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t time before his death a sweet peace and hopeful trust settled over his spirit, and the religion he had sought in health afforded him a firm support in the hour of death. When all was over, and the mother and daughter found themselves left alone, their fortitude well-nigh forsook them, and they felt almost like yielding to a hopeless sorrow. Emma was at this time but fifteen years of age, possessed of much personal beauty, and also a very amiable and affectionate disposition. Since the age of six years she had attended school, and made rapid progress in her various studies till the sad period of her father's death. As Mr. Ashton had foreseen, Mr. Tompkins, the man who held the mortgage, soon called upon the widow, informing her that the time had already expired, and, unless she found herself able to meet the claim, her dwelling was legally his property; but, as a great favor, he granted her permission to occupy the house till she could make some arrangement concerning the future, giving her, however, distinctly to understand, that he wished to take possession as soon as she could find another home. Mrs. Ashton thanked him for the consideration he had shown her, little as it was, telling him she would as soon as possible seek another home, however humble it might be; and Mr. Tompkins departed with a polite bow and a bland smile upon his countenance, well pleased that he had got the matter settled with so little difficulty. I presume he never once paused to think of the grief-stricken widow and her fatherless daughter, whom he was about to render homeless. Money had so long been his idol that tender and benevolent emotions were well-nigh extinguished in his world-hardened heart. For a long time after Mr. Tompkins left the house Mrs. Ashton remained in deep thought. There are, dear reader, dark periods in the lives of most of us, when, turn which way we will, we find ourselves surrounded, as by a thick hedge, with difficulties and troubles from which we see no escape.

At such periods it is good for us to call to mind the fact, that the darkest cloud often has a silver lining, and that if we discharged, to the best of our ability, our duties for the time being, the cloud, sooner or later, will be reversed, and display its bright side to our troubled view. The time had now arrived, when Mrs. Ashton must come to some decision regarding the future. She had no friends to whom she could turn for aid or counsel in this season of trial. When quite young she had emigrated from England with her parents and one sister, and settled in Eastern Canada. About the time of her marriage and removal to W. her parents, with her sister, removed to one of the Western States; and it may be the knowledge that she must rely solely upon herself enabled her to meet her trials with more fortitude than might have been expected. Some fifty miles from W. was the large and thriving village of Rockford, and thither Mrs. Ashton at length decided to remove. One reason for this decision was the excellent institution for the education of young ladies, which was there located. She was very anxious that her daughter should obtain a good education, but was sorely puzzled as to raising the money needful for defraying her expenses. There were a few debts due her husband at the time of his death; these she collected with little difficulty. Their dwelling had been handsomely furnished, and she decided to sell the furniture, as she could easily, upon their arrival at Rockford, purchase what articles were necessary for furnishing their new home, which must, of necessity, be humble. One article she felt they must retain if possible, and that was the piano given her by her father at the period of her marriage. She did at first entertain the idea of parting with it, thinking how far the money it would bring would go in defraying the expenses attendant upon Emma's education, but upon second consideration, she resolved that they would not part with her father's parting gift to her, unless compelled to do so by actual want; and so when their old home was broken up the piano was carefully packed and forwarded to Rockford. The home where they had resided so long was very dear to them, and it would have grieved them, to leave it at any time; but to leave at the glad season of spring, when the trees which shaded their dwelling were beginning to put forth their leaves, and the flowers which adorned their garden were bursting into bloom, seemed to them doubly sad. But their preparations for removal were finally completed, and they left their home followed by the good wishes of many who had long known and loved them. Upon their arrival at Rockford, Mrs. Ashton hired a cheap tenement in a respectable locality, which she furnished in a plain but decent manner. When they became settled in their new home they had still in hand money sufficient to secure them from immediate want, but as Mrs. Ashton wished Emma to enter at once upon her studies, she was very anxious to devise some means of earning money to meet necessary expenses. There was one family residing in Rockford with whom Mrs. Ashton had several years before been intimately acquainted: their name was Lebaron, and they had at one time resided in the same village with the Ashtons. Mr. Lebaron had opened a store upon removing to Rockford; the world had smiled upon him, and he was now considered one of the most wealthy and influential men in the village.

It has been often said that "prosperity hardens the heart of man," but if such is the case in general, Mr. Lebaron proved an exception to the general rule. He had heard with much sorrow of the death of Mr. Ashton, and also of the other misfortunes which had overtaken the family; and no sooner did he learn of the arrival of the widow and daughter in Rockford, than, accompanied by his wife, he hastened to call upon them, to renew their former acquaintance, and in a delicate and considerate manner to enquire if he could assist them in any way? Mrs. Ashton thanked them for their kindness, saying that although in no immediate need of assistance, yet she would be very thankful if they would assist her in obtaining employment. "If such is the case," replied Mrs. Lebaron, "I can easily secure you employment, as I am acquainted with many ladies who give out work, and will gladly use my influence in your favor." "You will confer a favour upon me by so doing," replied Mrs. Ashton, "for I must rely upon my labor for a support for the future." Through the influence of these kind friends Mrs. Ashton soon obtained an abundant supply of work; and, when she became somewhat acquainted with the people of Rockford, her gentle and unobtrusive manner gained her many warm friends. Agreeable to her mother's wishes, Emma soon became a pupil in the seminary for young ladies, which was at that time under the direction of Miss Hinton, a lady who possessed uncommon abilities as a teacher, and was also aided by several competent assistants. Mrs. Lebaron had two daughters attending the institution at the time, and this circumstance, in a great measure, relieved Emma from the feeling of diffidence she might have experienced in entering a large school a stranger to both teachers and pupils; but her modest and unassuming manners, added to her diligence in study, soon caused her to become a general favorite with her teachers. In schools, as well as other places, we often meet with those who are inclined to be jealous of merit superior to their own, and the seminary at Rockford was no exception in this matter. Her teachers were guilty of no unjust partiality; true, they oftener commended her than some other members of her class, but not oftener than her punctual attendance, perfect recitations, and correct deportment generally, justified them in doing. But it soon became evident that, if Emma was a favourite with her teachers, she was far from being such with many members of her class. At the time she entered school Miss Hinton found, after examining her in her various studies, that her attainments were already superior to those of several young ladies who had been for some time members of the school. Among the pupils who at the time attended the institution was a Miss Carlton, from the distant city of H. She was the petted and only child of wealthy parents; and, as is often the case, her disposition, which, under proper training, might have been amiable, had been spoiled by unwise indulgence on the part of her parents. Her capacity for learning was not good; she was also sadly wanting in application, and, at the time Emma entered the school, although Miss Carlton had attended for more than a year, her progress in study was far from being satisfactory to her teachers. She was at much pains to inform her classmates of her wealth and position, seeming to entertain the idea that this would cover every defect. Owing to Emma's superior attainments, compared with her own, she soon learned to regard her with a feeling of absolute dislike, which she took little pains to conceal; and many were the petty annoyances she endured from the vain and haughty Julia Carlton. She soon learned that Emma was poor, and that her mother toiled early and late to defray the expenses of her education; and more than once she threw out hints regarding this fact, among the other pupils, even in hearing of Emma; and, as often as opportunity offered, she slighted the unoffending girl, and treated her with all the rudeness of which she was capable. "Let those who wish associate with Miss Ashton," she would often say to her companions; "but I am thankful that I have been better taught at home than to make a companion of a girl whose mother is obliged to take in sewing to pay her school bills." These and other remarks equally malicious were daily made by Miss Carlton; and I am sorry that she soon found others in the school who were weak enough to be influenced by her also to treat Emma with coldness and contempt. Emma could not long fail to notice the many slights, both direct and indirect, which she endured from many members of the school, and she taxed her memory to recall any act by which she might have given offence; but, finding herself unable to recollect any thing on her part which could have offended any member of the school, she was not a little puzzled to account for the rudeness with which she was treated. It happened one day that during recess she remained at her desk in the school-room to complete an unfinished French exercise. Several of her companions soon after entered the adjoining recitation room, and, as they were not aware of her proximity, she became an unwilling listener to a conversation which pained her deeply. As Sarah Lebaron entered the room one of the girls addressed her, saying:--"When you first introduced Miss Ashton among us, I supposed her to be at least a companionable girl, but I have lately been informed that she resides in a cheap tenement, and, farther, that her mother takes in sewing, and, if such is the case, I wish to cultivate no further acquaintance with her." "But then," added another girl, "Miss Hinton thinks her almost a saint, and sets her up as a model for us all; if there's any thing I do detest, it's these model girls, and I don't believe she's half as fond of study as she pretends; and, in my opinion, its only to hear the commendations of the teachers that she applies herself with such diligence; but Miss Hinton is so taken with her meek face and lady-like manners that she places her above us all, and, I suppose, we must submit, for as the old song says:

'What can't be cured must be endured.'

In conclusion, we will again bestow a passing glance upon this happy family after the lapse of some twenty years. We find Dr. Winthrop now past the meridian of life, surrounded by an interesting family of sons and daughters, whom he is endeavoring to train for spheres of usefulness in this life, as well as for happiness in the "life to come." His graceful and dignified wife still gladdens his heart and home. Time has dealt very gently with her; she is quite as good and almost as beautiful as when we last saw her twenty years ago. The two eldest of their family are boys, and this is their last year in College. Mrs. Winthrop has thus far attended herself to the education of her two daughters. Along with many other useful lessons, she often seeks to impress upon their minds the sin and folly of treating with contempt and scorn those who may be less favored than themselves in a worldly point of view; and to impress the lesson more strongly upon their young minds, she has more than once spoken to them of her own early history, and of the trials to which she was subject in her youthful days. But what of Mrs. Ashton? She still lives; although her once active form is beginning to bow beneath the weight of years, and her hair has grown silvery white. This year Dr. Winthrop has completed his preparations for leaving the city after more than twenty years close application to his profession. He resolved to remove with his family to some quiet country village, which would afford sufficient practice to prevent time from hanging heavily upon his hands; but he now felt quite willing to resign his fatiguing and extensive practice in the city. When he first formed the idea of seeking a country home, he enquired of his wife, if she had any choice regarding a location. "If it meets your wishes," replied she, "no other place would please me so well as the village of W, the home of my childhood and youth, and where my dear father is buried." He soon after made a journey to W, and was so much pleased with the thriving appearance of the village, and the industry and sobriety of the inhabitants, that he decided to seek there a home. Before he left his home, his wife requested him, should he decide upon removing to W, if possible to re-purchase their old home, knowing how much this would please her now aged mother. The purchase was soon completed, and ere he left the village the old house was in the hands of workmen, with his instructions as to improvements and repairs. Mrs. Ashton was very happy when she learned that they were to return to W. "I have been happy here," said she, "but I shall be still happier there." In a short time they removed from the city to take possession of the "dear old home" in W, now enlarged and adorned in various ways; but the same clear brook still flowed at the foot of the garden, and the same trees, only that they were older, and their branches had grown more wide spreading, shaded the dwelling. As they passed beneath the shade of those well-remembered trees, Mrs. Winthrop addressed her mother, saying, "Do you remember, mamma, how sad we felt the morning we left our home so many years ago, and we little thought it would ever again be ours." Mrs. Ashton gazed fondly upon her daughter and the blooming children at her side, as she replied in the language of the Psalmist, "I have been young and now am old; yet have I not seen the righteous forsaken nor his seed begging bread."

THOUGHTS ON AUTUMN.

Again has the season of Autumn arrived. The stated changes of the seasons serve as monitors to remind us of the flight of time; and upon such occasions the most unthinking can hardly avoid pausing to reflect upon the past, the present, and the probable future. Autumn has been properly styled the "Sabbath of the year." Its scenes are adapted to awaken sober and profitable reflection; and the voice with which it appeals to our reflective powers is deserving of regard. This season is suggestive of thoughts and feelings which are not called forth by any other; standing, as it were, a pause between life and death; holding in its lap the consummate fruits of the earth, which are culled by the hand of prudence and judgment, some to be garnered in the treasury of useful things, while others are allowed to return to their primitive elements. When spring comes smiling o'er the earth, she breathes on the ice-bound waters, and they flow anew. Frost and snow retreat before her advancing footsteps. The earth is clothed with verdure, and the trees put forth their leaves. Again, a few short months, and where has all this beauty fled? The trees stand firm as before; but, with every passing breeze, a portion of their once green leaves now fall to the ground. We behold the bright flowers, which beautify the earth, open their rich petals, shed their fragrance on the breeze, and then droop and perish. Sad emblem of the perishing nature of all things earthly. May we not behold in the fading vegetation, and the falling leaves of autumn, a true type of human life? Truly "we all do fade as a leaf." Life at the best is but a shadow that passes quickly away. Why then this love of gain, this thirst for fame and distinction? Let us approach yonder church-yard and there seek for distinction. There we may behold marble tablets cold as the clay which rests beneath them: their varied inscriptions of youth, beauty, age, ambition, pride and vanity, are all here brought to one common level, like the leaves which in autumn fall to the earth, not one pre-eminent over another. The inspired writers exhibit the frailty of man by comparing him to the grass and the flowers withering and dying under the progress and vicissitudes of the year; and with the return of autumn we may behold in the external appearance of nature the changes to which the sacred penman refers, when he says, "So is man. His days are as grass; as a flower of the field so he flourisheth. For the wind passeth over it and it is gone; and the place thereof shall know it no more." Autumn too, is the season of storms. Let this remind us of the storms of life. Scattered around us, are the wrecks of the tempests which have beaten upon others, and we cannot expect always ourselves to be exempt. Autumn is also the season of preparation for winter. Let us remember that the winter of death is at hand, and let us be impressed with the importance of making preparation for its approach. Let us then, as we look upon the changed face of nature, take home the lesson which it teaches; and, while we consider the perishable nature of all things pertaining to this life, may we learn to prepare for another and a happier state of being.

WANDERING DAVY.

It was while I was spending a few days in the dwelling of Mr. C., a Scottish immigrant, that he received a long letter from his friends in Scotland. After perusing the letter he addressed his wife, saying: "So auld Davy's gone at last." "Puir man," replied Mrs. C. "If he's dead let us hope that he has found that rest and peace which has been so long denied him in this life." "And who was old Davy? may I enquire," said I, addressing Mr. C. "Ay, man," he replied, "tis a sad story; but when my work is by for the night, I'll tell ye a' that I ken o' the life o' Davy Stuart." I was then young and very imaginative; and a story of any kind possessed much interest for me; and the thought that the story of Old Davy was to be a true one, rendered it doubly interesting; so I almost counted the hours of the remaining portion of the day; and when evening came I was not slow to remind Mr. C. of his promise. Accordingly he related to me the following particulars of the life of David Stuart; which I give, as nearly as possible, in his own words; for it seems to me that the story would lose half its interest were I to render it otherwise.

"Davy Stuart was an aul' man when I was a wee boy at the school. I had aye been used wi' him; for he often bided wi' us for days thegither; and while a boy I gave little heed to his odd ways an' wanderin' mode o' life; for he was very kind to mysel' an' a younger brither, an' we thought muckle o' him; but when we had grown up to manhood my father tell'd us what had changed Davy Stuart from a usefu' an' active man to the puir demented body he then was. He was born in a small parish in the south of Scotland, o' respectable honest parents, who spared nae pains as he grew up to instruct him in his duty to baith God an' man. At quite an early age he was sent to the parish school; where he remained maist o' the time till he reached the age o' fourteen years. At that time he was apprenticed to learn the trade o' a shoemaker, in a distant town. It wad seem that he served his time faithfully, an' gained a thorough knowledge o' his trade. Upon leaving his master, after paying a short visit to his native parish, he gie'd awa' to the City of Glasgow, to begin the warld for himself. He continued steady and industrious, and was prospered accordingly; and at the age o' twenty-five he had saved considerable money. It was about this time, that he was married to a worthy young woman, to whom he had been long deeply attached. They had but one bairn, a fine boy, who was the delight o' his father's heart, and I hae heard it said by they who kenn'd them at the time, that a bonnier or mair winsome hoy could'na hae been found in the city, than wee Geordie Stuart. Time gied on till Geordie was near twelve year aul', when it began to be talked o' among Mr. Stuart's friends that he was becoming owre fond o' drink. How the habit was first formed naebody could tell; but certain it was, that during the past year he had been often seen the war o' drink. His wife, puir body, admonished an' entreated him to break awa' frae the sinfu' habit, and he often, when moved by her tears, made resolutions o' amendment, which were broken maist as soon as made; an' it was during a longer season o' sobriety than was usual wi' him, that his wife thinkin' if he was once awa' frae the great city he would be less in the way o' temptation, persuaded him to leave Glasgow an' remove to the sma' village o' Mill-Burn, a little way frae the farm which my father rented.

"I well mind, said my father, o' the time when they first cam' among us, an' how kin' was a' the neebors, to his pale sad-lookin' wife and the bonny light-hearted Geordie, who was owre young at the time, to realize to its fu' extent the sad habit into which his father had fa'n. When Mr. Stuart first came to our village he again took up his aul' habits o' industry, an' for a long time would'na taste drink ava; but when the excitement o' the sudden change had worn off, his aul' likin' for strong drink cam' back wi' fu' force, an' he, puir weak man, had'na the strength o' mind to withstand it. He soon became even war than before; his money was a' gane, he did'na work, so what was there but poverty for his wife an' child. But it is useless for me to linger o'er the sad story. When they had lived at Mill-Burn a little better than a twelve month; his wife died, the neebors said o' a broken heart. A wee while afore her death she ca'd Davy to her bed-side, an' once mair talked lang an' earnestly to him o' the evil habit which had gotten sic a hold o' him, an' begged him for the sake o' their dear Geordie, who; she reminded him, would soon be left without a mither to care for him, to make still anither effort to free himself frae the deadly habit. I believe Davy was sincere when he promised the dyin' woman that he wad gie up drink. Wi' a' his faults, he had tenderly loved his wife, an' I hae nae doubt fully intended keepin' the promise he made her. For a lang time after her death, he was ne'er seen to enter a public house ava', an' again he applied himsel' to his wark wi' much industry. After the death o' Mrs. Stuart Geordie an' his father bided a' their lane. Their house was on the ither side o' the burn which crossed the high-road, a wee bit out o' the village. Time gie'd on for some time wi' them in this way. Davy continued sober and industrious, an' the neebors began to hae hopes that he had gotten the better o' his evil habit; he had ne'er been kenned to taste strong drink o' ony kin' sin' the death o' his wife. One evening after he an' Geordie had ta'en their suppers, he made himsel' ready to gang out, saying to Geordie that he was gaun' doon to the village for a wee while, and that he was to bide i' the house an' he would'na be lang awa'. The hours wore awa' till ten o'clock, an' he had'na cam' hame. It was aye supposed that the boy, becoming uneasy at his father's lang stay, had set out to look for him, when by some mishap, it will ne'er be kenned what way, he lost his footin', an' fell frae the end o' the narrow brig which crossed the burn. The burn was'na large, but a heavy rain had lately fa'n, an' there was aye a deep bit at one end o' the brig. He had fa'n head first into the water in sic a way that he could'na possibly won 'oot. It was a clear moonlicht night, an' when Davy reached the brig, the first thing he saw was his ain son lyin i' the water. I hae often been told that a sudden shock o' ony kind will sober a drunken man. It was sae wi' Davy; for the first neebor who, hearin' his cries for assistance, ran to the spot, found him standin i' the middle o' the brig, perfectly sober, wi' the drooned boy in his arms; although it was weel kenned that he was quite drunk when he left the village. Every means was used for the recovery o' the boy, but it was a' useless, he was quite deed an' caul'. "Ah," said Davy, when tell'd by the doctor that the boy was indeed dead, "my punishment is greater than I can bear." Geordie had aye been as "the apple o' his een"; never had he been kenned to ill use the boy, even when under the influence o' drink; and the shock was too much for his reason. Many wondered at his calmness a' the while the body lay i' the house afore the burial--but it was the calmness o' despair; he just seemed like ane turned to stane. The first thing that roused him was the sound o' the first earth that fell on puir Geordie's coffin. He gie'd ae bitter groan, an' wad' hae fa'n to the earth had'na a kind neebor supported him. His mind wandered frae that hour; he was aye harmless, but the light o' reason never cam' back to his tortured mind. Sometimes he wad sit for hours by Geordie's grave, an' fancy that he talked wi' him. On these occasions nothing wad induce him to leave the grave till some ither fancy attracted his mind. As I hae before said he was never outrageous, but seemed most o' the time, when silent, to be in deep thought; but his reason was quite gone, and the doctors allowed that his case was beyond cure. Many questioned them as to whether it were safe to allow him his liberty, lest he might do some deed o' violence; but they gave it as their opinion that his disease was'na at a' likely to tak' that turn wi' him, an' so he was left to wander on. He never bided verra lang in a place, but wandered frae house to house through a' the country-side: and every one treated him wi' kindness. The sight o' a bonny fair-haired boy aye gave him muckle pleasure, an' he wad whiles hae the idea that Geordie had cam' back to him. From the day o' Geordie's death to that o' his ain', which took place a month sine, he was ne'er kenned to taste strong drink; he could'na bear even the sight o' it. He lived to a verra great age, an' for many years they who did'na ken the story o' his early life ha'e ca'd him Wanderin' Davy. I hae noo tell'd you his story," said Mr. C. addressing me; "an' I hope it may prove a warnin' to you an' ithers o' the awfu' evils o' intemperance; an' I think it's high time my story was finished, for I see by the clock that it's growin' unco late." When the evening psalm had been sung, Mr. C. read a portion of the Scriptures and offered the usual nightly prayer, and soon after we all sought repose; but it was long ere I slept. The story I had listened to still floated through my mind, and when sleep at length closed my eyes it was to dream of "Wandering Davy," and the poor drowned boy.

LOOKING ON THE DARK SIDE.

It is an old but true saying, that "troubles come soon enough without meeting them half way." But I think my friend Mrs. Talbot had never chanced to hear this saying, old as it is; for she was extremely prone at all times to look only upon the dark side, and this habit was a source of much trouble to herself as well as her family. Mr. Talbot might properly have been called a well-to-do farmer. They were surrounded by an intelligent and interesting family; and a stranger, in taking a passing view of their home and its surroundings, would have been strongly inclined to think that happiness and contentment might be found beneath their roof; but a short sojourn in the dwelling alluded to would certainly have dispelled the illusion. This Mrs. Talbot was possessed of a most unhappy disposition. She seemed to entertain the idea that the whole world was in league to render her miserable. It has often struck me with surprise, that a person surrounded with so much to render life happy should indulge in so discontented and repining a temper as did Mrs. Talbot. She was famous for dwelling at length upon her trials, as often as she could obtain a listener; and when I first became acquainted with her I really regarded her with a feeling of pity; but after a time I mentally decided that the greater part of her grievances existed only in her own imagination. She spent a large portion of her time in deploring the sins of the whole world in general, and of her own family and immediate neighbors in particular; while she looked upon herself as having almost, if not quite, attained to perfection.

EDWARD BARTON.

THE WEARY AT REST.

The weary at rest. This idea was very strongly impressed upon my mind by a funeral which I once attended in the distant village of C. It was that of a very aged woman, whom I had often heard mentioned as one who had been subjected for many years to bodily suffering in no ordinary degree. I had never seen her, but was acquainted with many who visited her frequently; and I became interested from hearing her so often spoken of as a bright example of patience and resignation under affliction; and I was accustomed to enquire for her as often as I had opportunity. Owing to a rheumatic affection of her limbs, she had, as I was informed, been unable, for several years, to rise from her bed without assistance, and much of the time experienced severe pain. I was informed by her friends that through her protracted period of suffering she was never heard to utter a complaining or repining word, but was found daily in a calm, even cheerful frame of mind. After a time I left the village and returned to my home. Returning thither to visit some relatives after the lapse of a few months, I met with a friend, soon after my arrival, who informed me of the death of old Mrs. H., which had taken place the day previous. Two days later I joined the large numbers who assembled to pay their last tribute of respect to one of the oldest residents of their village. As is usual upon funeral occasions, the coffin was placed in front of the pulpit, and a large number occupied the front pews which were appropriated to the friends of the deceased. In those pews were seated men in whose hair the silver threads were beginning to mingle, and women who were themselves mothers of families, who all met around the coffin of their aged mother. Childhood, youth and middle age was all represented in that company of mourners. Their pastor, Mr. M., delivered a very appropriate discourse from the words. "Blessed are the dead who die in the Lord." In the course of his sermon he took occasion to remark, that a funeral discourse should apply to the living--not the dead. I had before listened to different sermons from this same text; but I never listened to a more searching application of the words than upon this occasion.

Near the close of his sermon, he said: "I presume many of you are aware that I deem it unnecessary as well as unwise, on occasions of this kind, for a minister to dwell at length, upon the life and character of the deceased, for, as I have before said, our duty is with the living; but upon the present occasion, I think I may with propriety say, that we see before us the lifeless remains of one who has 'died in the Lord.' I have been for many years acquainted with our aged sister now departed, and have ever regarded her as an humble and earnest christian. I have frequently visited her during her lengthened period of suffering; and have felt deeply humbled for my own want of resignation to the ills of life, when I observed the exemplary manner with which this aged woman bore her sufferings, which at times were very severe; and more than this, I stood by her dying bed, which I can truly say presented a foretaste of heavenly triumph."

At the close of the service permission was given for any one who was desirous of so doing to look upon the "corpse," and with many others I drew nigh the coffin. I had been told that the habitual expression of her countenance was one of pain, and I was surprised by the calm and peaceful expression which rested upon the face of the dead. There was no sign of past suffering visible; and the idea of perfect rest was conveyed to my mind, as I gazed upon her now lifeless features. When the strangers had all retired the relatives and near friends drew nigh to take their last sad look of the aged one who in life had been so dear to them. It seemed that her age and utter helplessness had all the more endeared her to her children and other friends; and many of them wept audibly as they retired from the coffin. As the coffin was borne from the church, the choir sung in subdued tones, accompanied by the solemn notes of the organ, the beautiful hymn commencing with the lines.

"Thou art gone to the grave, but we will not deplore thee, Though sorrows and darkness encompass the tomb; The Saviour hath passed through its portals before thee, And the lamp of his love is thy guide through the gloom."

When the long procession reached the church yard, the coffin was lowered to its final resting place, and the Burial Service was read by their pastor, and most of the company departed to their homes. I know not how it was, but, although a stranger to the deceased, I was among the few who lingered till the grave was filled up. That funeral impressed me deeply; and has often since recurred to my mind, amid the cares and turmoil of after life.

THE RAINY AFTERNOON.

THE STUDENTS 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 these dreams have never been realised. 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?

"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 your 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 ardour. This dream was not lost upon Arthur Wilton. Instead of now wasting his time in regrets for the past, he looked forward with a stead purpose of improvement, and from that period no harder student was to be found in the college; and he finally graduated with high honours. 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 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 that section, and although a very eccentric person, was much respected by all his neighbours. 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, at 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 favourite 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 upon 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.

FOOTNOTES:

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 transcribed it in an abridged form to the pages of this volume.

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 further 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 as light 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 kind of slow 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 realised 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 owre 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 emigrants' 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 newcomer; 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 wellnigh 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 fall 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 footmarks 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 "homesickness" 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 afterward 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 crop 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 a friends, and carrying in his hand a torchlight composed of bark from the cedar tree, suddenly 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 it 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 to 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 vigor. 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 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 spirits, 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 on 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 then 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 as 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 failing, and 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 disagreable 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 favoured 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 a 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 sparking 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 recognised 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 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 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 Elisa, 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 recognise 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 misfortune. "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 which otherwise might never have met again on earth. And now both you and your daughter most 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 tomb-stone, 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.

THE OLD SCHOOLHOUSE.

I lately visited the timeworn 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 learned 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.

He was older than most of the other boys, and was a general favourite with all. He was famous for relating funny stories, of which he had a never-failing supply; and when the day was too stormy to allow of out-of-door sports, during the noon hour, we used to gather around the large stove which stood in the centre of the room and coax H.M. to tell us stories. The story which recurred to my mind was of a poor Irishman, who, in describing a visit which he paid to the home of his childhood after a long absence, said: "At the sober hour of twilight, I entered the lonely and desarted home uv me forefathers, an' as I gazed about the silent walls, I said, 'me fathers, where are they?' an' did not echo answer, 'Is that you Pathrick O'Flannigan, sure?'"

I was in no mood for laughter, and yet I could not repress a smile, as memory recalled the comical voice and inimitable gestures with which young H.M. related the story. He was beloved by us all, and when he left school we parted from him with real sorrow. As I walked around, and looked upon the worn and defaced desks, I observed the initials of many once familiar names, which many years before had been formed with a knife, which were not so much obliterated but I could easily decipher the well known letters. That desk in the corner was occupied by two brothers who when they grew up removed to one of the Eastern States, where they enlisted as soldiers in the war between the North and South. One of the brothers received his death-wound on the battlefield. In a foreign hospital he lingered in much suffering for a brief period, when he died and was buried, far from his home and kindred. The younger brother was naturally of a tender constitution and was unable to endure the hardships and privations of a soldier's life. His health failed him, and he returned to his friends, who had left their Canadian home, and removed to the State of Massachusetts; but all that the most skilful physicians could do, aided by the most watchful care of his tender mother, failed to check the ravages of disease. Consumption had marked him for its prey, and he died a few months after leaving the army; and, as his friends wept on his grave, they could see with their mind's eye another nameless grave in a far-away Southern State, where slept the other son and brother. The desk on my left hand was occupied by a youth, who has been for many years toiling for gold in California; and I have learned that he has grown very rich. I often wonder if, in his eager pursuit after riches, in that far-off clime, he ever thinks of the little brown school-house by the butternut trees, and of the smiling eager group who used daily to meet there. One large family of brothers and sisters, who attended this school for several years, afterward removed, with their parents, to one of the Western States, and years have passed away since I heard of them; but along with many others they were recalled to mind by my visit to the old School-House.

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