CHAPTER VI.

Chat-o-tee-dah, the god of the woods and forests, holds a high rank among the Sioux; by some he is considered even greater than the Thunder-Bird. Were it not for the great number of Thunder-Birds, that race would long since have been extinct; so many battles have they had, and so powerful is the god whose home is in the dark woods, whose guardians and servants are every bird that rests itself in the branches of the trees, whose notes welcome the coming of the day.

Chat-o-tee-dah passes by the shrubbery of the lowlands, and makes his home on the largest tree on the highest eminence of the forest; his dwelling is in the root of the tree. He is not confined to this part of it, but comes out when occasion may require.

Is he hungry? he takes his seat upon the branch of the tree, and, by his power of attraction, he is soon surrounded by the winged messengers of the forest, ready to do his bidding. While he is thus holding his court, the limb of the tree on which he is seated becomes smooth as glass.

Chat-o-tee-dah and the Thunder-Bird, as I have said, are enemies: and many hard battles have been fought between them, the god of the woods being generally the victor.

This is to be ascribed, in a great measure, to the attachment and vigilance of his body-guard, the birds of the forest.

At the slightest commotion in the heavens, whose stormy portents indicate the coming of the Thunder-Bird, Chat-o-tee-dah is roused from his sleep, or whatever occupation may engage him at the time, by his servants; he has thus ample time to make his arrangements.

While the clouds roll swiftly and angrily towards the habitation of the water god, and streaked lightning plays in vivid flashes on the earth, Chat-o-tee-dah is coolly making his preparations for the work of death, assured, by his very calmness, of victory. The little birds, hid in the dark branches of the trees, are faithful sentinels, momentarily making their report, while the god of the woods keeps safely hid in the root of the tree, his stronghold in time of danger.

The Thunder-Bird resorts to cunning. He takes the form of a large bird, but his disguise is always penetrated by the smallest forest-bird; they know him, and, like faithful servants, keep near their lord. Again and again the thunder rolls, and the lightning plays about the branches of the tree. The waters swell and rise up to anger the Thunder-Bird, and to tempt him to do battle, but he has too many quarrels to resent against the forest gods, and the day of his vengeance is come. It is not often that he has courage to tempt the forest god to battle, for he knows his power; but now he will show him his own strength, when he is roused.

There is a stillness of the elements, and now again the deafening sound is heard, and the lightning pierces the home of the forest god; but Chat-o-tee-dah is safe, for there is a communication with the roots of the tree and the waters, and he passes through it safely, hearing the while the noise of the elements, while he descends to the great waters below.

Again the earth shakes, for the Thunder-Bird has cast forth his lightning, and pierced the root of the tree; but he is again defeated by the cunning of the god, who has found a refuge in the dominions of Unk-ta-he.

But at last the forest god is angry, and he has determined to come forth from his watery retreat, and beard the Thunder-Bird with his own weapons. He hurls back at him the lightning;--in an instant the daring invader is dead at his feet.

The battles of their gods are unending themes of adventure among the Sioux. Conversing upon them, the hours are whiled away from evening until midnight, and often from midnight to morn. The intellect must have occupation. How many a noble mind has thus gone to waste!

We may judge, from the importance attached to these fanciful stories, how hard must be the work of the Indian missionary. What a system of error to uproot! We may also look into our own hearts:--which is the greater absurdity, the worship of Chat-o-tee-dah or mammon?--the bowing down to the glorious works of the hand of God, or devotions paid to the gilded idol of this world?

Fiery Man no more boasted of his intercourse with the gods; they seemed to have forgotten they were his friends.

He had sought far and near for his wife. At times his heart was full of revenge: that she should have destroyed his son was the bitterest reflection of all. His sister's blood seemed still to be flowing before him; vengeance was called for on her who had made his lodge dark for ever. Then a different mood would affect him. She would stand before him, obedient, docile, and timid, with her soft, fearful voice, so different from the loud tones of his sister's. He could remember her so distinctly, as she held up her child for him to see, as he left the lodge to go with the hunting party. Her long, braided hair, falling about her shoulders, as her infant's cheek lay pressed against hers. For the first time he thought she looked sad at parting with him, and he had treasured the thought. He knew _then_ she never raised her hand against her child. He would have crushed his evil-minded sister for the suggestion, had she stood before him in life. He would sit buried in thought, the storms of passion breaking away from his heart; but this did not last, and woe to the man who came before him in his fierce mood.

He died in battle; but the Indians said he gave his life away, for he met his enemy as if he were in a dream, and shouted no cry as he was wont. They brought his body back and buried it by the side of his son: and even death did not break the spell of awe connected with him, for the women were afraid to sit and plait grass near his grave. Harpstinah moved her lodge from where it stood, saying, she must live farther off from the graves, that she might not hear Fiery Man in the night calling for vengeance on his wife, who had deserted him, and murdered his child.

No one could tell the fate of White Moon. Her parents died soon after her disappearance. But the Black Eagle, who some years after visited the Sioux who live among the thousand isles at the head of Rum River, said, that when he arrived there, White Moon's old lover took him to his lodge, and that his wife helped him off with his snow-shoes, and made him broth, for he was nearly perished with cold and hunger, having been at one time covered with snow for several days and nights, as his only chance of life.

When he told them he had come for some of the stone that lay on the shores of that river, to make knives, the war-chief asked him what band he belonged to, and that while he was answering, the woman ceased her employment, listening intently to him. That the war-chief asked him what had become of that tall chief called the Fiery Man; and that while he was telling of his death, and of his strange condition before it, the woman laughed, and said that after all Chat-o-tee-dah had not been as true a friend as the warrior thought, for a weak woman had escaped from his fiercest anger; and that when he asked her if she had ever known Fiery Man, her husband was angry, and told her to hush, saying, women always talked too much, and that it was time she had done his leggins, which he wanted to wear in the morning, when he met the wise men of their band in council; that when she returned to her work, as she was told, that he was reminded of the quiet obedience with which White Moon ever listened to the commands of her husband, that tall warrior, Fiery Man, who had gone to that country where thousands of warriors assemble and shout through the heavens their song, as they celebrate the medicine feast.

[Footnote 26: The story of Wenona is given in "Dacota, or Legends of the Sioux," in almost the words of the Sioux themselves. It has been often told by travellers, and there is no doubt but it actually occurred. [N. B. This tradition, as given in a letter from Miss Bremer to myself, during her visit to the Falls of St. Anthony, will be found at the end of this story.--J. S. H.]]

NOTE.

A TRADITION OF THE FALLS OF ST. ANTHONY.--There is a little island, just below the Falls, surrounded by their spray, with picturesque rocks and dark cedars, looking lonely and romantic, more attractive than the Falls, through its peculiar looks, and its story, connected with the Falls and with the people which still hovers around them, on the territory of Minesota, raising tents of one night soon to depart, kindling fires soon to be quenched. It is called the _Spirit Island_, and its tale is that of many an Indian woman,--is in fact the poetic truth of woman's fate among the red men. It tells:

There was once a hunter of the tribe of the Dacotas (or Sioux) living near the Falls of St. Anthony. He had but one wife, and loved her and was loved by her so well, that the union and the happiness of the hunter and his wife, Ampota Sampa, was talked of among the tribe as wonderful. They had two children, and lived lonely and happy for several years. But as he became known as a great hunter, and grew rich, several families came and raised their tipis (lodges) near that of the happy pair. And words and whispers came to the young man that he ought to have more wives, so that he might enjoy more happiness. He listened to the tempters, and soon made a choice among the daughters of his new friends. But when he had to tell his first wife thereof, his heart smote him, and, to make the news less painful to her, he began by telling her that he had bethought himself that she had too many household cares, and that she wanted somebody to help her in them, and so he would bring her that help in the form of a young girl, who was to be his second wife.

Ampota Sampa answered "No!" She had not too many cares. She was happy to have them for him and his children. She prayed and besought him, by their former love and happy life, by every tender tie, by the love of their little ones, not to bring a new love, a new wife, to the lodge. He said nothing. But this same night he brought home to the lodge his new wife.

Early next morning a death-song was heard on the waters of the Mississippi, and a canoe was seen gliding swiftly down the rapids, above the Falls of St. Anthony, and in the canoe was sitting a young woman with two little children folded to her bosom. It was Ampota Sampa; and in her song she told the cause of her despair, of her death, of her departure for the spirit-land. So she sat, singing her death-song, swiftly borne onward by the rapids to the edge of the rocks. Her husband, her friends, heard her and saw her, but too late. In a few moments the canoe was at the top of the Falls; there it paused a second, and then, borne on by the rush of the waters, down it dashed, and the roaring waves covered the victims with their white foam.

Their bodies were never seen again; but tradition says that on misty mornings, the spirit of the Indian wife, with the children folded to her bosom, is seen gliding in the canoe through the rising spray about the Spirit Island, and that the sound of her death-song is heard moaning in the wind and in the roar of the Falls of St. Anthony. Such is the legend of the Indian wife.--FREDRIKA BREMER.

THE RAIN-DROP.

BY MISS E. W. BARNES.

It quivered on a bended spray-- A rain-drop, bright and clear-- Though beautiful, it waked sad thoughts, 'Twas so like sorrow's tear.

And on its crystal surface lay Reflected, calm as heaven, The glories of the summer sky, With purple tints of even;

And earth's transcendent loveliness Was also on its breast, As with her dewy smiles she made The parting sunbeam blest.

I loved the rain-drop, as it hung So trustingly the while-- The verdant earth, the glowing heaven Reflected in its smile.

A symbol seemed it to mine eye Of the loving human heart, That lives but in the smile of God, Which earth and heaven impart.

I gazed into its tiny sphere-- In miniature it lay, A world of beauty, trembling there, And soon to pass away--

To pass from earth, and leave no trace, But the memory divine Of beauty, which, within the heart, Erects its own pure shrine.

The breeze passed by; it swayed the bough Where the sweet gem was hung; But, with tenacious grasp, it still Fondly and closely clung.

Nor, till with a resistless power The mighty wind swept by, Did the frail thing, so beautiful, In shattered fragments lie.

And thus, though moved by every breeze That sweeps along our way, Our hearts still cling to life, and still The world asserts its sway.

But, like the rain-drop, pure and clear, That hangs upon the bough, Oh! soul of mine, give back earth's light, Reflect its glories, thou!

Give back the summer's rosy tints, The verdant tree, the flower; Give back the mountain and the mead, The summer sun and shower.

But ah! in thy far deeper depths May heaven reflected lie; Its holy calm--its voiceless wave, Serene as yon soft sky.

Unruffled be those silent depths-- Calm, though the tempest lower. My Saviour! walk thou on the wave, And let it feel thy power.

Speak to the troubled waters, _Peace_, And passion ne'er shall rise, Nor doubt, nor care, to dim the light That greets me from the skies.

A PLEA FOR A CHOICE PICTURE. TO A GENTLEMAN WHO UNDERVALUED IT.

BY MISS L. S. HALL.

Nay, do not say my favourite is tame-- Her soul lies dreaming in its tranquil depths, And 'tis not every passive breeze can wake The slumberer from her peaceful reverie. The sheltering wings of Faith, and Hope, and Love Are folded round the temple of her heart, Perpetual guardians of its altar place; And they, of wingéd feet, who go and come, Must pass beneath their penetrating gaze; Unhallowed sentiments may enter not,-- Where these stand sentinels, 'tis hallowed ground.

Speak but a thrilling word, and you shall meet In those so dreamy eyes, that heed you not, The shadow of your own ecstatic thoughts,-- Those lips, so passive now, shall echo back The earnest tones of your own eloquence. But do not measure her internal strength By any standard of man's magnitude. Nor think to fathom what no eye can reach,-- She hath a woman's heart, and it hath been The constant struggle of her watchful life, To curb her will, and bend her energies, And train her nature for her destiny; And conscious that she hath a marshalled host, Obedient to the mandates of her soul, She wears a placid brow, and dreads no foe.

A thoughtless word upon affection's tongue, A look of coldness from a cherished friend, A hardened thought, that wrongs her of her due, And makes her seem what she would scorn to be, Imputing motives she would blush to own,-- Her spirit, safe from storms and rude alarms, Is too susceptible to wounds like these; But that calm face will ne'er reveal to thee, Nay, from her dearest friends she'll most conceal, The bitter anguish they can measure not.

Then do not say her tranquil brow is tame. A passive soul hath ne'er the dignity That sits, a queen, upon her passive face; 'Tis nobler far to rule the spirit realm, Than gather laurels from the battle-field.

LOST AND WON.

BY CAROLINE EUSTIS.

Lost the freshness of life's morning; Lost the tints of rosy light, Which like daylight, perfect dawning, Covered all with glory bright; Lost the golden locks which shaded Brow so smooth, and eyes so blue, And the happy smile has faded Round those lips of rosy hue. I have lost,--but I have won.

Lost the kind oblivious sleeping, Which enshrouds the little child, Like the holy angels keeping Saintly watches,--calm and mild. Lost the dreams of sunny hours, Where no terror dare intrude; Lost the dreams of love and flowers, Of the beautiful and good. I have lost,--but I have won.

Lost!--oh, most of all the losses!-- Lost the childlike, earnest faith, Loving on mid joys and crosses, Thankful still for all it hath. I have lost youth's simple pleasures, Each departed, one by one; But--oh, blessing without measure!-- I have lost,--but I have won.

I have won, through earnest striving, Guerdons above all the loss, Hopes once faded, now reviving Twining round the sacred Cross: Sorrow pale hath been my teacher; Hopes bereft, my gentle friends; Graves of the loved, my silent preacher, Where dust with dust so sadly blends. I have lost,--but I have won.

I have won, through tribulation, Title to a heavenly home, Working out my own salvation Through the blood of Christ alone. Oh, my future brightest seemeth, Eye of faith, exchanged for sight, With celestial splendour beameth On through darkness into light. I have lost,--but I have won.

I have won bright hopes immortal Of a heaven of peace and rest; E'en now I linger at the portal, As a kindly bidden guest. Lost and won!--oh earth! oh heaven! Hark!--I list the angels' strain, Voices in the silence even! Small the loss, and great the gain! I have lost,--but I have won.

THE MISTRUSTED GUIDE. A WESTERN SKETCH.

BY A MISSIONARY.

It was the close of a cloudy afternoon, about sunset, in February, 1818, and I began to think it high time to seek a lodging-place. The prairie--the first I had seen, unless it might have been a patch of a few acres, the day before--was covered with snow; and, although a good many bushes grew on it, and it was somewhat "rolling"--I hope my readers know what _that_ is--I confess its aspect was to me, just then, more dreary than picturesque. Our road is best described by the term which designated it, "The old Rocky Trace," by which may be understood the "blazed" road usually travelled from Shawneetown to Kaskaskia. The dwellings were not very numerous--indeed, we had the privilege of considerable exercise in passing from one to another. Now and then a block-house, in good condition, showed the rather recent Indian troubles, which had frequently compelled the inhabitants to "fort."

The sight of a cabin, after a while, was quite cheering. My wife was somewhat tired of carrying the babe all day, and was glad to see a prospect of rest and shelter. We drove up, and inquired, as usual, if we "could get to stay," not doubting an affirmative answer. And so we had; yet there was difficulty in the case.

"I'm afeard, stranger, you'll have to go furder. _Our_ childer's got the hoopin'-cough, and maybe you moughtn't like yourn to go whar it mought git it--'less it's had it. You may stop, ef you're a mind to resk it, for I don't never turn anybody away; but I didn't like to let you carry your baby in without lettin' you know."

Here _was_ a difficulty. We had had the child vaccinated at Pittsburg, on our way, but had used no precautionary measure against hooping-cough, and in "the dead of winter" there was some hazard in it. I looked at my wife: she looked troubled. Our friend--for he _was_ friendly--told us there was "a house on the Turkey Hill Road, a mile or two ahead; but it was a smart little bit on the _Rocky Trace_, afore we'd git any place to stop." The roads forked just where we stood, and we might choose either, to go to St. Louis; but some circumstance made it necessary for me to go through Kaskaskia.

"What shall we do, wife?"

"I really don't know what to advise. I am afraid to expose Amy to the hooping-cough, and I am afraid to go on far. It will soon be dark."

I was irresolute and anxious. We would have "timber," and probably a stream to cross; and, with my little "dearborn," it might be somewhat hazardous in the dark. The man sympathized with us--told us we "were welcome to stay, ef we'd a mind to resk it;" but then, if we did stay, we would have to be huddled in the same room with the family, and I don't know how many of "the childer" had the dreaded disease.

All this while my wife was sitting in the wagon, and, if not freezing, was sufficiently cold to wish for a good fire. We had hardly observed another man standing near, with whom the man of the house had been talking. He listened in silence for a considerable time, but at length spoke.

"Ef you'll put up with sech as I have--it's tol'able poor--you can go to my house and stay."

I looked now at the speaker, and discovered an elderly man, in a mixed jeans hunting-shirt--it was not the fashion to call it a blouse then--tied round the waist, a 'coon-skin cap, and "trousers accordin'." He had a rifle, or an axe--though I think it was the latter--lying across his arm, and looked wrinkled, and rough, and all drawn up with the cold. The twinkle of his deep-set eyes might be merry, or it might be sinister. I inquired where he lived.

"Why, it's rayther on the _Turkey Hill_ Road, and about a mile from t'other; but I can go in the mornin' and show you the way. It's mighty easy gittin' over from thar to yon road."

It occurred to me that his neighbour had not once referred to _him_ to solve the difficulty, and I wondered why; but he now rather intimated that I might as well take up with the old man's offer. I did so, without consulting my wife's opinion.

He trudged on, and I trudged after him, leading my horse,--which I did much of the way across the State,--through the snow. After a little while I discovered that we left the road, and were winding through a sort of ravine, or rather depression of the prairie, almost deserving the name of valley. The snow-covered ground--the brown, or bare bushes--the bleak, though diminutive hills--all looked cold, and wild, and dreary. My guide still trudged on, seldom looking round; and we seemed to be travelling without a road to "nowhere." My wife called me to her. Her looks gave token of alarm.

"Do you think it safe to go on with that old man? I don't like his looks, and this is a wild place. Hadn't we better go back, or try some other way? I feel afraid."

I laughed at her, but her fears troubled me. She was not given to false alarms; or, if she ever felt them, she never annoyed me with them. I cannot say that I participated in her fears now. Indeed I did not. The old man looked anything but terrible. I thought his countenance mild rather than austere. Still, these backwoodsmen were famous for a quiet ferociousness that could do a brave or terrible deed without the least fuss. I did not know what to think. But what to _do_ seemed to admit of but one answer--I must go on with him, and trust Providence, who had brought us safely some fifteen hundred miles. My wife shuddered, perhaps trembled, and hugged the child closer; but she submitted quietly--I may say trustfully. She certainly gave _him_ no hint of her fears.

At length--for the time did not seem very short to me, and doubtless stretched out much longer to my wife--but at length, after a long and very gradual slope down a hollow, such as I have _failed_ to describe, we saw the habitation of our guide. It was a cabin of the rudest sort and smallest size, in what had perhaps in "crap time" been an enclosure on the ascent of a slope beyond a little wet weather brook. I took notice--for it was an _interesting_ fact to me--that for the accommodation of my horse there was a "rail-pen," though, whether it was covered with straw, or "shucks," or prairie hay, or the cloudy sky, I do not now remember; for I have seen more such many a time since then; but there was "cawn" in another rail-pen close by. So my horse was supplied. But my wife and child must be got into the house first; and in we went.

Reader, in that little dearborn-wagon was all I had in this world, or of it; and though, to say the truth, all, except the wife and child, might have been well sold for a very few hundred dollars--and probably that is an enormous over-estimate--yet it was precious to me, for much of _their_ comfort depended on its preservation. And a _few_ hundred dollars--nay, a few _dollars_--would make quite an addition to the comforts of the habitation we entered, and of those who dwelt in it. There was neither table nor chair. The puncheon floor was not air-tight nor a dead level. The stick chimney and hearth were covered with clay; but there was a fire in it. The bed--but we have not got to the bed yet.

I suppose it happened very well that we had our provisions with us, for I saw no cooking nor anything to cook. I forgot to say, that the inmates when we arrived were a boy, dressed something like his father, and a girl, whose single garment--we judged from appearances--was a home-spun cotton frock, not white, though I think it had never been dyed. Both were barefoot. They might be twelve and fourteen years old.

"Whar's yer mammy?"

"Mom's went over to Jake Smith's; and she haint never come home yit. I reckon she's agwine to stay all night."

I don't know what made me think so, but I remember I _did_ rather surmise that it was just as well for us. _Something_ made me think of a shrew.

Presently, while my wife was spreading the table (i.e. a short bench, usually a seat) for our supper, I observed the old man seated on something, with a plate on his knees, plying his hunting-knife on some cold meat and corn bread for his. I suppose the children had eaten before our arrival. We had, I believe, our provision-box and an inverted half bushel for seats, and ate our supper with commendable appetites; for by this time I think my wife's fears were sensibly abated. At length bedtime came, and what should be done? There was a bed, or something like one, in a corner, but that would hardly accommodate all five of us and the baby. Soon, however, that doubt was solved. The girl spread a pallet on the floor, taking the straw bed for the purpose; and the feather bed--yes, _feather_ bed--was made up on the bedstead for us. That bedstead would be a curious affair, doubtless, in a Philadelphia furniture store. I will endeavour to describe it. It consisted of one post and three rails; or rather, what was intended to correspond with those parts of a bedstead. The post aforesaid was a round pole, with the bark on, reaching from the floor to the joist or rafter, inserted at top and bottom into auger-holes. At a convenient height, a branch cut off not quite close on each of two sides, formed a rest for two of the poles that served for a side and foot rail, the other end being inserted in auger-holes in the logs which constituted the wall of the house. One end of the other side-rail rested on the foot-rail. Across the two longest poles, or side-rails, split clapboards rested; and on the scaffold thus formed, the bed was made. I remember that it was comparatively clean; and the bedstead being quite elastic, and my wife's fears now entirely removed by the cheerful consent of our host to unite in family devotion, we slept well and soundly: while the family reposed no doubt quite as sweetly on their bed on the floor.

After we had breakfasted, our host, for whom we saw no more preparation than on the night before, piloted us through a grove of tall trees to the Kaskaskia Road, and pointed out our course; when we went on our way rejoicing, and saw that day, for the first time, a herd of seven wild deer together.

But the old man! What became of him? Didn't you pay him?

He turned homeward, and we saw him no more. We did pay him his full charge, amounting to twenty-five cents!

I do not think my wife was ever afraid of a man after that, because he looked rough in his dress. As for Amy, she had the hooping-cough; I don't remember how soon, but she survived it; and has weaned her eighth baby.

Does the reader want an apology for a dull story?

"Story--God bless you, I have none to tell."

I could have _made_ one, embellished with various incidents; could have had a rifle pointed, or frozen all our hands and feet at least, "or anything else that's agreeable;" but it would not then have been, as it is now, the simple truth.

A NIGHT IN NAZARETH.

BY MARY YOUNG.

"But while he thought on these things, behold, the angel of the Lord appeared unto him in a dream, saying, Joseph, thou son of David, fear not to take unto thee Mary thy wife; for that which is conceived in her is of the Holy Ghost."--MATTHEW i. 20.

Stern passions rose, and won wild mastery In Joseph's breast. He wandered darkly on, From the calm fountain and the olive grove, Toward the wilderness, as he would find Room for the ocean tumult of his thoughts. Long had he loved her with a matchless love, Deep as his nature, truthful as his truth; And she was his--by every sacred tie-- His own, espoused; though ever still had dwelt On Mary's thoughtful brow a chastening spell, That shamed to stillness all life's throbbing pulses: Or, if his words grew passion, there would steal To her large, azure eye a startled glance Of sad, deep questioning, and she would turn Appealingly to heaven, with trembling tears-- Yet was it she--the very same he saw, Writ o'er with all the foul name of a wanton.

One fearful word broke from the quivering lips Of the young Hebrew, as at last alone, By the dark base of a high, shadowy rock, He sank in agony; and then he bent His forehead down to the cool, mossy turf, And lay there silently. Light, creeping plants, And one long spray of the white thornless rose, Stooped low, and swayed above him; a soft sound Of far, sweet, breezy whisperings wooed his ear, Till gentler thoughts stole to him, and he wept. Ere long his ear heard not: all things around, The present and the past--the painful past-- Became as though they were not. Joseph lay, With eyes closed calmly, and a strange full peace Breathed to his spirit's depths; for there was one, Fairer and nobler than the sons of earth, Bending in kindness o'er him.

Calmly still, Although to ecstasy his being drank, The fathomless, pure music of the voice Heard in that visioned hour, as once again He stood by the low portal of the home Of Mary. He passed in with noiseless step. Through the dim vine-leaves of the lattice Not a moonbeam fell, and yet a softer ray Than ever streamed from alabaster lamps, Lit the white vesture and the upturned face Of her who knelt in meekness there. Her lips Were motionless, and the slight clasping hands Pressed lightly on her bosom, but a high Seraphic bliss spoke in the fervent hush Of the pure, radiant features; for she held Unsoiled communion with her spirit's lord.

Slowly away faded that glorious trance, And the white lids lifted as though reluctant. She looked on Joseph, and a faint, quick flush Swept shadowingly her forehead. Woman still, She felt, and painfully, that at the bar Of manhood's pride, earth had for her no witness. But the calm mien, and broad, uncovered brow Of Joseph, told no anger. He drew near, And knelt beside her; and the hand she gave In greeting was pressed close and silently, With reverent tenderness, upon his heart.

TEARS.

BY CHARLES D. GARDETTE, M.D.

'Tis said, affliction's deepest sting Some token of its pain will bring In tears of bitter flow; But they who thus judge sorrow's smart, Know not the pang that wrings the heart, With withering tearless woe!

The scorching grief that blasts the fount, And dries its tears, ere yet they mount, To soothe the burning eye; That speeds the blood with torrent force Through every bursting vein to course, Yet leave each life-track dry!

The grief that binds with rankling chain Each feeling of the heart and brain, Save sternness and despair; And crushes with relentless hand Each hope religion's trust had planned, Planting rebellion there!

Such grief, not one of these have known, Who say that flowing tears alone Proclaim the bosom's throes! Tears are the tokens God designed For lighter griefs of heart and mind, Such as pure child-life knows;

And therefore, hath He so ordained That infant-tears be not restrained, But lightly caused to flow, That these, who cannot tell their grief, Shall find in weeping, such relief As manhood may not know!

INCONSTANCY.

BY E. M.

They told me he'd forsake me; that the words With which he charmed my very soul away Were like the hollow music of a shell, That learns to mock the ocean's deeper voice. For he had listened to love's tones, until His ear and lip, though not his heart, had grown Familiar with their melody. Nay, more,-- They said his very boyhood had been marked By worse than a boy's follies; that in youth, The season of high hopes, when lesser men Put on their manhood, as a monarch's heir Rich robes and royalty, his poor ambition Asked but new charms and pleasures; newer loves; New lips to smile until their sweetness palled, And softer hands to clasp his own, until He wearied even of so light a fetter. Thus did they pluck me from him, but in vain; For when did warning stay a woman's heart? I knew all this, and yet I trusted him. Yea, with a child's blind faith I gave my fate Into his hands, content that he should know How absolute his power and my weakness. Speak not of pride, I never felt its lash. There is no place for fallen Lucifer In the pure heaven of a sinless love. And when he left me, as they said he would, My spirit had no room for aught save grief. Giving the lie to my own conscious heart, I taxed stern truth with falsehood to the last. But when to doubt was madness, when, perforce, Even from my credulous eyes the scales were fallen, What was the cold scorn of a thousand worlds To the one thought, that for a counterfeit I'd staked my woman's all of love--and lost!

CROSSING THE TIDE.

BY MISS PHŒBE CAREY.

Fainter, fainter, all the while On us beams her patient smile; Brighter as each day returns, In her cheek the crimson burns; And her tearful, fond caress Hath more loving tenderness,-- Saviour, Saviour, unto her Draw thou near, and minister!

And when on the crumbling sand Of life's shore her feet shall stand; When the death-stream's moaning surge Sings for her its solemn dirge, And our earthly love would shrink, Trembling, backward from the brink. Saviour, Saviour, take her hand, That her feet may safely stand!

Firmly hold it in thine own, Gently, gently lead her down; And when o'er the solemn sea Safely she shall walk with thee, Nearing to that other shore. Whence a voice hath called her o'er. Saviour, Saviour, from the tide, Aid her up the heavenly side!

Lead her on that burning way, Brighter than the path of day, Where a thousand saints have trod To the city of our God; Where a thousand martyrs came Shining on a path of flame; Saviour, till her wanderings cease On the eternal hills of peace.

THE END.

Transcriber's Note

Footnotes have been placed at end of their respective chapter, poem or note.

Obvious typographical errors have been silently corrected. Variations in hyphenation have been standardised but all other spelling and punctuation remains unchanged.