"Beside the murmuring forest stream,

We laid her down to rest;

And we plac'd the mould above her then,
And the turf upon her breast.-

And we hunted through the shadowy depths
Of the wide, dark wilderness,

In search of pale blue violets
Our lost one's sleep to bless.

"Of these we wrote her epitaph-
And water'd them with tears;
For we buried in one little hour
The hoarded love of years:

And 't was meet that we should sorrow much
When she, our gentlest one,

Was placed in that far wilderness

To sleep so long alone!

"We come, but bring not Emily,"
She paused awhile and said,
"Beneath the lofty forest trees
Her gentle form is laid!
Yet a deeper sorrow have we felt

Since our sweet bird was flown;
It seem'd less hard to see her die
Than leave her thus alone!"

17*

MY OLD PLAYMATE.

BY FANNY FORRESTER.

CHARLEY HILL was an old playmate of mine-a saucy, goodnatured, mischief-doing, flower-loving, warm-hearted, gentle, brave little playmate-and many a tale might the green-mossed stones lying among the alder roots on the border of the lazy brook, and the tall grass that waves on the hill-side tell of our young gambols. Oh! those rare, bright days-the days of my childhood! How I wish that I could make a compromise with the old fellow of the hour-glass, and save a handful of his sands from the end of my term to glitter in the sunshine of the beginning for myself do I most sincerely wish it, but more, much more for thee, poor Charley Hill! Some people are born with a shadow on the brow-a shadow which refuses to be removed, though the wheel of life should roll for ever in prosperity; yet I have known the sad gift to be accompanied by a spirit which mellowed and softened it, till the apparent curse proved a blessing. But my old playmate was not one of these. No cloud was on his face or his fortunes. The light centred in his gay heart shone from parted lip and beaming eye, and was scattered without stint on all who came near him. A frank, jovial boy was Charley Hill, in those play-days, with a ready hand, a ready smile, and a ready wit ;-to say nothing of the charmingest of all charming hand-sleds, and a very discriminating little fowlingpiece, which he assured me never shot any thing but crows.

No

boy at Alderbrook had so handsome a face as Charley-that every body said; and no boy had so handsome a cap (that bright purple velvet, with the two silken tassels dangling so gracefully from the apex) nor so white a collar, nor such a cunning little jacket-though that every body did not say. Little girls are much better initiated in such mysteries than older people.

I will not assert that my old playmate, Charley, was a perfectly faultless lad, for who but his own naughty self was the occasion of my traveling about two mortal hours, my hands tied fast to the school-mistress's girdle; just because he lured me down to the brook-side to angle for trout with a crooked pin, when stupid people thought I should have been poring over Webster's" Elementary!" And who but that wicked little scape-grace of a Charley, with his winsome ways and generous little heart, led me to spoil my new white cambric apron as I did the first time I wore it? Who but Charley could have done it? I will tell the story to all who remember well when they were children; but those whose memories cannot look back through the crust upon the heart, will do well to turn over the leaves to something wiser. We had a grand tea-party at my baby-house under the old black cherry tree, and our dolls must have been surfeited with the luxuries spread before them. There was one thing in our feast, on which we prided ourselves not a little-a dish of pretty crimson balls made of the wool that a dozen little fingers had busied themselves in picking from Debby Jones's red petticoat, nicely embedded in a snowy pile of soap suds-an excellent substitute for strawberries and cream. Just before the party broke up, who should make his appearance but Charley Hill; but when called upon to admire our ingenuity, our climax of witty inventions, he manifested a very boy-like indifference, and said nothing but pooh!" Charley might have argued the point a week, while we, in defending it, might have become so earnest as to eat our mock strawberries, but that contemptuous pooh!-it was too much. While the little girls, with disconcerted faces, were

turning elsewhere for diversion, Charley took me aside confidentially. There were strawberries a-plenty just over the brook-a thick spot-oh, so thick! and Charley's eyes grew big and black with the recollection.

If Fanny would just run over with him

"But my mother, and my new apron!"

It would take only a minute, and I could put my apron out of the way-and oh, such a thick spot!

I was not convinced, but I liked Charley Hill. It was a delightful day, and by the time I had left the path to wade off in the tall grass, I not only forgot my mother's injunctions but forgot my apron also. A rare frolic did Charley and I have among the dandelions and golden-hearted daisies. I linked the whitepetalled blossoms together after the fashion of the rose-coronets which would be (or rather should be) duchesses decked their foreheads with during the past season, and fastened them to his cap; and Charley curled the green stems of the dandelions and hung them among the natural brown, till I might have claimed relationship with the mermaids. Then we picked buttercups and held them beneath each other's chin, till we made the surprising discovery that both loved butter; and then we sought very diligently after the four leaved clover, though to be sure its magic was quite above our juvenile comprehension. Next we picked a stem of the golden rod and went in search of concealed treasures, till finally we arrived at the strawberry knoll. Charley had told the truth-it was crimsoned over with its blushing wealth. Up from the shadow of every green leaf peeped the round, luscious berry, soft and bright as the swell of a pouting lip; and Charley hurra'd, and clapped his hands and turned a somerset before he could set himself quietly about picking them. Then, as I quite forgot my new apron, and, nestling down in the grass, crushed more strawberries beneath my knee than my fingers picked; Charley told a story, which sent many a dew-like looking heart-messenger from my cheek to the tip of a clover leaf or

the bended point of a grass-blade. It was of old Jake Gawsely, who was dying alone in the brown house at the top of the hill. Old Jake had not a friend on earth, so Charley said, and to be sure, he did not deserve one; but it was a dreadful thing to lie there alone, with nothing but his bad deeds to think about, and nobody to pity him. Charley pitied him, and so Charley's playmate began soon to pity the neglected miser too; and we mutually hoped that if we should ever do wrong ourselves, people would be kind to us, so as to "make us good again." And then we picked my apron, my unfortunate new white apron, full of strawberries, and carried them to the little brown house; and we actually got a tear for our pains. Poor old Jake Gawsely! How much of neglect, of unkindness, and perhaps of scorn on the part of thy fellows there might have been in that impenetrable cerement of self folded so closely around thy world-deadened heart!

Years went by, and Charley Hill was the same careless, lighthearted, good-humored, mischievous lad; though there was a touch of pathos about him, a well-spring of poetic feeling, and almost womanly sympathy, which made him strangely attractive. Every body loved Charley, not merely for his hearty boldness, (a quality which usually gains consideration for boys,) but for his gay good humor, his mingled wit and sentiment, and his gracefulness and beauty. Then there was a guilelessness-a little less than girlish simplicity about him, a credulous trust in everybody's purity of intention, and a generous reliance on those who professed themselves his friends; which, like many other loveable traits of character, are fitter for a resident of Heaven than of this world. But for all this, there was a life-like roguishness about Charley, which fully proved his humanity.

Charley Hill and I always stood side-by-side at the spelling school; for both of us were thoroughly versed in Webster's spelling book from "Baker" to the last word of "Ail-to-betroubled-table." One winter the school from Crow Hill was to