Are they not dear to thee as when together,

Through the dim wood-paths we were wont to roam, And spend the days of warm, sunshiny weather,

Mischievous truants both from school and home?

Come to the hill-side! where we used to clamber,
Reckless of tattered frock or ruined shoe;
To watch its summit bathed in liquid amber,
And pluck the berries that profusely grew
In shining clusters there - do you remember

The songs and dances in the harvest's prime —
The merry nutting frolics in September -
The friendly gatherings at Christmas time?

They are but memories now! yet not less cherished
Because time's misty veil is o'er them cast;
Not all their beauty from our hearts hath perished,

Though the first freshness of their bloom hath passed.
Like spirits, still they haunt the gray old mountain,
Or hide themselves within the lily's bell;
Or blend their whispers with the silvery fountain
That makes glad music in the lonely dell.

With noiseless tread their footsteps still pursue us
Through every spot where we were wont to rove;
In every breeze their gentle voices woo us,

With words of tenderness and fervent love.
Come, then, blest spirits! with your bright revealings,
And strew sweet memories along our way,-
But, ah, ye bring not back the joyous feelings,
The glad light-heartedness of childhood's day!

That may not be ! life's freshness has departed,

And clouds have gathered in the summer skies; Hopes have been crushed, and dearest wishes thwarted, And fairy visions dazzle not our eyes.

But, mid the heart's lone, desolated places,
Its ruined altars and its fallen fanes,
Unseared, unblighted, Memory's green oasis
In amaranthine beauty still remains.

A MEMORIAL.

BY MRS. E. A. BACON.

"Is no contentment in a world like this,

Save in forgetting the immortal dream?"

"A STORY, write a story!" says my friend, for the third, and, I should judge by that look of discouragement, for the last time, he little imagining that the first moment that wish was expressed, visions of ruined castles, moss-grown cottages, dark forests, and every other romantic scene of a like interesting character, have been dancing before me. But to write a story! O, in this age of improvement, when, from the removing of a mountain to the extracting of dust from our soiled robes, a labor-saving machine is invented, why, still, must we keep in the old tread-mill style of story-writing? Why, I verily believe, if my old grandmother- Peace to her ashes!-seventy years ago, had attempted to write a story, she would have commenced precisely as does her unworthy granddaughter at this late period—that is, in the remotest corner

of the house, with the door secure from all prattling intruders, she would seize the pen, knit her brow, and screw her poor intellect to the highest point. One only improvement am I able to make, patient reader; instead of the antiquated style, "My story is but a feeble effort of my pen," I beg leave to suggest the more truth-telling excuse for a poor production, "It is the best I can do it is the highest effort of my genius."

But to my story. Shall I tell you of the beautiful little world that lies spread before the window of my bird's-nest study the home pictures with their overshadowing trees bathed in the morning sunlight? Shall I people them with living, breathing forms, capable of the like improvement, subject to the same infirmities as ourselves? And yet why should I? You, reader, have the same bright world around you; within your own household band are heroes and heroines of stranger tales than my fancies can create. Let me tell you of the heart, the inner life of one you could never have known, for to one alone were the realities of her being revealed. Say you I am an unfaithful steward? Why should the treasure be longer concealed, when so many are famishing for the bread of life? The bread of life! O, should but one learn from this

sketch of Eva where it may be found, she will not chide me for having made the disclosure.

Behold her, then, in the Spring-time of her existence and a warm, bright, glorious spring it was shielded from every chilling blast by maternal love, and basking in the sunshine of innocence and truth. Visions of delight and enduring happiness sprung up with every little wild-flower around her home, and the far-off trees that supported the blue canopy above her were but steps to the rainbow path that she shall tread when the good angels say, "Come up higher." What though the thunder rolled and the lightning flashed from that "high blue floor? "it was but the purifying word that should make more lovely the beautiful earth.

Then came the sultry Summer of life, when she thirsted for the cool waters of knowledge, and reached high her feeble hands to grasp the golden fruit of understanding; but, all unsatisfied, she wandered beyond the bounds of her Eden. She sat beneath the broad spreading branches of the dim old trees, that from her little window she had once looked upon as supporting the heavens, but now high, higher up appeared its glorious blue, and the voices of the angel choir might never greet her. Shattered at her feet lay an old oak, and gloomy voices whispered that the