MY TEACHERS.

NO. II.

BY S****.

I was yet too young to wade through the heavy snow-drifts to the "winter school." Summer came again, and I trudged away with my little "dinner pail" in my hand. A new "schoolma'am' was there, very large and fat, with a face as big as a full moon, and red as a peony. I remember very little of her, except that she "feruled" me for the tricks of another boy.

Next winter I had a pair of new cowhide boots, a red woolen tippet, a sealskin cap, a pair of thick mittens knit by my "Aunt Ruth," and a sled. One cold morning, proud as a king, I posted off to the school-house, with a "Progressive Reader" under my arm. I was perched upon a front seat, with a dozen other little fellows, close to a great stove, which the terrible "big boys" crowded full of wood until it was red hot. With the snow melting from our legs, we looked like dissolving icicles. Then at recess the "big boys" pitched us "head first" into snow banks; a change of temperature by no means agreeable.

A new schoolhouse was built, nearer to my home. The seats were painted, and we thought it very fine. But I did not like the new school-ma'am. She was rough, and masculine, and noisy. I used to ask leave to go out and sit under the shade of a great maple tree, close by the school-house. How cool its shade? The music of its leaves lulled me into pleasant reveries. It was there I first began to think.

Summer departed, and with the winter came a short, stout, bald-headed "master"; of whom I remember little, save that he used to double back the cover of my history of the United States, at which carelessness I was very indignant. It pained me as much to see my book's back broken, as it pained Casper Hauser to have tacks driven into his little wooden

horse. He heard our lessons by reading the questions from the book, but never taught us anything.

With the leafy summer time, and the singing birds, came an educated and accomplished lady; very beautiful, and, I think, somewhat of a belle. She was mild, gentle, and winning; she taught us a hundred little things not in our books. We all loved her very much.

It was a pleasant school. "Tom" and I sat together. We were the best scholars in school. "Tom" was quicker than myself, but I was the more studious. We both fell in love that summer with little Miss B., the daughter of a neighboring farmer; a pretty, blue-eyed creature, with a silvery voice, and brown hair.

We gathered for her beautiful flowers. We grew sentimental, and wrote little "love letters," which were smuggled across the school-room, behind the teacher's back.

I made my first attempts at rhyming. I should thank my stars if I had never written more foolish verses since. She was a little coquette, and kept us both "in tow"; never manifesting any very decided preference. Tom was handsome and confident; I was plain and awkward. Tom was a favorite with the girls; I was a leader among the boys. Not that I admired the girls less than he; but my diffidence led me to avoid them. If Tom were looking over my shoulder now, I I should tell him the distinction of boyhood exists in manhood.

Tom was endowed with the natural graces which win the heart of woman. I think he had the best of the love affair. I used to wonder which of us would marry her. We little thought then, dear Tom, that we should drift away from our native village to the shores of the Pacific, and meet on the golden banks of Feather river, around a miner's camp-fire; there, as the stars beamed softly down on our hard couch, to talk of the fair girl who won our boyish hearts. We felt, Tom, that in the rough scenes of mountain life, when fate was against us, and for

tune was hard, that our hearts were growing as callous as our hands; but when "letters from home" reached usmessages warm with a mother's love-how the waters of boyish affection gushed into our arid hearts!

They say, dear Tom, that the pretty girl is now a beautiful maiden, and that her heart is still her own. What is written in the future?

How seldom are the hopes of boyhood realized in manhood! But I am always glad that it was my good fortune to go to a country school with little girls. I am thankful that our parents did not belong to that class of squeamish moral reformers, so numerous at the present day-those prating stoics, who put on the green goggles of suspicion, and tinge childhood with the muddy impurity of their own hearts. The little girls of our schools taught us better lessons than our teachers. They taught us that we had souls as well as brains; affections as well as reasoning faculties. They were purer and better than we, and in their presence our thoughts as well as our language and feelings were more refined. Tom, had we never loved the innocence and artlessness of girlhood, we could never have appreciated the beauty of womanhood.

Next came a great strapping "master," six feet two in his stockings; but a jolly fellow, who told us stories, which I remember to this day. I studied "Comstock's Philosophy" with a big boy-a wonderful class of two-and I suspect the master neglected many an urchin in his "abs," to illustrate our philosophical difficulties. The "farmer's girl" went to school dressed in a brown homespun woolen gown.

Next summer my father died. I shall never forget the terrible feeling which came over me, when I was wakened at dead of night, and told that he was dead. I knelt beside my bed, in my little chamber, and prayed; a prayer fervent and heart-felt, if my lips have ever breathed

ened. I grew precociously thoughtful; but these feelings slowly wore away.

I went to the village academy. The teacher was a book-worm; stiff, awkward, and diffident in manner. He had no soul. He read the questions from a book, and never looked at us.

A real teacher soon took charge of the academy, and I woke up to a new life. He had the electric fire of sympathy. He had a pleasing smile and looked us in the eye. I remember to this day everything he ever said in school. He made arithmetic, algebra, and geometry delightful. He did more towards forming my character than all my other teachers.

He never crammed us with books; he waked up our minds, and taught us our own powers. He would not suit a city where "cramming" is in fashion, and "brilliant examinations" the delight of examining committees. Teaching with him was not the dull drudgery of routine

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it was a creative art. A schoolmaster may drill children into learning their lessons; the true teacher warms the heart 'School comand forms the character. mittees," who estimate the art of teaching by questions answered in "'rithmetic, reading, writing, and grammar,” oftentimes prefer pedagogues to living teachers. It is dangerous to be in advance of conservatism.

Here I close my "school-days" and "teachers." If I have touched a chord in the heart of any reader, I am satisfied.

I only hope and trust that no one of my scholars shall ever look back upon me as

a "wooden teacher."

A DESULTORY POEM.

BY W. H. D.

CANTO VII.

I.

O, Youth! why did thy glorious visions fade ? Why have thy aspirations all departed ?— Gone, too, are all the brilliant hopes that made

My soul once feel that it had heaven-ward started. Downward my footsteps tread life's gloomy glade; Despairing, sorrowing, sick and broken-hearted,

Alone I wander on my weary way,
As night is closing o'er life's stormy day.

II.

It might have been, but it was not to be,-
O, Fate! thou unrelenting shade or spirit,
That hovers o'er my mortal destiny,
Thou didst bequeath, and I must needs inherit.
It might have been,-but "a divinity

That shapes our ends," beyond our will or merit,
Still whispers sadly, "it is not to be,"
While Time is rushing to Eternity.

III.

It might have been-ye broken hopes depart,
O, Memory! cease o'er youth's bright days to
linger,-

Ye vanished shades adieu! why do ye start
Before my soul, while Fate, with scornful finger,
Points to immortal longings in my heart,
Whose dirges on my ear so sadly linger,-
It might have been-but now the years roll by,
With murkiest storms upon my soul's dark sky.

IV.

It might have been,-but now departed years,
Like ghosts, stand up before me all unbidden;
I revelled on their flesh, and blood, and tears,
In wanton riot, reckless of the hidden,
Grim, skeleton-like spectres of my fears,
Now telling how their precious life has slidden
Away upon Eternity's dark shore,
Where all is lost forever-evermore.

V.

It might have been,-I shudder at the thought
The possible no more beams bright before me-
Those golden opportunities once fraught
With boundless good; O! what can now restore
me?

1 struggle onward, but too late I'm taught
My efforts all are vain, and can no more be
Crowned with success, while unrelenting Fate

It cannot be no more Ambition calls Me up in visions to his towering mountain,—

"Too late."

No more I bathe in Helicon's clear fountain,-
No more I climb the high embattled walls
Of golden cities that my soul would mount on,-
No more on eagle wings does strong desire
Bear up my soul where burns seraphic fire.

XII.

It cannot be no more Love's gentle voice
Shall charm my ear like heavenly music swelling,
No more its rapturous bliss my heart rejoice,
While in my soul would be a heaven indwelling ;
Earth's best and loveliest,could such be my choice,
Would seem to be some fearful doom foretelling;
I still might love, but youth and beauty's bloom
Would wither near my heart's undying gloom.

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The morning of December 23d, '57, was considerably blustery-in the language of the Psalmist [!]—" first it blew'd, then it snew'd, then it thew'd, and then it friz'd;" yet, owing to the vast amount of labor to be done on the Ranch, we concluded to go out and lay up a string of fence, the line of which ran close under the Iron Mountain," which, since the discovery and exploration of this section of the moral vineyard, has been noted as being the stamping ground of innumerable varmints of almost every species. Often-times this winter, while cosily sitting around the capacious old-time fire-place, with a cheerful fire blazing and throwing its light far into the darkness, through the windows and interstices of the cabin; while the storm raged wildly, have we heard the terrible roar of the California lion, the wild scream of the catamount,

the

the dismal howl of the wolves, far above angry chattering of the coyotes, and the tumult of the elements. Many are