eagerly have listened all the day to any story that gave me any conception of her looks, or knowledge of her character, I was seldom gratified; for it did not seem a pleasant theme to her who was endeavoring to fill her place to me. I had a father, who, I was often told, was very fond of me, and loved me as fathers seldom love their children; but it some how always seemed to me a strange way of showing it, that he should leave me to the guidance and companionship of such a woman one so destitute of refinement and all the gentle and kindly sympathies so necessary to a heart like mine. I had food and clothes, and was sent to school, but regarding all the instruction so essential to the right training of an infant mind, I might as well have been in a heathen land, or on a desert isle. A motherless childhood! I thought then there could be no greater wo. But there was one bright sun-beam ever in my lonely path - my cousin Sammy. How I loved him! how we loved one another! He was just my age, and as I thought, and still believe, the nicest little boy in the village-school. How well I remember his rosy cheeks with the deep dimples, that gave such a sweet expression to his frank, open countenance; his dark blue eye and golden locks, which hung in rich glossy curls all around his neck and temples. He lived half-a-mile from me, but I had to pass his house on my way to school, and he was always waiting for me at the little gate. As soon as he saw me at the top of the hill, he came to meet me, when we took hold of hands, and ran quickly along the narrow pathway, talking as fast as we could of all that had happened since we parted the night before. The benches in that old-fashioned school-room were arranged very differently from what benches are arranged in these days, but quite as pleasantly for those little folks who could not be expected to study, when they were hardly initiated into the mysteries of bread and butter. Sammy sat opposite to me, and to look at each other was far more natural than to confine our eyes to the unmeaning pages of an old book, and surely we could not be expected to look at the wall! We studied the same spelling-lesson, and stood beside each other in the class, and whispered, in spite of the Argus eyes which watched us so closely. At noon, we ate our dinners together on the same seat, always sharing when one had pie and the other only bread and cheese; and then we went out to play, in the summer, upon the green, and to pick 'ivy plums' in the field; and in the winter to slide upon the glare ice. If I fell down, how quickly was his gallantry displayed in helping me up, and brushing the snow from my frock, and asking if I was hurt! Well do I remember the whipping I received for going home with him to supper one night, and staying to spelling-school without leave. I was considered very smart to learn, though not so precocious as to put my life in jeopardy; but I should feel quite guilty not to leave on record, that orthography had very little attraction for me, and nothing at all to do with my fondness for spelling-schools. Logic was far more fascinating, and when skilfully used, as it was that night, irresistible. Sammy said there was a nice place to slide in the door-yard, and his mother would like to have me come to supper, and it was only a little while; I should hardly have time to go home and get back again before dark. I hesitated a little, but alas! for woman's reason when her heart is concerned, my consent was too readily won. I remained, and was not reproved by the good minister's wife, Sammy's mother, who perhaps did not fulfil her whole duty on this occasion; but was treated to some delicious cakes and raspberry jam, which I thought was nicer than any thing I had ever tasted; and it was certainly nicer than any thing I was ever permitted to taste by her who provided more sour things than sweet, or else turned sweet things to sour, as I had heard could be done by looks, as well as by thunder, and of this I have since learned not to entertain a doubt. And a fine slide we had in the door-yard, and were sorry enough when the boys and girls from the neighborhood came along, whom we were to join on their way to school, though by.this time my happiness was beginning to be dampened by the anticipation of the reception I should meet on returning home. I had a little fear and trembling, not caring so much whether I had done right, as whether I should experience the consequences of doing wrong. It was nothing derogatory to the wisdom or skill in communicating knowledge, of the master of that memorable winter, that I did not make astonishing progress in arranging letters into words. I spent the evening in whispering, and making monkeys and rabbits on the wall, and came away as wise as I went, and in this respect do not think I differed much from the 'big scholars.' I remember well to this day their conversation on these occasions, and do not think it savored much of wisdom, and I am inclined to think their motives in going were very much like my own. But their pleasure had not so tragical an end. I was greeted by the stern frown of my father, and the scorpion-tongue of the house-keeper, and after a few strokes from the little rod that reposed on two nails over the kitchen fire-place, was sent to bed in the dark alone, and shivering with cold. Then followed other consequences, still more sad. I awoke in the morning with a burning fever in my veins, and for several weeks, doctor's nauseating medicine and blisters were all of which I had any distinct consciousness, and these only are now jumbled in dim confusion in my memory. It was when I was recovering from this illness that I strolled into the garden, and the long confinement I had experienced prepared me for the genial influence of sunny days-the bursting buds, and springing grass, and singing birds. And never has spring dawned since without a return of that delicious feeling, when I first became conscious of loving the hills and woods and silvery streams.' I have never ceased to love them. They arc companions of whom I never weary, in whom there is no change. Those mountains with their lofty peaks are always there; they have a thousand varying hues in sun-shine and in shower, and how firmly are they linked with every association of childhood and maturer years! But a mournful interest is added to all these cherished scenes by the death of the little play-mate, with whom alone I had shared the pleasure derived from every rural sight and sound. We had no name then to give to the delight we felt; we did not even know we were happy; and yet it was not a mere animal existence, but a happiness far higher than those around us were capable of understanding. every For two years and how long the years seemed to us then! hour of freedom which was permitted to us we enjoyed together. The most cherished of the haunts we loved was in the shadow of the great rock by the meadow brook, on the sloping bank over which hung the massive foliage of a butter-nut tree. Here we reclined for hours, screened from the noon-day sun, and watched the fishes sporting in the stream, and listened to the insects humming in the golden sheaves, and the reaper singing gayly at his toil, scarcely speaking ourselves, yet each knowing full well the thoughts of the other's heart. We welcomed the first robin, and knew the days on which we might expect the marten, for whom we had built a house on the highest roof overlooking the garden; and the swallows, who burrowed in the river's bank. How many hours we hunted for the whip-poor-will, who never rewarded us with a single glance of her sly retreat! How long we nestled at evening under the gray old fence, to mark the countless cadences from the little pond! We sported with the lambkins on the mead, and rambled early through the long, wet grass, with our tiny, naked feet, to find the first bright butter-cups and daisies, to wreathe in a golden crown for our brows. In summer, we went with our little tin-pails to pick strawberries, and however ripe and plump might be the first we found, never failed to throw it over our heads to propitiate good luck, a custom I have since learned to have been derived from the superstitious and heathen tribes on the banks of the Niger, the 'fetish' of that benighted race. It was not the only one nor the most detrimental that influenced our childish fears. In the summer, we revelled among the full-blown flowers, filled our pinafores with the largest rose-leaves, to sit upon the piazza and make them snap upon our foreheads, wove together the broad, shining leaves of the oak and maple for a canopy, which reached from bush to bush, and sheltered us while we sat beneath and strung blue-berries on the long stems of grass, and then ate them slowly, one by one, to make them last. We bounded on the new-mown hay, and played hide-and-seek among the tall oats and wheaten sheaves. In autumn, we luxuriated among golden pippins, and even then had learned to tell fortunes by the seeds we took from the juicy fruit, and, like many others who have trusted to similar predictions, confidently believed the far-off future would kindly conform to our hopes, gilded as they were with a brightness which reality in her most gracious mood never fails to dim. Never did we dream of aught but spending life together. We had no names for links or vows, but we had a thousand plans to be executed when we should grow up, in all of which there was never a thought of separation. Sometimes we mingled with other children, but there seemed in all others a boisterous mirth, which did not accord with our dreamy quiet happiness, and we stole away from the merry groups of the play-ground to talk in whispers in the waning shadows of some favorite tree, or the solemn stillness of some deserted hall. When the bright red and yellow leaves were gathered in rich masses in the deep hollows by the road-side, we delighted in the rustle made by our nimble feet, as we ran backward and forward, scattering them in every direction; and when weary, we sat on the roots of an oak and wove them into fantastic wreaths, or patch-work, or gay dresses. Then we gave parties, and made cups of acorn-shells, and imagined the fairies at our feast. Oh! that was the fairy time of our lives, but it lasted only a little while for us. We were seven years old. I had not seen Sammy for several days, and was wondering why he did not come, often going to the window to see if I could not get a glimpse of him running down the hill, when one day his father came to tell me he was sick, and wished I would come to see him. I easily obtained permission, and in a few moments was by his side. I can never forget how he put forth his little arms to clasp me to his bosom, and how hot his cheek seemed as I kissed it again and again, while the scalding tears fell upon the golden curls and snowy neck. We had never known how we loved one another till this separation. Every day I repeated my visit, though I was not allowed to remain long, lest he should become excited and the fever increase, and my anxiety was often lulled by the assurance that he would soon be well, and able to play again. But one morning I was told that the doctor thought Sammy would die, and then he would have to be buried up in the ground, and I should never see him again.' I had never seen death, and had a very indefinite idea of what it could be; but that I should never see my little play-mate, that he would be cold and stiff, and lie in the dark grave, needed no explanation to add to its bitterness. I wept long and passionately. I had felt sad and sorrowful, but this was my childhood's first grief. In the afternoon I was permitted to go to him, and found friends already gathered around his bed, without a gleam of hope upon their countenances. He was tossing from side to side in burning fever, and writhing with pain, and, what was more dreadful to me, murmuring in unconscious delirium. He did not know me. I softly spoke his name, and took his little hand in mine, but he did not answer. I compressed my quivering lips in silence, and the big drops rolled down my cheeks. A moment more and the heaving breast was still he had ceased to breathe. For an instant it seemed to me I was dying too, a chill so cold crept through my frame. I trembled like the aspen, and could not move from the spot. But the affliction of those to whom he was nearer and dearer was so overwhelming that I was not noticed, and in a little time I stole away and wandered slowly home. The next morning I went to see him in his coffin. How sweetly he looked! The sunny curls were lying about his temples, his little hands were crossed upon his breast, and in one I placed a bunch of fresh spring violets, which I had gathered, and such as he had so often plucked for me. Timidly I asked for one of those bright curls, to lay away and keep, and the kind woman who led me into the room and held me in her arms that I might look in his face, granted my request. What a treasure it was to me! and I have it yet. Every time I unfold the paper which contains it, how many precious memories rush quickly to my mind! That dear little golden curl! I would not part with it for the wealth of rubies. I went to the funeral, and followed with the mourning train to the grave. How could I see that lovely form let down into the earth? My brain swam; I felt the clods falling upon me; I was taken up senseless and carried home. It was many weeks before I was again able to move about. Grief and exposure to wet and cold had infused the fever into my veins, and the name I had been so long in the habit of lisping was ever on my lips. A WREATH FOR THE BROW O F THE BRAVE. BY MRS. J. WEBB. THE battle was o'er, and the fierce god of war A boon, mighty Sire, for the victories won! 'An unfading wreath for the brow of the brave! All Olympus rejoiced: each delighted to aid, And brought some bright gem in the wreath to be laid: And straightway 't was borne by the goddess of war |