was only too true; all my endeavors to find her were fruitless. At the post-office I found a letter, written a long time previously, which stated that I would find her residing with a family in Happy Valley. With a heart fluttering 'twixt hope and fear I hurried there; the occupants of the house designated, knew nothing of her, they were new comers, and all they knew of the former occupants was that they had gone to the mines; thus was my last hope defeated. My means, small at first, were exhausted, but borrowing of my friend, I went to the mines. As a miner I was for tunate, but never happy. To discover Bertha was my constant aim, and never from my mind. I used every endeavor; even advertised, stating where I could be found, hoping that by chance she might see it and come to me, but it availed nothing. Three months ago, while traveling, I was taken sick and obliged to stop at a way-side house. Judge of my surprise and joy in meeting Bertha there. She was of ficiating as house-keeper, and during a long and serious illness I was nursed by her. We determined upon my recovery to come directly here, and with explanations ask forgiveness and claim our child. Night before last we arrived in town, and yesterday learned that which induced us to pursue a course other than first intended, and the result of which you already know."

joy; I made her my confidant as far as possible without compromising my promise to Edward; she kindly offered me a home and protection, which I accepted and, fearful of being discovered, caused the report of my death to reach you. Then was Eva born. Words further will not express the kindness I received from both my friend and her husband; after Eva's birth they were, if possible, more kind. Eva was six weeks old and Edward did not come. Have I been deceived? and am I really lost? I asked myself-but no, I could not think it-he will surely come some time, was the ever ready answer. I felt, too, that I was a burden to my friends; who, besides their own and mine, had two little mouths to feed. They talked of leav ing San Francisco for the mines; for me to go with them would be only an useless expense, as Eva demanded all my time and attention; and I could not possibly render them any assistance; I thought that were it not for me they would leave immediately, and what course to pursue puzzled me much. One evening, as I sat watching over Eva and thinking of the future, I suddenly remembered 'twas Christmas Eve, and I thought of you, of the good home I had left, and of the many happy Eves we'd passed together. I had sometimes thought of leaving Eva with you, and sitting there, I thought of it again, and asked myself' Why not to-night?' It was the best possible time, for I knew that on Christmas Eve all your finer feelings and sympan-thies were awakened; I determined to do so, and with the assistance of my friend, everything was soon prepared. With a throbbing heart I started on my mission, and reaching here, placed the basket upon the door-step, and taking one last look, knocked quickly and sped around the house-corner, there to stop and listen. The few moments which expired while waiting for my summons to be answered were full of intense anguish, and seemed an age; my heart had ceased its flutterings and was motionless-I could scarcely breathe. The door opened, and I heard an exclamation of surprise; then there appeared to be a conversation; but, so low, I could not catch the words; and then, father, I heard you say: 'We will rear it, no matter whose it was, it shall be ours now; and if its parents can abandon it, never shall it be said that we turned a helpless babe away at any time, much less on Christmas Eve.' The door closed, and Eva found a home; I kneeled there upon the ground and thanked you with my whole

"Well," said the old gentleman, with a long breath, "it looks better, but you have acted from the first like a pair of fools. Bertha, why did you not, instead of running away, confide in and rely upon us for sympathy and assistance?"

"I could not, father, for I made a solemn promise to Edward never, under any circumstances, to reveal our marriage without his consent. By every steamer I expected him, and rather than have broken my word to him I would have died. As steamer after steamer arrived, bringing no news of Edward, I became alarmed; I knew that my situation would soon be discovered, particularly as Edith had already questioned me; but, I determined that if disgrace and shame would come, it should not be beneath this roof; I concocted many plans, but none feasible; until, one day when walking alone through Happy Valley, I stopped at a cottage for the purpose of resting, and there I found an old acquaintance in the form of a lady who was at one time an assistant teacher at our Seminary in W- and with whom I was ever an especial favorite; she was so glad to see me that she fairly cried with

we can make room to-night, and afterward arrange for the future. But, girls, why don't you bring Eva out? Strange you didn't think of it."

heart; I prayed that God would pardon me and bless you, and that the spirit of our mother pitying me, would guard my child; the bright stars looked down, and twinkling, seemed to say, 'Your prayers Eva was brought and introduced, and are registered, and shall be answered.' although shy at first, her timidity soon With a lighter heart than I had felt for passed away, and she sat in Bertha's lap, months, I hurried home. But where was appearing quite at home, but couldn't very Edward? 'twas strange, very strange; yet well understand how it was she had anothI still had faith that he would come. Be- er mother, or why that tall and handsome fore leaving for the country I dropped a man should be her father. letter in the Office for him, stating, as near as possible, our destination; that letter he did not get. Upon our arrival in the mines, I was offered a situation, which I accepted, in the house where, as Edward has told you, we met. I should have come with him to-night, and, making myself known, sought your forgiveness; but yesterday Edward met the friend, of whom he has spoken, and who told him that nothing had been heard of me, excepting a rumor of my death, and that you had sworn that, dead or alive, I should never darken your door; Edith, he said, disowned ever having such a sister. When I learned that, my courage failed me, and I was afraid to Edward offered to come alone, and make the first trial; if successful, I promised to return with him ; but we hoped with the note, together with his pleadings, and the holy influence of Christmas, to accomplish our desires; and at some future time, with Eva to plead for and with us, to obtain your forgiveness and be enabled to explain as we have now done. How successful Edward was, you already know; he told me that he became excited and was rude, but he did not intend to be."

come.

When she ceased to speak her father was sitting with his elbows upon the table and his face buried in his hands; rising, he extended his hands to Bertha, and with big tears starting from his eyes, said, with tremulous voice: "Forgive me, Bertha, forgive me."

But, father, I have nothing to forgive." "Yes, you have; for I did-I did say it, and a great deal more; but it was not from the heart. Heaven knows that I could not have kept such an oath-I have done you much wrong; forgive your old father." "No, father, I have nothing to forgive; all that you have said, and all that I have suffered I deserved, in just punishment for my sin and folly; it is Edward and I who ask forgiveness-but I know we are forgiven, so let us say no more about it."

"Yes, my child, freely-freely you are forgiven. You must not leave us again

The rain came rattling upon the windowpanes and upon the roof; old boreas was out in all his strength; he played all kinds of pranks, and proved to his own satisfaction and the great consternation of many people that he was indeed a "blower," and on a bust. The unroofing of houses appeared to be a favorite sport of his that night; and many a house that never leaked before was that night rendered uninhabita ble; many there were that night houseless and homeless in San Francisco: many there were sighing for their good old homes on the other side of the Nevadas, and many contrasting the present Christmas Eve with that of other years; but to those beneath one roof, at least, the storm came unheeded; heart beat in unison with kindred heart, and in the Christmas rejoicings, the past, with all its sorrowings, was lost, and a happy future promised.

Never was there a happier gathering; Bertha sat beside her father, whose big heart thumped and thumped upon his ribs; ever and anon he would break out in a perfect shout of laughter, declaring he never was so happy in all his life, and that that one night was worth a lifetime. Edward chatted and joked with Edith, and Mary, who thought there never was such a fine young man, really felt proud of her sister's selection.

"Bertha," said her father, just recovering from a laughing fit, "what became of your friends?"

"I don't know; for some little time after parting we corresponded, and then my letters were not answered; about six months since I heard that they were again living here in San Francisco, and that, having been very unfortunate, Mr. Scott became discouraged and very dissipated."

"Scott!" exclaimed the old gentleman, taking a memorandum book which he has tily opened, "was the woman's name Elizabeth Scott?"

"Yes; what of her-do you know her?" "No-that is, I mean yes-only a slight business acquaintance! but if you'd like to see her, I think I could find her to-morrow."

As the old gentleman spoke he endeavored to appear very serious and wise: carefully closing his memorandum, he returned it to his pocket, coughed very faintly, looked at Bertha, and then exploded with another roar. Holding up for a moment, he exclaimed, "This is too good! Why, girls, it's the very woman I told you about to night." His good old head bobbed up and down again, and his sides shook until, for want of breath, he could laugh

no more.

A DESULTORY POEM.

BY W. H. D.

CANTO IV.
I.

Dear friend, I joy to greet thee once again;
I hope it is the evening's quiet hour
Brings us together, for I then shall reign
More gently o'er thy heart; and as the flower
Welcomes the dew, its freshness to regain,
So may the gems of thought I on thee shower,
Be welcomed for the influence they impart,
To charm thy mind and purify thy heart.

II.

I know thee not, but this I surely know,-
Thou hast at least a kindred heart and mind,
In which my sympathies may freely flow,
And find a stream as friendly, pure, and kind,
Which mingling, may produce a brighter glow
On our hearts' flowers, there to be entwined,
As sweet mementos of a blissful time,
Born of the pleasing melodies of rhyme.

Bed-time came at last, though very late: the house was small for so many, with such expanded hearts, but the old gentieman insisted that Bertha should take his cot, while he and Edward slept upon the parlor floor. After retiring, it was some time ere Bertha fell asleep, and when she did, sweet visions were hers. She dreamed of being in a garden luxuriant with fruit, and flowers, of every hue; crystal streams flowed through it, sparkling as they rippled on; the air was laden with music rich and full; myriads of sylph like I forms were hovering over and about her, and among them, one she knew to be her mother. This one, when Bertha saw it, smiled, and settling down, imprinted upon her brow a kiss. She awoke-a form was bending over her, and a voice she nized as Edith's, said :"Do not speak. I could not sleep, Bertha, until I had seen you alone. I have wronged you more than all the others. I know that I am cold, proud, and passion. ate-sometimes, I think, heartless: but I I can not help it. Can you, will you for give and love me? Teach me how to live, that I may be like you and Mary!"

recog.

"O, Edith, I do forgive, I do love you; and we will pray God to teach us how to live."

"Thanks, Bertha, now I can sleep; ' and again kissing her sister, she left the

room.

There was not one sorrow beneath that roof. The lost was found, the wanderer had returned: pride was humbled, and love was triumphant.

Some of our readers may have to try a second time before they see the point contained in the marriage notice below:-

"At Paskenta Ranch, Oct. 4th, WILLIAM ALLEN to ELIZA· both of Squawhill,

Tehama county. The bride's maiden name does not appear in the certificate of the justice, though, we understand, she is an old resident, and is the person in honor of whom the aforesaid hill received its name.-Red Bluff Beacon.

III.

ne'er may grasp thee by thy friendly hand,
With the sweet smile upon thy lips so bland,
Nor see the welcome beaming from thine eye,
All musical with the tones of sympathy;
But yet our hearts shall fully understand
For there's a sweet mysterious charm, must bind
And know we love each other tenderly;
Together each congenial heart and mind.

IV.

Deep calleth unto deep within our souls;—
Have we not there a secret inner life,
Whose silver stream o'er golden sand still rolls,
Its peaceful tides far from the world's dark strife!
Each budding flower, with promised bliss all rife;
There thought all pure, affection sweet, controls,
And there a few invited guests we tend,
Whose inmost lives with ours most sweetly blend.

V.

We call up spirits from that vasty deep,-
We call them up, they answer to our call;
We send them forth to rouse the world from sleep,
We picture the vile passions that enthral
The souls of those who in the senses steep
The life within: like beasts within the stall,
They eat and drink and sleep, and then arise,
To do the same, while God's fair image dies.

VI.

Blessed are we who know those joys all pure,
And thrill with all the raptures of the mind,
When thought and feeling with their charms allure
Us on, to soar and leave the world behind,-
The world of sin and sense, which can endure
But for a time, while that bright world we find,
And brightens ever to the perfect day.
Sheds glories on our reason's feeblest ray,

VII.

O, who would dwell amid the things of sense,
After enjoying treasures such as these?
They can but seem but a weak, a vain pretence,
A shadow in the light, a passing breeze,

But they a higher glory still may claim.

That goes we know not where,nor yet from whence | Bring peace within; they seek no earthly fame,
It came, so restless o'er the land and seas;
A thing of naught, a meteor in the air,
That vanishes before we say, ""Tis there."

XV.

Are not Christ's blessings from the mountain theirs,
Where from his lips those heav'nly doctrines come,
Of bright beatitudes; each follower shares
In all his deep affection's sacred flame,
Which heals their wounds, and soothes their anx
ious cares;

They joy, in suffering for his cause and name,
They seek no pleasures of a fleeting day;
"A crown of thorns, which fadeth not away."

XVI.

In spirit poor, they heavenly kingdoms own,
And if they mourn, do they not comfort find?
While this fair earth is for the meek alone,
And for each hungry, thirsty heart and mind,
That has a yearning, fervent spirit shown,
Seeking for righteousness; God's hands most kind
For such the purest, choicest bounties spread,
And they are filled with life's immortal bread.
XVII.

And for the merciful shall mercy flow,
The pure in heart shall see the living God;
They who bring peace, shall here be named below
The children of that Father, for they trod
The paths of love, whose blissful joys they know.
They buried war and strife beneath the sod,
Where now the olive tree's green branches wave,
While doves are cooing o'er that silent grave.
XVIII.

If persecuted, striving for the right,
Theirs is heaven's kingdom dwelling in the heart,
Founded most firm in an eternal might,
Whose promised blessings never can depart,
But ever flow a stream all pure and bright;-
Reviled falsely accused? that shall impart
A greater joy, for great is their reward,
[bard.
When ranked with God's own prophet, priest and

XIX.

Most sacred theme! well might the angels sing,
"Glory to God on high!" in strains sublime,
When Christ was born, who surely came to bring
Peace and good-will to every land and clime,
And give immortal life, killing death's sting;-
O, all unworthy is my feeble rhyme.
To hymn the praises of God's only Son,
That holy, blessed, pure, and suffering One.

XX.

I close my theme while sinks the golden sun,
Midst splendors in the glorious western sky;
My task is finished, and the day is done,-
I lift my soul in prayer to the Most High,
In faith that we in spirit may be one,
And Christ be ever to my heart most nigh;
And as he's cherished in this heart of mine,
Even so I trust he finds a place in thine.
(Continued.)

COULDN'T DO IT.

In one of our interior mountain towns lives a man whose name is Bowers, some very distant connection, I am told, of old Mr. Joseph Bowers,

Few men there are with real Yankee grit,
And would-be "chaps" at others poking fun,
And fewer still with ready Yankee wit;

and who by his friends is familiarly | THE YANKEE URCHIN'S REPLY. called Maj. Bowers. The major is about forty-five years of age, measures just five feet seven inches in height, and weighs exactly 2131bs by the steel-Oft find themselves most delicately "done." yards. He has and who has not ?some little eccentricities, one of which is thinking aloud. He has also a bad habit, a habit acquired in those days by very many, that of taking a glass too much but for all that, the major is "one of our first men," and goes not a little upon his dignity.

One day the circus came to town, and the major determined to go to the circus; and as a preliminary, as well as to pass away a little spare time, he imbibed several times, and between the acts of the performance imbibed several times more. After the exhibition he joined company with one or two "old boys," and went "round" for a couple of hours or so, and at precisely one, A. M., he started alone for his home in the "outskirts." During the performance the major had been particularly pleased with the "ground and lofty tumbling;" also the vaulting and summerset acts. He was thinking of this as he walked towards home, and thought how easy it would be to turn a summerset. He believed that he could do it, and our informant overtook him

One of this class, a city blood, of late
Was traveling in the rough old Granite State;
Lacking in brains, he tried to cut a dash,
By sporting whiskers and a huge moustache.
In passing where an old black farm-house st'd
He saw a yankee stripling cutting wood;
Dressed in an old and tattr'd home-spun frock
He looked a real "chip of the old block,"
His hat a "steeple " o'er his eyes fell down
And now was minus half its wooly crown.
In days gone by, in good old-fashioned time,
When his old hat was new and in its prime,
In spite of fashion's frequent alterations
Is passed at least two curious generations.
Once it was worn for "go to-meeting" hat.
To weddings, parties, balls, and 'like o' that,'
Until, in the old garret stowed away,
Upon the urchin's head it chanced to stray.
His scanty trousers, made of home-spun tow,
Refusing with the yankee's limbs to grow.
His slender legs projected far below
As if in wonder which way they should go.
The exquisite, with smile upon his phiz,
The little strippling thus began to quiz;
"Hullo! young Jonathan, hullo, I say,
Have yon seen any beggar pass to-day?
Said Jonathan "I hardly know now, I declare:
How did he look, sir, and what did he wear?"
"He was a raw-boned yankee, tall and slim,
And you in fact, look very much like him.
Through his torn pants his feet stuck down
About a foot; his hat had lost its crown,
His hair was red, his forehead very low,
And he was cross-eyed, squinting so-and-so,"
Mister, you must feel bad, I reckon, rather,-

66

S. ****

THE LAST MATCH;
Or, the Recollections of a Snow-Storm.

just in time to hear the following solil- I guess you must be huntin' for your father!" oquy, and to witness the overturn.— "Bowers, you can do it, and there is no better place to try it on than here." Divesting himself of coat and hat, he took a short run and threw himself forward; but, alas for human expectations his hands striking the ground, the huge body slowly ascended until it attained an altitude of exactly 46°for an instant it poised there, and then fell heavily back upon the ground.

As the major gathered himself upon his haunches, supported with one hand upon the ground, and with the other rubbed his damaged body, solemnly wagging his head, he muttered in very broken accents: "Bowers, my boy, you can't do it you can-not-do-it-you're not sufficiently experienced!"

BY ALICE.

It became late in the fall before we thought of leaving our mountain retreat for winter quarters, and the still, sober days of autumn were chased away by surly winter, ere we apprehended any danger of the trail being blockaded by an early snow-storm. The days heretofore had been twined together by pleasant sunshine until the 12th of November, which was ushered into existence by a frightful storm, such as the oldest mountaineer had rarǝly met with in his rambling among