived in New Orleans?"

"I have never seen or heard from him since I returned home," answered

Alice, averting her face.

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

"O, no!"

"And never will?"

"I can't say that."

"I can, though. Come, let's return to the house. I suspect Fred. is

waiting for me to take my promised stroll on the lake shore. How do you

like sister Susette's husband, Alice?"

"I think him a very accomplished gentleman," replied Alice, as they

walked toward the house.

"So I think," said Josephine. "His superior could hardly be found in any

of our large cities. Did you know poor Celestina had heard from her

faithless husband? He pleads for forgiveness and promises to return if

she will receive him. It appears he and brother Jack have amassed a

large fortune in Australia."

"Indeed! I am rejoiced to hear so good tidings of the adventurers. Is

Celestina still in the convent to which she retired?"

"She is; but proposes to leave it and accompany us to Texas on our

return to that country. Whether she will receive her husband I cannot

say, but will hazard an opinion that, should she one day behold him at

her feet imploring pardon, love would overpower all remembrance of

former wrongs. But there's Fred.," added the joyous-hearted girl. "I

must away to meet him."

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

"There, walking down that avenue of poplars!" returned Josephine. "I saw

him some moments since,"--love is so quick-sighted when its object is at

hand, and so abstracted when it is at a distance,--and Josephine hurried

away to meet her lover, leaving Alice to stroll onward by herself.

Presently, Hannah, the servant-girl that Mrs. Sykes, the benevolent

lady, averred had been "bejuggled" from her by Mrs. Orville, came

through the garden at full speed, exclaiming, "Miss Alice, there be a

gentleman in the parlor waitin' to see ye!"

On hearing this message, Alice accelerated her steps to reach the house,

and retired to her room a few moments to adjust her dress before

entering the presence of her visitor.

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

found at last.

* * *

Far down "_la belle riviere_" floated the fairy white steamboat on its

winding-way to Louisville, while the joy-groups danced and sung by the

clear moonlight over the airy decks.

And now once more adown the proud-rolling Mississippi, we see that

"floating-palace," the Eclipse, cutting her way through the foamy

waters. How, all day long, the verdure-clad shores smile up to the

clear, cerulean heaven that arches above! And how the moonbeams pour

their silvery light down on the sleeping earth! and all the while, by

night and day, the boat sweeps proudly onward.

Among the hundreds of passengers that roam the decks and guards, we

recognize two familiar faces; and our eyes love to linger on them, for

they are redolent with happiness. One of them is that of the dreamy,

abstracted girl we noticed years ago, leaning over the balustrades of

this same queenly boat as she approached New Orleans. But she was alone

then. Now; a manly form is bending over her, and whispering words we

cannot hear; nor do we need to hear them to know they carry joy to the

listening ear, for her dark eye glows with happiness, as she looks

confidingly in the face of the speaker, and utters something which

brings the same joy-light over his fine, intellectual features.

Now you do not wish us to tell you, reader, that Wayland Morris and

Alice Orville are man and wife; and that they, in company with Fred.

Milder and wife, and Susette and husband, are bound for New Orleans, to

surprise Winnie Lester in her regal home. Your intuition has revealed

all this to you e'er now, and you have pictured in your minds how blank

with amazement young Mrs. Lester's pretty face will be when she beholds

this "family-group" in her elegant drawing-room, all eager to welcome

and be welcomed, and overflowing with exuberant life and gladness, as

people ordinarily are when they get safely off one of those beautiful,

but treacherous western steam-palaces.

All this your vivid imaginations will easily portray in far more glowing

and picturesque colors than our poor pencil can paint. So we leave you

to conjure up all the bright visions you choose with which to deck the

futures of our young debutants in the great drama of wedded life. And

some of you young writers, who thirst for fame's thorny laurels, may

touch your inspired pens to paper, and give us a sequel to this hasty,

ill-finished tale, a true production of our "fast" age.

In conclusion, let us say, that years after these events transpired, as

the "Eclipse" passed up and down the Mississippi, on her trips to and

from New Orleans, the jocular clerk was wont to call the attention of

his passengers to a beautiful English cottage, surrounded by vines and

shrubbery, which stood on the Tennessee shore, and exclaim, "The

dwellers in that cottage learned their first lesson of love on the

guards of the Eclipse."

COME TO ME WHEN I'M DYING.

A SONG.

Come to me when I'm dying;

Gaze on my wasted form,

Tired with so long defying

Life's ever-rushing storm.

Come, come when I am dying,

And stand beside my bed,

Ere yet my soul is flying,

And I am cold and dead.

Bend low and lower o'er me,

For I've a word to say

Though death is just before me,

Ere I can go away.

Now that my soul is hovering

Upon the verge of day,

For thee I'll lift the covering

That veils its quivering ray.

O, ne'er had I thus spoken

In health's bright, rosy glow!

But death my pride hath broken,

And brought my spirit low.

Though now this last revealing

Quickens life's curdling springs,

And a half-timid feeling

Faint flushes o'er me flings.

Bend lower yet above me,

For I would have thee know

How passing well I love thee,

And joy to tell thee so.

This love, so purely welling

Up in this heart of mine,

O, hath it e'er found dwelling

Within thy spirit's shrine?

I've prayed my God, in meekness,

To give me some control

Over this earthly weakness

That so enthralled my soul;

And now my soul rejoices

While sweetly-thrilling strains,

From low, harmonious voices,

Soothe all my dying pains.

They sing of the Eternal,

Whose throne is far above,

Where zephyrs softly vernal

Float over bowers of love;

Of hopes and joys, earth-blighted,

Blooming 'neath cloudless skies,

Of hearts and souls united

In love that never dies.

'Tis there, 'tis there I'll meet thee

When life's brief day is o'er;

O, with what joy to greet thee

On that eternal shore!

Farewell! for death is chilling

My pulses swift and fast;

And yet in God I'm willing

This hour should be my last.

Sometimes, when day declineth,

And all the gorgeous west

In gold and purple shineth,

Go to my place of rest;

And if thy voice in weeping,

Is borne upon the air,

Think not of me as sleeping;

All cold and silent there:--

But turn, with glances tender,

Toward a shining star,

Whose rays with chastened splendor

Fall on thee from afar.

And know the blissful dwelling

Where I am waiting thee,

When Jordan fiercely swelling

Shall set thy spirit free.

ELLEN.

Sweet star, of seraph brightness,

That for a transient day

Shed o'er our souls such lightness,

And then withdrew the ray!

O, with immortal lustre

Thou 'rt sparkling brightly now

Amid the gems that cluster

Around Jehovah's brow!

Yet many hearts are keeping

Lone vigils o'er thy grave,

Where all the hopes are sleeping

Which thy young promise gave.

The sleep which knows no waking

Hath closed thy sweet blue eyes,

And while our hearts are breaking

We glance toward the skies.

Ah! there a hope is given

That bids us dry the tear;

That bright star in the heaven,

With beams so wondrous clear;--

'Tis Ellen's "distant Aidenn,"

Far in the realms above,

And those clear rays are laden

With her pure spirit's love.

I'M TIRED OF LIFE.

I'm tired, I'm tired of life, brother!

Of all that meets my eye;

And my weary spirit fain would pass

To worlds beyond the sky.

For there is naught on earth, brother,

For which I'd wish to live;

Not all the glittering gauds of wealth

One hour of peace can give.

I'm weary,--sick at heart, brother,

Of heartless pomp and show!

And ever comes some cloud to dim

The little joy I know.

This world is not the world, brother,

It seemed in days agone,

When I viewed it through the rainbow mists

Of childhood's rosy dawn.

I would not pain your heart, brother--

I know you love me well;

And that love is laid upon my soul,

E'en as a holy spell.

But I'm weary of this world, brother,

This world of sin and care;

And my spirit fluttereth to be free,

To mount the upper air!

I know not of the world, brother,

To which I wish to go;

And perhaps my soul may there awake

To know a deeper woe!

They say the pure of earth, brother,

Find there undying bliss;

While all the wicked ones are cast

Into a dark abyss!

I look upon the stars, brother,

That gem the vault of blue;

And when they tell me "God is love,"

I feel it must be true;

For I see on all around, brother,

The impress of a hand

That blendeth and uniteth all

In one harmonious band.

I am that which I am, brother,

As the Creator made;

To _Him_, all-holy and all-pure,

No fault can e'er be laid.

He knows my weakness well, brother,

And I can trust his love

To bear me safe through Jordan's stream

To brighter worlds above.

LINES TO A FRIEND,

ON REMOVING FROM HER NATIVE VILLAGE.

The golden rays of sunset fall on a snow-clad hill,

As standing by my window I gaze there long and still.

I see a roof and a chimney, and some tall elms standing near,

While the winds that sway their branches bring voices to my ear.

They tell of a darkened hearth-stone, that once shone bright and gay,

And of old familiar faces that have sadly passed away;

How a stranger on the threshold with careless aspect stands,

And gazes on the acres that have passed into his hands.

I shudder, as these voices, so fraught with mournful woe,

Steal on my spirit's hearing, in cadence sad and low,

And think I will not hear them--but, ah! who can control

The gloomy thoughts that enter and brood upon the soul?

So, turning from my window, while darkness deepens round,

And the wailing winds sweep onward with yet more piteous sound,

I feel within my bosom far wilder whirlwinds start,

And sweep the cloudy heaven that bends above my heart.

I have no power to quell them; so let them rage and roar,

The sooner will their raging and fury all be o'er;

I've seen Atlantic's billows 'neath tempests fiercely swell,

But O, the calm succeeding, I have no words to tell!

I think of you, and wonder if you are happy now;

Floats there no shade of sorrow at times across your brow?

When daily tasks are ended, and thought is free to roam,

Doth it not bear you swiftly back to that dear old home?

And then, with wizard fingers, doth Memory open fast

A thrilling panorama of all the changeful past!

Where blending light and shadow skip airy o'er the scene,

Painting in vivid contrast what is and what has been.

And say, does not your mother remember yet with tears

The spot where calm and peaceful have lapsed so many years?

O, would some kindly spirit might give us all to know

How much a tender parent will for a child forego!

We prized your worth while with us; but now you're gone from sight,

We feel "how blessings brighten while they are taking flight."

O, don't forget the homestead upon the pleasant hill;

Nor yet the love-lit home you have in all our memories still!

Come, often come to visit the haunts your childhood knew!

We pledge you earnest welcome, unbought, unfeigned and true.

And when before your vision new hopes and pleasure rise,

Turn sometimes with a sunny thought toward your native skies!

HO FOR CALIFORNIA!

Rouse ye, Yankees, from your dreaming!

See that vessel, strong and bold,

On her banner proudly streaming,

California for gold!

See a crowd around her gather,

Eager all to push from land!

They will have all sorts o' weather

Ere they reach the golden strand.

Rouse to action,

Fag and faction;

Ho, for mines of wealth untold!

Rally! Rally!

All for Cali-

Fornia in search of gold!

Away, amid the rush and racket,

Ho for the California packet!

Wake ye! O'er the surging ocean,

Loud above each coral cave,

Comes a sound of wild commotion

From the lands beyond the wave.

Riches, riches, greater--rarer,

Than Golconda's far-famed mines;

Ho for California's shores!

Where the gold so brightly shines.

O'er the ocean

All's commotion;

Ho for mines of wealth untold!

Countless treasure

Waits on pleasure;

Ho for California's gold!

Let us go the rush and racket,

On the Californian packet.

Hear the echo wildly ringing

Through our country far and wide!

Thousands leaving home and springing

Into the resistless tide.

Now our nation's roused from sleeping,

All alert and wide awake.

O, there's no such thing as keeping

Folks asleep when gold's the stake!

Old Oregon

We'll look not on;

Ho, for mines of wealth untold!

We'll take our way,

Without delay,

In search of gold--of glittering gold!

Here we go, amid the racket,

On the Californian packet!

Yankees! all who have the fever,

Go the rush without delay!

Take a spade and don your beaver;

Tell your friends you must away!

You will get a sight o' money;

Reap perhaps a hundred-fold!

O, it would be precious funny

To sit in a hall of gold!

Let's be going,

Gales are blowing,

Ho, all hands for digging gold!

Romance throwing

Colors glowing

Round these mines of wealth untold!

Ho, we go amid the racket,

On the Californian packet!

N. P. ROGERS.

Rogers, will not future story

Tell thy glorious fame?

And in hues of living glory

Robe thy spotless name?

There was more than mortal seeming

In thy wondrous eye,--

Like a silv'ry star-ray gleaming

Through a liquid _sky_.

Of that angel spirit telling,

Noble, clear and bright,

In thy "inner temple" dwelling,

Veiled from mortal sight!

Of that spirit meek and lowly,

Yet so bold and free,

In its all-absorbing, holy,

Love of Liberty.

Thou didst leave us, gentle brother,

In thy manhood's pride;

And we vainly seek another

Heart so true and tried!

Thou art dwelling with the angels

In the spirit land!

Chanting low and sweet evangels,

'Mid a seraph band.

But when Freedom's champions rally

'Gainst the despot's sway,

Then they mourn the friend and ally

That has passed away.

And when Liberty's bright banner

Waves o'er land and sea,

And is heard the loud hosanna

Of the ransomed free,--

On its silken folds, in letters

Traced with diamond bright,

Shall thy name, the foe of fetters,

Blaze in hues of light!

LINES.

I hied me to the ocean-side;

Its waves rolled bright and high;

Upon its waters, spreading wide,

I gazed with beaming eye.

At last, at last, I said, is found

A charm to banish pain,--

Here, where the sprightly billows bound

Athwart the heaving main.

The pebbly beach I wandered o'er

At morn and evening's hour,

Or listening to the breakers' roar,

Or wondering at their power.

Beneath their din I madly sought,

With ev'ry nerve bestirred,

To drown for aye the demon, thought,--

But, ah! he _would be heard_.

He found a voice my ear to reach,

To pierce my aching breast,

In every wave that swept the beach

With proud, defiant crest.

And when the moon, with silver light,

Smiled o'er the waters blue,

It seemed to say "There's nothing bright

O'er all this earth for you."

Scarce half a moon have I been here,

Beside the sounding sea,

In hope its echoings in my ear

Might drown out memory;

Or might instil some vital life

Into this feeble frame,

Long spent and wasted by the strife

Wide-wrought against my name.

In vain, in vain!--nor sea, nor shore,

Nor any mortal thing,

Can to my cheek health's bloom restore,

Or clear my life's well-spring.

And yet there is a sea whose waves

Will roll above us all,--

Within its vasty depths are graves

Beyond all mortal call.

With what an awful note of dirge

This shoreless ocean rolls--

Bearing on its tremendous surge

The wealth of human souls!

----The Ocean of Eternity,--

O, let its billows sweep

O'er one that longeth to be free,

And sleep the dreamless sleep!

HENRY CLAY.

Wail, winds of summer, as ye sweep

The arching skies;

O, let your echoes swell with deep,

Woe-piercing cries!

Old ocean, with a heavy surge,

Cold, black and drear,

Roll thou the solemn note of dirge

On Europe's ear!

Sweet stars, that calmly, purely bright,

Look down below,

O, pity with your eyes of light

A Nation's woe!

Thou source of day, that rollest on

Though tempests frown,

Thou mind'st us of another sun

That has gone down!

Gone down,--no more may mortal eye

Its face behold!

Gone down,--yet leaving on the sky

A tinge of gold!

Ah, yes! Columbia, pause to hear

The note of dread;

'Twill smite like iron on the ear;--

Our Clay is dead!

Our Clay; the patriot, statesman, sage,

The Nation's pride,

With giant minds of every age

Identified!

That form of manliness and strength

In Senate hall,

Is lying at a fearful length

Beneath the pall!

That voice of eloquence no more

Suspends the breath;

Its matchless power to charm is o'er--

'Tis hushed in death!

Thrice noble spirit! can we bow,

And kiss the rod?

With resignation yield thee now

Back to thy God?

And where, where shall we turn to find

Now thou 'rt at rest,

A soul so lofty, just and kind,

As warmed thy breast?

We bear thee, with a flood of tears,

Unto thy tomb;

There thou must sleep till rolling years

Have met their doom!

But thy bright fame and memory

Shall send a chime

From circling ages down to the

Remotest time!

O, may thy mantle fall on some

Of this our day,

And shed upon the years to come

A happy ray!

THE SOUL'S DESTINY.

In the liquid vault of ether hung the starry gems of light,

Blazing with unwonted splendor on the ebon brow of night;

Far across the arching concave like a train of silver lay,

Nebulous, and white, and dreamy, heaven's star-wrought Milky Way.

I was gazing, gazing upward, all my senses captive fraught,

From the earnest contemplation of celestial glories caught,

When the thought arose within me, as the ages onward roll

What may be th' eternal portion of the vast, th' immortal soul?

When the crimson tide of Nature ceases from its ruddy flow,

And these decaying bodies mouldering are so cold and low,

And the loathsome grave-worm feeding on the still and pulseless

heart,

Where may be the immortal spirit, what may be its deathless part?

Deep and far within the ether stretched my eyes their anxious gaze,

While the swelling thoughts within me grew a wild and wildered maze,

Then came floating on the distance, softly to my listening ears,

Low, thrilling harmonies of worlds whirling in their bright spheres.

From the sparkling orb of Venus, sweetest star that gems the blue,

Soon a form of seraph beauty burst upon my raptured view;

Wavy robes were floating round her, and her richly-clustering hair

Lay like golden-wreathed moonbeams round her forehead young and fair.

Then a company of seraphs gathered round this form so bright,

And unfurled their snowy pinions in those realms of crystal light,

Sweeping swiftly onward, onward with their music-breathing wings,

Till they passed the distant orbit where the mighty Neptune swings.

Then from stormy, wild Orion, to the dragon's fiery roll,

And the sturdy Ursa Major tramping round the Boreal pole,

On to stately Argo Navis rearing diamond spars on high,

Starry bands of seraph wanderers clove the azure of the sky.

Lofty awe and adoration all my throbbing bosom filled,

Every pulse and nerve in nature with ecstatic wonder thrilled.

O, were these bright, shining millions disembodied human souls,

That casting off earth's fettering bonds had gained immortal goals!

On each face there beamed a brightness mortal words can ne'er

rehearse,

Seemed it the concentred glory of the boundless universe.

O, 'twas light, 'twas love, 'twas wisdom, science, knowledge, all

combined,

'Twas the ultimate perfection of the God-like human mind!

One by one the constellations sank below the horizon's rim,

And with grief I found my starry vision growing earthly dim;

While all the thrilling harmonies, that filled the air around,

Died off in far, sweet echoings, within the dark profound.

Bowing then with lowly seeming on the damp and dewy sod,

All my soul in adoration floated up to Nature's God,

While the struggling thoughts within me found voice in earnest

prayer;

"Almighty Father, let my soul one day those glories share!"

LINES TO A MARRIED FRIEND.

There are flowers that never wither,

There are skies that never fade,

There are trees that cast forever

Cooling bowers of leafy shade.

There are silver wavelets flowing,

With a lulling sound of rest,

Where the west wind softly blowing

Fans the far lands of the blest.

Thitherward our steps are tending,

Oft through dim, oppressive fears,

More of grief than pleasure blending

In the darkening woof of years.

Often would our footsteps weary

Sink upon the winding way,

But that, when all looks most dreary,

O'er us beams a cheering ray.

Thus the Father who hath made us

Tenants of this world of care,

Knoweth how to kindly aid us,

With the burdens we must bear.

Knoweth how to cause the spirit

Hopefully to raise its eyes

Toward the home it doth inherit

Far beyond the azure skies.

There's a voice that whispers lowly,

Down within this heart of mine,

Where emotions the most holy

Ever make their sacred shrine;

And it tells a thrilling story

Of the Great Redeemer's love,

And the all-bewildering glory

Of the better land above.

O, this life, with all its sorrows,

Hasteth onward to a close!

In a few more brief to-morrows

Will have ended all our woes.

Then o'er death the part immortal

Shall sublimely rise and soar

O'er the star-resplendent portal,

There to dwell for evermore.

May we meet, no more to sever,

Where the weary are at rest,

Far beyond dark Jordan's river,

In the Canaan of the blest.

Guard the treasures God hath given

To thy tenderest nurturing care,

And upon the fields of heaven

Thou shalt see them blooming fair.

NEW ENGLAND SABBATH BELLS.

Methinks I hear those tuneful chimes,

Borne on the breath of morn,

Proclaiming to the silent world

Another Sabbath born.

With solemn sound they echo through

The stilly summer air,

Winning the heart of wayward man

Unto the house of prayer!

New England's sweet church-going bells,

Their memory's very dear;

And oft in dreams we seem to hear

Them ringing loud and clear.

Again we see the village-spire

Pointing toward the skies;

And hear our reverend pastor tell

Of life that never dies!

We see him moving down the aisle,

In light subdued and dim;

The while the organ's swelling notes

Chant forth the grateful hymn.

The forms of those our childhood knew,

By meadow, grove and hill,

Are gathering round with kindly looks,

As if they loved us still!

In careless hours of gladsome youth,

'Twas our thrice-blessed lot,

To dwell upon New England's shores,

Where God is not forgot.

Where temples to his name are raised,

And where, on bended knee,

The Christian sends to heavenly courts

The worship of the free!

New England's Sabbath chimes!--we love

Upon those words to dwell;

They fall upon our spirits with

A sweetly-soothing spell,

Bringing to mind those brighter days

When hope beamed on our way,

And life seemed to our souls but one

Pure and unclouded day!

New England's Sabbath bells!--when last

We heard their merry chime,

The air was rife with pleasant sounds;

For 'twas the glad spring-time!

The robin to those tuneful peals

Poured forth a thrilling strain;

O, 'tis our dearest hope to hear

Those Sabbath bells again!

For now we're many a weary mile

From that New England home;

In lands where laughing summer lies,

Our wandering footsteps roam.

But yet those sweetly-chiming bells

Those heavenward-pointing spires,

Awaken e'er the brightest glow

From memory's vestal-fires.

MY HEART.

List I to the hurried beatings

Of my heart;

How its quickened, loud repeatings

Make me start!

Often do I hear it throbbing

Fast and wild;

As I've heard it, after sobbing,

When a child.

Why so wild, so swift and heated,

Little heart?

Is there something in thee seated,

Baffling art?

Pain with all thy throbs is blended--

Pain so dread!

Oftentimes life seems suspended

By a thread!

Then thou'lt grow so still--like ocean

In its rest;--

Till I scarce can feel a motion

In my breast.

Think'st thy house is dark and dreary,

Veiled in night?

Art thou pining, sad and weary,

For the light?

Wouldst be free from the dominions

That control;

Spreading all thy golden pinions

Toward the goal?

Gladly, gladly, would I free thee

From Earth's thrall!

With what bliss and joy to see thee

Rise o'er all!

But 'tis not for me to aid thee

In thy flight;

For the Holy One who made thee,

Doeth right.

When his own good time arriveth,

Then will He,

From the load with which thou strivest,

Set thee free.

OUR HELEN.

Our Helen is a "perfect love"

Of a blue-eyed baby;

When she's grown she'll be a belle,

And a "Venus," may be.

Such a cunning little mouth,

Lips as red as cherry,

And she smiles on all around

In a way so merry.

Laughs, and crows, and claps her hands,

Springs, and hops, and dances,

As if her little brain overflowed

With lively, tripping fancies.

Then she'll arch her pretty neck,

And toss her head so queenly,

And, when she's weary, fall asleep

And slumber so serenely.

She has a cunning kind of way

Of looking sly and witty,

As if to say, in baby words,

"I know I'm very pretty."

She bites her "mammy," scratches "nurse,"

And makes droll mouths at "pappy;"

We can but love the roguish thing,

She looks so bright and happy.

The dinner-table seems to be

The crown of all her wishes,

For there the gypsy's sure to have

A hand in all the dishes.

But why should we essay to sing

Her thousand sprightly graces?

She has the merriest of ways,

The prettiest of faces.

We know she'll grow a peerless one,

With skin all white and pearly;

And laughing eyes, and auburn locks,

All silky, soft and curly.

Her baby laugh and sportive glee,

Her spirit's airy lightness,

Surround the pleasant prairie home

With hues of magic brightness.

MY BONNET OF BLUE.

My bonnet of blue, my bonnet of blue,

Its gossamer fineness I'll sing to you;

For a delicate fabric in sooth it was,

All trimmed and finified off with gauze.

My bonnet of blue, my bonnet of blue,

How well I remember thy azure hue!

To church I wore it, one pleasant day,

Bedecked in ribbons of fanciful ray;

And all the while I sat on my seat

I thought of naught save my bonnet so neat.

My bonnet of blue, my bonnet of blue,

Broke not my heart when I bade thee adieu?

When service was over, my steps I bent

Towards home, a-nodding my head as I went

But, alas for my bonnet! there came a wind

And blew it away, for the strings were not pinned.

My bonnet of blue, my bonnet of blue,

What shifting scenes have been thine to pass through!

I raised my eyes to the calm, blue sky,

There sailed my bonnet serene and high!

O, what a feeling of hopeless woe

Stole over me then, no heart may know!

My bonnet of blue, my bonnet of blue,

As clear as the sky was thy azure hue!

'Twas vain to mourn for my bonnet, and yet

It taught me a lesson I shall not forget;

'Twas, never to make you an idol of clay,

For when you best love them they'll fly away.

My bonnet of blue, my bonnet of blue,

I loved thee well, but thou wert untrue!

DARK-BROWED MARTHA.

When the frost-king clothed the forests

In a flood of gorgeous dyes,

Death called little dark-browed Martha

To her mansion in the skies.

'Twas a calm October Sabbath

When the bell with solemn sound

Knelled her to her quiet slumbers

Low down in the darksome ground.

Far away, where sun and summer

Reign in glory all the year,

Was the land she left behind her,

To her simple heart so dear.

There a mother and a brother,

Meeting oft at close of day,

Spoke in tender, tearful whispers

Of the loved one far away.

"I am thinking," said the mother,

"How much Martha'll get to know,

And how smart and bright 'twill make her,

Travellin' round the country so.

'Spect she'll be a mighty lady,

Shinin' jewels in her ears;

But I hope she won't forget us,--

Dat is what dis poor heart fears."

"'Deed she won't," then spoke the brother,

"Martha'll love us just as well

As before she parted from us,--

Trust me, mammy, I can tell."

Then he passed a hand in silence

O'er his damp and swarthy brow,

Brushed a tear from off the eyelid,--

"O that she were with us now!"

"Pshaw! don't cry, Lem," said the mother,

"There's no need of that at all;

Massa said he'd bring her to us

When the nuts began to fall.

The pecans will soon be rattling

From the tall plantation trees,

She'll be here to help us pick them,

Brisk and merry as you please."

Thus they talked, while she they waited

From the earth had passed away;

Walked no more in pleasant places,

Saw no more the light of day;

Knew no more of toilsome labor,

Spiteful threats or angry blows;

For the Heavenly One had called her

Early from a life of woes.

Folded we the tiny fingers

On the cold, unmoving breast;

Robed her in a decent garment,

For her long and dreamless rest;

And when o'er the tranquil Sabbath

Evening's rays began to fall,

Followed her with heavy footsteps

To the home that waits us all.

As we paused beside the churchyard,

Where the tall green maples rise,

Strangers came and viewed the sleeper,

With sad wonder in their eyes;

While my thoughts flew to that mother,

And that brother far away:

How they'd weep and wail, if conscious

This was Martha's burial day!

When the coffin had been lowered

Carefully into the ground,

And the heavy sods fell on it

With a cold and hollow sound,

Thought I, as we hastened homewards,

By the day's expiring light,

Martha never slept so sweetly

As she'll sleep this Sabbath night.