Chapter V (3)

Again, and again, and yet again sounded the bell, each time with a more prolonged and angry pull, as if the person at the door, with patience exhausted, was resolved to take the house by storm. A thought darted like lightning through my brain. I had seen Miss Elwyn that evening, in full dress, passing with her mother through the hall. They had gone to a party—they had returned late. I sprung to the window—threw it open; and sure enough, though it was too dark to distinguish any object, I heard with sufficient distinctness the shrill, complaining tones of the mother.

By good luck I was still dressed, and I lost not an instant. Snatching up the light, I hastened down two flights of stairs, to the front door. My heart beat; my breath came quickly; I felt as if the crisis of my life were at hand. I should meet her face to face; I should speak to her—should render a service that demanded acknowledgment, and might open for me a vista of happiness; I grasped the handle of the door, and with trembling hands unlocked and opened it; there was a rush of wind, and—my light was extinguished.

“You sleep like a night-watcher, sir!” screamed the angry voice of Mrs. Elwyn, as she pushed her way in. “To keep us standing half an hour in the cold! We might have caught our death! You deserve to lose your place; I shall make complaint of you in the morning, depend upon it.”

While she spoke, the daughter’s silken mantle brushed past me, and her gloved fingers pressed something into my hand. I had no time to explain; I could not have uttered a word; my breath seemed to forsake me, and my silly bashfulness held me motionless, as if chained to the spot. I stood there till the ladies had ascended the first flight of stairs—the mamma grumbling as she went—still grasping mechanically in my hand what the fair Gertrude had placed therein. Ere long, however, my self-possession returned; I ascended to my room, lighted the candle, and examined the gift. My beloved had presented me with half a dollar.

It was quite evident that both had mistaken me for the unlucky porter, at that time snoring in his dormitory; and that the gentle girl had bestowed the coin by way of consolation for her mother’s chiding. I kissed the piece of silver which had come from her hand, and was a token of the benevolence of her heart. A ray of hope gleamed from its polished face. The matter must necessarily be explained; the mistake must be rectified. This would lead to an interview; and I would trust fortune for the rest.

After due deliberation, I came to the conclusion that as the affair in some points wore a comical aspect, it would be best to present it in that light. I took my pencil and hammered out some poetry, which was to be sent with the half dollar to the fair donor. Under the veil of a sprightly and facetious effusion, I thought, more could be said, than in a grave note; and no offence could be taken at verses meant for a _jeu d’esprit_, describing the feeling experienced when the coin touched my palm, as “shocking”—which word terminated the line—imperative necessity called for a rhyme—it ran as follows:

“Oh, had the gift been but a glove—or stocking!
Such token from _thy_ hand a joy had given,
I would not barter for the joy of heaven!”

I was not much used to writing poetry; but on reading over the missive, it struck me as combining humor and sentiment in a manner peculiarly felicitous. The lines could not fail to make an impression; she would, perhaps, reply; all would fall out as I wished, and I should look upon that night as the most fortunate of my life. I mended a crow-quill, and copied the verses neatly on rose-colored paper, resolving to send them the first thing in the morning. She would then see they had been written impromptu. It was late when I threw myself on the bed, and late when I awoke. No benevolent genius warned me in the visions of slumber.

The next day I folded the money and verses together, and dispatched the package to my charmer by the maid. I was frequently at my post of observation; but not once did I catch a glimpse of her at the window. The guitar was silent—the embroidery-frame untouched. Toward evening I waylaid the chamber-maid, and having crossed her hand with a piece of silver, inquired particularly how my dispatch had been received.

“Why, sir,” was the answer, “the young lady only laughed, and showed the paper to her mother; and Mrs. Elwyn threw it into the fire, and said as how she wondered how you could have had the impudence; but she expected you did not know any better.”

A blight fell upon my hopes; I had evidently committed an error. That unlucky “stocking!”, it was that which had played me false—which had offended the lady’s sense of propriety—which had suddenly let down a partition-wall between me and the accomplishment of my hopes. But through the chinks of that now impassable barrier, Gertrude appeared lovelier than ever. A thousand wild projects floated through my brain. I would hire bandits to assail her; would rush in time to the rescue, and be wounded in her defense. I would play the incendiary, and bear her in triumph through the flames; I would get up a quarrel, and fight a duel for her sake. But these were only feverish fantasies—castles built in the air—which melted in the cold current of reality. I could perceive plainly that at table, when I stole a glance at her, Mrs. Elwyn had grown colder and statelier than ever. She never honored me by a look, and, worse than all, Gertrude did not appear. It was not till after two days I learned, by mere accident, that she had taken cold on that eventful night, and was indisposed.

But ill luck cannot last always. The beautiful girl soon reappeared at meals as blooming and radiant as usual; and, oh joy! again I was so happy as to behold her seated at the window, and watch the movements of her delicate fingers over the strings of her guitar. Here was a bliss of which no frowning matron could deprive me. One day, too, as in my eagerness to drink in the tones of her music, I had softly opened my window, and was imprudently leaning forward, rapt in a trance of bliss, I saw an unmistakable smile on her lips. Yes, she smiled; and though at the same moment she drew back, and let the guitar slide from her lap, my heart was thrilled by the knowledge that she was at last aware of my secret. What woman could be insensible to homage so delicate and unobtrusive. Hope once more stirred within me. The next morning I bribed the maid to leave on her table, as if by mistake, a just published number of the “Home Journal,” in which was a poem of rare beauty, which aptly expressed my admiration and my love. I had ventured to draw a light pencil line around the verses, which I hoped she might perceive and understand. My little ruse succeeded. A servant brought me the paper in the evening, saying it had been left by mistake in Mrs. Elwyn’s apartment; but it bore evidence of having been carefully read.

It was not safe to venture often on such expedients; but the fourteenth of February was at hand; and the most timid lover might avail himself of its privileges. Valentines of all descriptions, for all stages of the tender passion, were to be had at the fancy stores; and a little alteration made them original. On the morning of the festival, one, delicately painted on embossed paper, and glowing with sentiment, was dispatched to the fair Gertrude, and was followed by one for each day of the week succeeding. I received none in return—but I was not discouraged; it was enough that mine were read.

I was now at the height of my content; for there was a charm in the sort of mystery that enveloped our intercourse, the more delightful to me, because I had the authority of all the romances I had ever read, for believing that it was the best nourisher of affection. Fancy would invest with a thousand gifts and graces, the lover whom she knew not, yet whose devotion was breathed into the air around her. Flowers would succeed verses as the messengers of the heart; I should grow bolder in time, till every obstacle was triumphed over. Such would have been the natural course of things but for the awkward interruption which brings me to the conclusion of my story.

I had gone one evening to a supper given by a bachelor friend, and returned late from the scene of mirth and revelry. As I walked rapidly down —— Place, for the night was chilly, and the street covered with snow, I saw two ladies alight from a carriage in front of Mrs. ——’s house. I hastened my pace; a thrill of joy penetrated my breast; it was she—my beloved, with her mother; and both were, by a happy chance, destined to be obliged to me. I sprung up the steps, murmured a “good evening,” and drew out my night-key. I was surprised to find how much courage, nay, even pride, I derived from the possession of this little instrument. Briefly apologizing to the ladies for thus venturing to save them the trouble of summoning a servant, I thrust the key in the lock, and turned it with all my force. It snapped violently; I drew out the fragment, and, to my horror, discovered that in my haste, I had not used the night-key, but the key of my chamber.

“I really—beg ten thousand pardons,” I faltered—“it was the wrong key—”

“The key is broken!” cried the shrill voice of Mrs. Elwyn. “It is dreadful to be kept standing here!” She pulled the bell furiously.

In affright I pulled it also; the porter’s hurried steps were presently heard in the hall, and he was rattling at the lock.

“Open the door!” cried the lady, impatiently.

“I cannot unlock it!” said the man within; “there must be something in the key-hole.”

“The broken key!” screamed Mrs. Elwyn, with an angry glance at me; “so officious, to insist—”

“Mother!” pleaded the soft, low voice of Gertrude; for she saw that the dame was forgetting herself.

“It must—it can—I will run for a locksmith!” I exclaimed. I saw that the carriage had driven off.

“And we are to stand here alone, perhaps to be insulted by any drunken vagabond!” cried Mrs. Elwyn. “But go—nothing else can be done. Make haste—why do you wait?”

A locksmith lived in the next street; I flew thither; by chance he was still up, and as soon as his tools could be collected, he hastened to the spot. There stood the angry lady, her teeth chattering with cold, her mantle covered with the snow-flakes that had begun to fall, murmuring at the delay; her daughter was leaning in silence against the side of the door; and within could be heard the grumbling of the porter. I could not see Gertrude’s face, even if I had been calm enough to read its expression.

The skillful locksmith, with the ready tact of his profession, soon comprehended the difficulty, and having tried to pick the lock, decided that it must be done from the inside. A ladder was in requisition, to enter by the window above. Mrs. Elwyn was in despair at this intelligence, and broke out into complaints and reproaches, intended for me, which I heard but imperfectly, as I ran to borrow a ladder of some firemen in the neighborhood. It was brought by two of the company, who were followed by several others eager to learn what was going on. These were joined by some late idlers, while the windows of the adjoining and opposite houses, as well as those of our own, were thrown open, and a multitude of heads thrust out to see what was the matter. A pretty scene for the crowd-hating, aristocratic, haughty Mrs. Elwyn! For once, unmindful of her dignity, she stood giving voluble directions to the locksmith, already at the window, calling to him with flurried emphasis, to be careful not to throw down the flower-stand, or break the vase full of goldfish—which articles belonged to her. As for me, my only feeling was one of absolute despair, for I knew that my transgression, with its consequences, was unpardonable. We obtained entrance at last, and I heard the farewell of my love in the indignant rustle of Mrs. Elwyn’s mantle, as she swept up stairs. A day or two after she and her daughter departed on a visit to Washington, and when they returned, took lodgings elsewhere. I heard in a few months of Gertrude’s marriage, but felt no sorrow, for the spell was broken. That midnight scene, with the mortification it caused me, was a harmless termination to my First Love.

* * * * *

THE DEATH OF CLEOPATRA.

BY W. GILMORE SIMMS, AUTHOR OF “GUY RIVERS,” “THE YEMASSEE,” “RICHARD
HURDIS,” &c.

_Guard._ What work is here? Charmian, is this well done?
_Charmian._ It is well done, and fitting for a princess,
Descended of so many royal kings.
SHAKSPEARE.

AUGUSTUS CÆSAR. DOLABELLA.
_Augustus._ Dead! say’st thou? Cleopatra?

_Dolabella._ She sleeps fast—
Will answer nothing more—hath no more lusts
For passion to persuade—nor art to breed
Any more combats. I have seen her laid—
As for a bridal—in a pomp of charms,
That mocked the flashing jewels in her crown
With beauty never theirs. Her bridegroom one
Who conquers more than Cæsar—a grim lord
Now in the fullest possession of his prize,
Who riots on her sweets; seals with close kiss
The precious caskets of her eyes, that late
Held—baiting fond desire with hope of spoil—
Most glorious gems of life; and, on her cheek,
Soft still with downy ripeness—not so pale,
As sudden gush of fancy in the heart
Might bring to virgin consciousness—he lays
His icy lip, that fails to cause her shrink
From the unknown soliciting. Her sleep
Dreams nothing of the embrace, the very last
Her eager and luxurious form may know,
Of that dread ravisher.

_Augustus._ If it be true,
She still hath baffled me. My conquest sure—
My triumph incomplete! I had borne her else,
The proudest trophy of a myriad spoil,
In royal state to Rome. Give me to know
The manner of her death.

_Dolabella._ By her own hands,
That conscious still, commended to her breast
The fatal kiss of Nile’s envenomed asp;
That subtle adder, that from slime and heat
Receives a gift of poison, whose least touch
Is a sure stoppage of the living tides.

_Augustus._ Her death commends her more than all her life!
’Twas like a queen—fit finish to a state,
That, in its worst excess, passionate and wild,
Had still a pomp of majesty, too proud
For mortal subjugation! She had lusts
Most profligate of harm—but with a will,
That, under laws of more restraint, had raised
Her passions into powers, which might have borne
Best fruits for the possessor. They have wrought
Much evil to her nature; but her heart
Cherished within a yearning sense of love
That did not always fail; and where she set
The eye of her affections, her fast faith
Kept the close bond of obligation sure.
This still should serve, when censure grows most free,
To sanctify her fault. In common things
Majestic, as in matters of more state,
She had besides the feminine arts to make
Her very lusts seem grateful; and with charms
That mocked all mortal rivalry, she knew
To dress the profligate graces in her gift—
Generous to very wantonness, and free
Of bounty, where Desert might nothing claim—
That Virtue’s self might doubt of her own shape,
So lovely grew her counterfeit. O’er all,
Her splendor, and her soul’s magnificence.
The pomp that crowned her state—luxurious shows
Where Beauty, grown subservient to a sway
That made Art her first vassal—these, so twinned
With her voluptuous weakness, did become
Her well, and took from her the hideous hues
That else had made men loathe!
I would have seen
This princess ere she died! How looks she now?

_Dol._ As one who lives but sleeps; no change to move
The doubts of him who sees, yet nothing knows,
Of that sly, subtle enemy, which still
Keeps harbor round her heart. Charmian, her maid,
Had, ere I entered, lidded up the eyes,
That had no longer office; and she lay,
With each sweet feature harmonizing still
As truly with the nature as at first,
When Beauty’s wide-world wonder she went forth
Spelling both art and worship! Never did sleep
More slumberous, more infant-like, give forth
Its delicate breathings. You might see the hair
Wave in stray ringlets as the downy breath
Lapsed through the parted lips, and dream the leaf
Torn from the rose and laid upon her mouth
Was lifted by that zephyr of the soul
That still kept watch within—waiting on life
In ever anxious ministry. Lips and brow—
The one most sweetly parted as for song—
The other smooth and bright, even as the pearls
That, woven in fruit-like clusters, hung above,
Starring the raven curtains of her hair—
Declared such calm of happiness, as never
Her passionate life had known. No show of pain—
No writhed muscle—no distorted cheek,
Deformed the beautiful picture of repose,
Or spoke th’ unequal struggle, when fond life
Strives with its dread antipathy. Her limbs
Lay pliant, with composure, on the couch,
Whose draperies loosely fell about her form,
With gentle flow, and natural fold on fold,
Proof of no difficult conflict. There had been,
Perchance, one pang of terror, when she gave
Free access to her terrible enemy;
Or in the moment when the venomous chill
Went sudden to her heart; for from her neck
The silken robes had parted. The white breast
Lay half revealed, save where the affluent hair
Streamed over it in thick disheveled folds,
That asked no further care. Oh! to behold,
With eye still piercing to the sweet recess,
Where rose each gentle slope, that seemed to swell
Beneath mine eye, as conscious of my gaze,
And throbbing with emotion soft as strange,
Of love akin to fear. Thus dwelling still,
Like little billows on some happy sea,
They sudden seemed to freeze, as if the life
Grew cold when all was loveliest. One blue vein
Skirted the white curl of each heaving wave,
A tint from some sweet sunbow, such as life
Flings ever on the cold domain of death;
And, at their equal heights, two ruby crests—
Two yet unopened buds from the same flower—
Borne upward by the billows, rising yet,
Grew into petrified gems, with each an eye
Eloquent pleading to the passionate heart
For all of love it knows! Alas! the mock!
That Death should mask himself with loveliness,
And Beauty have no voice, in such an hour,
To warn its eager worshiper. I saw—
And straight forgot, in joy of what I saw,
What still I knew—that Death was in my sight,
And what was seeming beautiful, was but
The twilight—the brief interval—betwixt
The glorious day and darkness. I had kissed
The wooing bliss before me, but that then
Crawled forth the venomous reptile from the folds
Where still it harbored—crawled across that shrine
Of Beauty’s best perfections, which, meseemed,
To shrink and shudder ’neath its loathly march,
Instinct with all the horrors at my heart.

_Augustus._ Thus Guilt and Shame deform the Beautiful!

* * * * *

THE FAIRIES’ SONG.

BY HEINRICH.

Stars are twinkling bright above us,
Music calls us on;
Shades of eve that guard and love us,
Veil the hallowed lawn;
Hand in hand,
All the band,
Dance we till the breaking dawn!

Hark! the gently swelling measure!
Twine the magic rings!
Dance, while lasts our nightly pleasure,
While the bluebells ring;
And above,
’Mid the grove,
Nightingales in chorus sing.

Far away all human voices!
Spirits far away!
Naught but Fairy Elf rejoices
Where the Fairies play;
Play and dance,
’Neath the glance
Of the moon’s reflected ray!

Faster! Faster! Night is waning;
All must end with night.
Russet clouds of morn are staining
Phœbe’s silvery light;
Sisters, hark!
’Twas the lark!
Fairies! Fairies! Take to flight.

* * * * *

THE TWO COUSINS;

A MAS-SA-SANGA LEGEND OF WESTERN CANADA.

BY G. COPWAY, OR KAH-GE-GA-GAH-BOWH.

There lived among the hills of the North two most intimate friends, who appeared to have loved each other from the hour of their earliest childhood. In summer they lived by a beautiful lake, in autumn on the banks of a noble river. In appearance they were nearly similar, apparently of the same age as they were of the same size. In their early days a good old Indian woman attended to their wants, and cared for their wigwam. Together they strolled among the green woods and shared the results of their ramblings. Years passed by, and manhood came. They used larger bows and arrows. One day the old lady took them by her side and said—“The nation to which we belong fasts, and now I want you to fast, that you may become great hunters.” So they fasted.

As spring advanced they killed a great many wild ducks, and kept the old woman of the wigwam busy. In the latter part of the year they killed large numbers of beavers, with the furs of which they clothed their grandmother and themselves. In their journey one day they made an agreement, to the effect, that if when they fasted the gods were kindly disposed toward one, he would inform the other.

In the fall they were far from the rivers, but yet moved toward the north, where, as they knew, the bears most resorted.

During that winter they killed a great many, as also during the month of March ensuing.

At the close of one of their hunting expeditions, they turned their feet toward their home, at which they arrived at a late hour. As they approached, they heard the sound of several voices besides that of their grandmother. They listened. They knew that strangers were in the wigwam, and entering beheld two young and beautiful damsels, seated in that part of the room in which they generally rested during the night. To the young hunters the young women appeared very strange and modest. At length the old lady said to the young men—

“Nosesetook—my children—I have called these two young women from the south, that they may aid me in taking care of all the meat and venison you bring home, for I am getting old and weak, and cannot do as much as I used to. I have put them by your sides that they may be your companions.”

When the last words were spoken they looked upon each other, and soon left to wander by themselves in the forest around. They consulted together as to whether they should comply with her request. One said he should leave the wigwam. The other said that if they left there would be no one to supply their aged grandmother. And they finally agreed to remain in the wigwam and pay no regard to the new-comers.

They slept side by side every night, and agreed that if either should begin to love one of the young strangers they would inform the other, and would then separate forever. In February they obtained a vast amount of game, as the bears having retired to their winter-quarters were easily found and captured.

It was observed one evening that one of the young men gazed very intently at one of the strangers, and the next morning as they went out he asked the other whether he did not begin to love the young damsel who sat on his side of the birchen fire. He replied negatively.

It was observed that one of the cousins appeared to be deeply absorbed in thought every evening, and that his manners were very reserved. After a fortunate hunting-day, as they were wending their way home with their heavy burden of bear and deer, one accused the other of loving the young woman. Tell me, said he, and if you do, I will leave you to yourselves. If you have a wife I cannot take the same delight with you as I did when we followed the chase.

His cousin sighed and said, “I will tell you to-night as we lie side by side.” At night they reasoned together and agreed to hunt. If they did not meet with success, they must separate.

The next morning they went to the woods. They were not far distant from each other. The one who was in love shot only five, while the other returned with the tongues of twenty bears. The former was all the time thinking of the damsel at home, while the latter sought out his game with nothing else to divert his mind.

On their return home the lucky man informed his grandmother that he should leave the next day, and that what he should kill on the morrow must be searched after, as he should not return to tell them where he had killed the game. His cousin was grieved to find that his mind was made up to leave, and began to expostulate with him to change his determination, but he would not be persuaded to do so.

The next day, the young man who was to leave bound a rabbit-skin about his neck, to keep it warm, and having painted himself with red and yellow paints he left; his cousin following just behind, entreating him not to go. “I will go,” said he, “and live in the north, where I shall see but four persons, and when you look that way you will see me.”

They walked side by side until he began to ascend, and as he did so, the other wept the more bitterly, and entreated him more perseveringly not to leave him. The cousin ascended to the skies, and is now seen in the north, Ke-wa-din Ah-nung (North Star,) still hunting the polar bear; while the other wept himself to naught before he could arrive home, and now he answers and mocks everywhere everybody. He lives in craggy rocks, and his name is Bah-swa-nay (Echo.)

The young maidens lived for a long time in the south under ambrosial bowers, awaiting the return of their lovers, until one fell in love with mankind, and the other yet lives in that country, awaiting the return of her lover, where

——“she looks as clear
As morning roses, newly washed in dew.”

* * * * *

UNFADING FLOWERS.

BY T. S. ARTHUR.

Thirty years ago, a small, barefooted boy, paused to admire the flowers in a well cultivated garden. The child was an orphan, and had already felt how hard the orphan’s lot. The owner of the garden, who was trimming a border, noticed the lad, and spoke to him kindly.

“Do you love flowers?” said he.

The boy replied, “Oh yes. We used to have beautiful flowers in our garden.”

The man laid down his knife, and gathering a few flowers, took them to the fence, through the panels of which the boy was looking, and handing them to him, said as he did so,

“Here’s a nice little bunch for you.”

A flush went over the child’s face as he took the flowers. He did not make any reply, but in his large eyes, as he lifted them to the face of the man, was an expression of thankfulness, to be read as plainly as words in a book.

The act, on the part of the man, was one of spontaneous kindness, and scarcely thought of again; but, by the child, it was never forgotten.

Years went by, and through toil, privation and suffering, both in body and mind, the boy grew up to manhood. From ordeals like this, come forth our most effective men. If kept free from vicious associates, the lad of feeling and mental activity becomes ambitious, and rises in society above the common level. So it proved in the case of this orphan boy. He had few advantages of education, but such as offered were well improved. It happened that his lot was cast in a printing office; and the young compositor soon became interested in his work. He did not set the types as a mere mechanic, but went beyond the duties of his calling, entering into the ideas to which he was giving verbal expression, and making them his own. At twenty-one he was a young man of more than ordinary intelligence and force of character. At thirty-five he was the conductor of a widely-circulated and profitable newspaper, and as a man, respected and esteemed by all who knew him.

During the earnest struggle that all men enter into who are ambitious to rise in the world, the thoughts do not often go back and rest, meditatively, upon the earlier time of life. But after success has crowned each well-directed effort, and the gaining of a desired position, no longer remains a subject of doubt, the mind often brings up from the far-off past most vivid recollections of incidents and impressions that were painful or pleasurable at the time, and which are now seen to have had an influence, more or less decided, upon the whole after life. In this state of reflection sat one day the man we have here introduced. After musing for a long time, deeply abstracted, he took up his pen and wrote hastily—and these were the sentences he traced upon the paper that lay before him.

“How indelibly does a little act of kindness, performed at the right moment, impress itself upon the mind. We meet, as we pass through the world, so much of rude selfishness, that we guard ourselves against it, and scarcely feel its effects. But spontaneous kindness comes so rarely, that we are surprised when it appears, and delighted and refreshed as by the perfume of flowers in the dreary winter. When we were a small boy, an orphan, and with the memory of a home forever lost too vivid in our young heart, a man, into whose beautiful garden we stood looking, pulled a few flowers, and handed them through the fence, speaking a kind word as he did so. He did not know, and perhaps never will know, how deeply we were touched by his act. From a little boy we loved the flowers, and ere that heaviest affliction a child ever knows—the loss of parents—fell upon us, we almost lived among them. But death separated between us and all those tender associations and affections that, to the hearts of children, are like dew to the tender grass. We entered the dwelling of a stranger, and were treated thenceforth as if we had, or ought to have, no feelings, no hopes, no weaknesses. The harsh command came daily and almost hourly to our ears; and not even for work well done, or faithful service, were we cheered by words of commendation.

“One day—we were not more than eleven years old—something turned our thoughts back upon the earlier and happier time when we had a true home, and were loved and cared for. We were once more in the garden and among the sweet blossoms, as of old, and the mother, on whose bosom we had slept, sat under the grape arbor while we filled her lap with flowers. There was a smile of love on her dear face, and her lips were parting with some word of affection, when, to scatter into nothing these dear images of the lonely boy, came the sharp command of a master, and in obedience we started forth to perform some needed service. Our way was by the garden of which we have spoken; and it was on this occasion, and while the suddenly dissipated image of our mother among the flowers was re-forming itself in our young imagination, that the incident to which we have alluded occurred. We can never forget the grateful perfume of those flowers, nor the strength and comfort which the kind words and manner of the giver imparted to our fainting spirit. We took them home, and kept them fresh as long as water would preserve their life and beauty; and when they faded, and the leaves fell, pale and withered, upon the ground, we grieved for their loss as if a real friend had been taken away.

“It is a long, long time since that incident occurred; but the flowers which there sprung up in our bosom, are fresh and beautiful still. They have neither faded nor withered—they cannot, for they are unfading flowers. We never looked upon the man who gave them to us that our heart did not grow warm toward him. We know not now whether he be living or dead. Twenty years ago we lost sight of him; but, if still among the dwellers of earth, and in need of a friend, we would divide with him our last morsel.”

An old man, with hair whitened by the snows of many winters, was sitting in a room that was poorly supplied with furniture, his head bowed down, and gaze cast dreamily upon the floor. A pale young girl came in while he thus sat musing. Lifting his eyes to her face, he said, while he tried to look cheerful,

“Ellen, dear, you must not go out to-day.”

“I feel a great deal better, grandpa,” returned the girl, forcing a smile. “I am able to go to work again.”

“No, child, you are not,” said the old man, firmly; “and you must not think of such a thing.”

“Don’t be so positive, grandpa.” And as she uttered this little sentence, in a half playful voice, she laid her hand among the thin gray locks on the old man’s head, and smoothed them caressingly. “You know that I must not be idle.”

“Wait, child, until your strength returns.”

“Our wants will not wait, grandpa.” As the girl said this, her face became sober. The old man’s eyes again fell to the floor, and a heavy sigh came forth from his bosom.

“I will be very careful and not overwork myself again,” resumed Ellen, after a pause.

“You must not go to-day,” said the old man, arousing himself. “It is murder. Wait at least until to-morrow. You will be stronger then.”

“If I do not go back to-day, I may lose my place. You know I have been home for three days.”

“You were sick.”

“Work will not wait. The last time I was kept away by sickness, a customer was disappointed; and there was a good deal of trouble about it.”

Another sigh came heavily from the old man’s heart.

“I will go,” said the girl. “Perhaps they will let me off for a day longer. If so, I will come back. But I must not lose the place.”

No further resistance was made by the old man. In a little while he was alone. Hours went by, but Ellen did not return. She had gone to work. Her employer would not let her go away, feeble as she was, without a forfeiture of her place.

About mid-day, finding that Ellen did not come back, the old man, after taking some food, went out. The pressure of seventy years was upon him, and his steps were slow and carefully taken.

“I must get something to do. I can work still,” he muttered to himself, as he moved along the streets. “The dear child is killing herself, and all for me.”

But what could he do? Who wanted the services of an old man like him, whose mind had lost its clearness, whose step faltered, and whose hand was no longer steady? In vain he made application for employment. Younger and more vigorous men filled all the places, and he was pushed aside. Discouraged and drooping in spirit, he went back to his home, and there awaited the fall of evening, which was to bring the return of the only being left on earth to love him. At night-fall Ellen came in. Her face, so pale in the morning, was now slightly flushed; and her eyes were brighter than when she went out. The grandfather was not deceived by this; he knew it as the sign of disease. He took her hand—it was hot; and when he bent to kiss her gentle lips, he found them burning with fever.

“Ellen, my child, why did you go to work to-day? I knew it would make you sick,” the old man said, in a voice of anguish.

Ellen tried to smile and to appear not so very ill; but nature was too much oppressed.

“I brought home some work, and will not go out to-morrow,” she remarked. “I think the walk fatigued me more than any thing else. I will feel better in the morning, after a good night’s sleep.”

But the girl’s hope failed in this. The morning found her so weak that she could not rise from bed; and when her grandfather came into her room to learn how she had passed the night, he found her weeping on her pillow. She had endeavored to get up, but her head, which was aching terribly, grew dizzy, and she fell back under a despairing consciousness that her strength was gone.

The day passed, but Ellen did not grow better. The fever still kept her body prostrate. Once or twice, when her grandfather was out of the room, she took the work she had brought home, and tried to do some of it while sitting up in bed. But ere a minute had passed, she became faint, while all grew dark around her. She was no better when night came. If her mind could have rested—if she had been free from anxious and distressing thoughts, nature would have had some power to react, but as it was, the pressure upon her was too great. She could not forget that they had scarcely so much money as a dollar left, and that her old grandfather was too feeble to work. Upon her rested all the burden of their support, and she was now helpless.

On the next morning Ellen was better. She could sit up without feeling dizzy, though her head still ached, and the fever had only slightly abated. But the old man would not permit her to leave the bed, though she begged him earnestly to let her do so.

The bundle of work that Ellen had brought home, was wrapped in a newspaper, and this her grandfather took up to read some time during the day.

“This is Mr. T——’s newspaper,” said he, as he opened it, and saw the title. “I knew T—— when he was a poor little orphan boy. But, of course, he don’t remember me. He’s prospered wonderfully.”

And then his eyes went along the columns of the paper, and he read aloud to Ellen such things as he thought would interest her. Among others was a reminiscence by the editor—the same that we have just given. The old man’s voice faltered as he read. The little incident, so feelingly described, had long since been hidden in his memory under the gathering dust of time. But now the dust was swept away, and he saw his own beautiful garden. He was in it and among the flowers; and wishfully looking through the fence stood the orphan boy. He remembered having felt pity for him, and he remembered now as distinctly as if it were but yesterday, though thirty years had intervened, the light that went over the child’s face as he handed him a few flowers that were to fade and wither in a day.

Yes, the old man’s voice faltered while he read; and when he came to the last sentence, the paper dropped upon the floor, and clasping his hands together, he lifted his dim eyes upward, while his lips moved in whispered words of thankfulness.

“What ails you, grandpa?” asked Ellen, in surprise.

But the old man did not seem to hear her voice.

“Dear grandpa,” repeated the girl, “why do you look so strangely?” She had risen in bed, and was bending toward him.

“Ellen, child,” said the old man, a light breaking over his countenance, as though a sunbeam had suddenly come into the room, “it was your old grandfather who gave the flowers to that poor little boy. Did you hear what he said?—he would divide his last morsel.”

The old man moved about the room with his unsteady steps, talking in a wandering way, so overjoyed at the prospect of relief for his child, that he was nearly beside himself. But there yet lingered some embers of pride in his heart; and from these the ashes were blown away, and they became bright and glowing. The thought of asking a favor as a return for that little act, which was to him, at the time, a pleasure, came with a feeling of reluctance. But when he looked at the pale young girl who lay with her eyes closed and her face half buried in the pillow, he murmured to himself, “It is for you—for you!” And taking up his staff, he went tottering forth into the open air.

The editor was sitting in his office, writing, when he heard the door open, and turning, he saw before him an old man with bent form and snowy head. Something in the visiter’s countenance struck him as familiar; but he did not recognize him as one whom he had seen before.

“Is Mr. T—— in?” inquired the old man.

“My name is T——,” replied the editor.

“You?” There was a slight expression of surprise in the old man’s voice.

“Yes, I am T——, my friend,” was kindly said. “Can I do any thing for you? Take this chair.”

The offered seat was accepted; and as the old man sunk into it, his countenance and manner betrayed his emotion.

“I have come,” said he, and his voice was unsteady, “to do what I could not do for myself alone. But I cannot see my poor, sick grandchild wear out and die under the weight of burdens that are too heavy to be borne. For her sake I have conquered my own pride.”

There was a pause.

“Go on,” said T——, who was looking at the old man earnestly, and endeavoring to fix his identity in his mind.

“You don’t know me?”

“Your face is not entirely strange,” said T——. “It must have been a long time since we met.”

“Long? Oh yes! It is a long, long time. You were a boy, and I unbent by age.”

“Markland!” exclaimed T——, with sudden energy, springing to his feet as the truth flashed upon him. “Say—is it so?”

“My name is Markland.”

“And do we meet again thus!” said T——, with emotion, as he grasped the old man’s hand. “Ah, sir, I have never forgotten you. When a sad-hearted boy, you spoke to me kindly, and the words comforted me when I had no other comfort. The bunch of flowers you gave me—you remember it, no doubt—are still fresh in my heart. Not a leaf has faded. They are as bright and green, and full of perfume as when I first hid them there; and there they will bloom forever—the unfading flowers of gratitude. I am glad you have come, though grieved that your declining years are made heavier by misfortune. Heaven has smiled on my efforts in the world. I have enough, and to spare.”

“I have not come for charity,” returned Markland. “I have hands, and they would not be idle, though it is not much that they can accomplish.”

“Be not troubled on that account, my friend,” was kindly answered. “I will find something for you to do. But first tell me all about yourself.”

Thus encouraged, the old man told his story. It was the common history of loss of property and friends, and the approach of want with declining years. T—— saw that pride and native independence were still strong in Markland’s bosom, feeble as he was, and really unable to enter upon any serious employment; and his first impulse was to save his feelings at the same time that he extended to him entire and permanent relief. This he found no difficulty in doing, and the old man was soon after placed in a situation where but little application was necessary, while the income was all-sufficient for the comfortable support of himself and grandchild.

The flowers offered with a purely humane feeling, proved to be fadeless flowers; and their beauty and perfume came back to the senses of the giver when all other flowers were dead or dying on his dark and dreary way.

* * * * *

WILD-BIRDS OF AMERICA.

BY PROFESSOR FROST.

LABRADOR AUK, OR PUFFIN. (_Fratercula Arctica._)

We have already remarked that there are but two species of the true Auk. The Puffin belongs to the sub-genus Fratercula. Of the singular figure of this bird our engraving gives a true representation; of its habits, Selby gives the following account, which is corroborated by other writers who have described it.

“Although the Puffin is found in very high latitudes, and its distribution through the Arctic Circle is extensive, it is only known to us as a summer visitant, and that from the south, making its first appearance in the vicinity of its breeding stations, about the middle of April, and regularly departing between the 10th and the 20th of August. Many resort to the islands, selecting such as are covered with a stratum of vegetable mould; and here they dig their own burrows, from there not being any rabbits to dispossess upon the particular islets they frequent. They commence this operation about the first week in May, and the hole is generally excavated to the depth of three feet, often in a curving direction, and occasionally with two entrances. When engaged in digging, which is principally performed by the males, they are sometimes so intent on their work as to admit of being taken by hand, and the same may also be done during incubation. At this period I have frequently obtained specimens, by thrusting my arm into the burrow, though at the risk of receiving a severe bite from the powerful and sharp edged bill of the old bird. At the farther end of this hole the single egg is deposited, which in size nearly equals that of a pullet, and, as Pennant observes, varies in form; in some instances one end being acute, and in others equally obtuse. Its color when first laid is white, but it becomes soiled and dirty from its immediate contact with the earth: no materials being collected for a nest at the end of the burrow. The young are hatched after a month’s incubation, and are then covered with a long blackish down above, which gradually gives place to the feathered plumage, so that at the end of a month or five weeks they are able to quit the burrow, and follow their parents to the open sea. Soon after this time, or about the second week in August, the whole leave our coasts, commencing their equatorial migration. At an early age the bill of this bird is small and narrow, scarcely exceeding that of the young Razor-bill at the same period of life; and not till after the second year does this member acquire its full development, both as to depth, color, and its transverse furrows.

“In rocky places, they deposit their single egg in the holes and crevices. The length of the bird is about twelve inches. The half of the bill nearest the head is bluish; the rest red. The corners of the mouth are puckered into a kind of star. The legs and feet are orange. The plumage is black and white, with the exception of the cheeks and chin, which are sometimes gray. The young, pickled with spices, are sometimes considered dainties.”

THE LITTLE AUK. (_Mergulus Melano Leukos._)

The Little Auk, or Sea Dove, is an example of the genus Mergulus. It braves the inclemency of very high latitudes, and is found in immense flocks on the inhospitable coasts of Greenland, Spitsbergen, and Melville Island. Here they watch the motion of the ice, and when it is broken up by storms, “they come down in legions, crowding into every fissure, to banquet on the crustaceous and other marine animals which lie there at their mercy.

“The Little Auk is between nine and ten inches in length; the bill is black and the legs inclining to brown; the plumage is black and white; and in winter the front of the neck, which is black in summer, becomes whitish. It lays but one egg, of a pale, bluish green, on the most inaccessible ledges of the precipices which overhang the ocean.” Such are the accounts of the naturalists and voyagers who have visited the arctic regions. With its name of Sea Dove, its apparently delicate structure, and its daring and heroic habits of life, it affords a most inviting theme to the poet.

* * * * *

PLEASANT WORDS.

BY CAROLINE MAY.

Pleasant words are as an honey-comb, sweet to the soul, and
health to the bones. PROV. xvi. 24.

Many truths the Wise man gives
To his sons and daughters,
As pure and useful, strong and bright,
As streams of living waters;
But one I choose from all the rest,
And call it now the very best.

Pleasant words, he says, are like
A comb of fragrant honey;
The savings-bank of thriving bees,
Whose cells contain their money,
Where they, in little space, lay up
The gains of many a flowery cup.

“Sweet to the soul,” they gently soothe
In days of bitter anguish;
“Health to the bones,” they cheer the sick
And lift the heads that languish;
And with their care-dispelling chime,
They touch the heart at any time.

O! let us then ask God to plant
In us His flowers of beauty,
And teach us to watch over them
With humble, patient duty;
Sweet flowers that grace both age and youth,
Love, meekness, gentleness and truth.

For, as honey is not found
Where no flowers are blowing,
So, unless within our hearts
Love and truth are growing,
No one upon our lips will find
“Pleasant words,” sincere and kind.

But, unlike the fragile flowers,
Who die—as soon as ever
They have given their honey up—
The more that we endeavor
To lavish kindness everywhere,
The more we still shall have to spare.

“Pleasant words!” O let us strive
To use them very often;
Other hearts they will delight,
And our own they’ll soften;
While God himself will hear above,
“Pleasant words” of truth and love.

“Pleasant words!” The river’s wave
That ripples every minute
On the shore we love so well,
Hath not such music in it;
Nor are the songs of breeze or birds,
Half so sweet as “pleasant words!”

* * * * *

DIRGE.

ON THE DEATH OF A YOUNG LADY.

BY RICHARD PENN SMITH.

Mournfully toll the bell:
Gently bear earth to earth;
Solemnly chant the knell;
Death claims a mortal birth.

Virgins, strew early flowers,
Plucked from the snow in spring;
Emblems of her sad hours—
Smiling while withering.

She was a gentle one:
Pure as a seraph’s tear;
Too soon her task was done;
Born but to disappear!

Low chant her requiem;
Close o’er her breast the sod;
Angels, teach her your hymn,
While winging her way to God.

* * * * *

PASSING AWAY.

BY ANNIE GREY.

’Tis written on the early flower,
By a single faded leaf;
’Tis written with terrific power
Upon the burning cheek.

’Tis written with an iron pen
Upon that old man’s brow;
And mark its tyrant impress when
It touched thy darling now.

’Tis written on the fleeting smile
And on the falling tear;
’Tis seen upon that old quaint dial,
And in the grave-yard near.

’Tis written in thy mother’s touch,
And in thy father’s care;
These may not—though they love thee much—
They may not linger here.

Here, too, we see on friendship’s bond
Its shadowy impress laid;
The love we deemed so true, so fond,
Its own dark grave hath made.

Yet surely there is one thing here
Which may not pass away—
’Tis early love, so fond, so dear,
It cannot yield its sway?

Oh! mark the eye averted now,
And list to that scornful word,
And see the cherished broken vow—
E’en this hath the mandate heard.

’Tis written, then, on all things here,
On smiles, on tears, on joy, on wo,
On that we prize, on that we fear,—
All teach alike that we must go.

* * * * *

THE UNDIVIDED HEART.

AFTER THE MANNER OF AN EARLY ENGLISH POET.

BY MYRRHA.

When the rich merchant sendeth out his store,
To multiply in foreign lands and seas,
He scattereth it to every friendly shore,
And spreads his sails to every favoring breeze.

Then, if one bark, more luckless than the rest,
Should chance make shipwreck on some fatal coast,
Seeing he is of many more possest,
He comforts him, although that one be lost.