hung round her face, and low over her neck and shoulders. Now and then a deep-drawn sigh, expressive of a fullness of content too intense for words, broke from her lips; and when her eyes met her father's or mine, the sunshine of her smile grew radiant, and she would silently stretch out her arms to us for a long, close embrace. A turn of the path brought us suddenly full upon our sylvan banquet. May started; surprise, succeeded by a flush of delight, showed the success of our scheme to gratify her, and radiant with smiles and happiness, the lovely creature moved about, examining the preparations, arranging our places, suggesting and admiring, with an activity little habitual to her. The feast passed off delightfully-our innocent gaiety brightening everything around; and after a brief space of comparative felicity, we turned our steps homewards, and slowly threaded our way through the dim mysterious wood-walks, lighted here and there with golden glories from the slanting sunbeams, to our quiet home, which we reached soon after sunset. Slowly my flower began to droop. From the first I saw what was before me; saw it with a heart-sickening no words could give utterance to, yet without daring to murmur. Yet, oh-my own only little angel child, that I had, for six years, of softened suffering, nursed and tended, and cherished, day and night:-that had done more than aught else on earth to purify my soul, to waken gleams of hope and peace; to give my heart a love I might in all innocence acknowledge and indulge in!-My little angel child, that he so adored, that he took such pride in! and to think that all this must cease, all this must be resigned! Days must come when the place by my side would be empty; when that smile would cease to greet me, when these wreathing arms would no more clasp my neck; when, instead of a silvery voice singing low, wild melodies, would be silence; when I should look out there into the garden, and see no little form glide past in the sunshine. Nights—oh, dreadful!-nights must come, when I should enter my room, and find a little bed, standing cold and tenantless; no rosy cheek indenting, no wealth of golden After tea, fearing May might be tired, I asked her to curls overflowing, its snowy pillows; no soft, measured go to bed at once. "Yes, when I have read one chapter-just one chapter-out of my beautiful Bible. I have been with Sylvio" (her pony) "all day, and not with my poor, dear, beautiful Bible since this morning, and it will be jealous." I yielded, and she took the book; it opened at the calling of Samuel: she read the chapter through, and then, as she generally did, sat for some moments with the volume on her knees, reflecting over what she had perused. Then she came, and winding her arms round both our necks, and drawing us together in a long embrace, she went to bed as she had promised. That night, long after midnight, I was awoke by a sound proceeding from her bed; starting up, I saw her sitting upright, gazing straight before her, but with the dreamy, sightless eyes of somnambulism. Her lips moved, and I could faintly catch the murmured words, Speak, Lord, for thy servant heareth." Knowing the danger of waking a somnambulist, I remained silently watching her movements. Slowly she rose, stepped on the floor, and like a spectre glided across the room to the window; she put aside the curtain-day was just breaking; the east was yellowing, and the verge of the forest blackened against the horizon. There she stood, still and silent, looking out. "May!" I said, as softly as I could command my voice. She turned round slowly and quietly-fixing on me that vague, soulless gaze, that it is so painful to encounter. breathing, telling of peace and healthful rest. Sometimes in dreams I should win all this back again; should fancy she was come back to me; that it was the reality that had been a frightful, cruel dream; I should clasp her to my heart, and rejoice over her, and feel she was once more all my own: and then the agonizing fact would struggle back again through the vision; I should wake-wake to know that I was indeed childless; that never, never more on earth might that dream be accomplished; that a little grave was now my child's bed of rest, whose curtains might not be drawn aside till a great day. I dared think no further. But her father could see, would see, nothing of all this. I never told him, till long, long after, of that night when she was first summoned. He noted the paling of her cheek, the darkening circles round her violet eyes; he saw that she was thinning-that a gradual languor was stealing over her; saw it with an anxiety he would neither admit nor give place to. "She was growing so fast," he said; so she was-for a moment a rush of hope visited my heart, too, then faded. "She required change of air; we would take her to the sea-side ;" and so it was settled. First, though, we went with her to one of the most celebrated physicians in the neighborhood, one particularly noted for his skill in all childish disorders. He, too, said she was growing too fast; there was no specific malady a little agitation of the heart, but nothing organic; she must be amused, not allowed to study, or “My darling!—why do you get up?-lie down again, to fatigue herself; change of air, and above all, seamy own love." air and sea-bathing would do more for her than anything else. "God called me, mamma-I had to get up." The accents came slow and low and measured; then she turned, got into her little bed, and lay down, and soon her measured breathing told me that she slept tranquilly again. Yes, God had called her. We took her to a village on the coast; an out-of-theway place, unknown to usual visitors. It was but a handful of houses in a valley, encircled with high hills, on whose swelling sides were rich cornfields and pastures, gardens and groups of trees; where reapers reaped, and handsoine cattle browsed. In front, lay the wide, bine | black shadow; on the fair fields and white cottages; sea, dotted here and there with the sail of a fishingboat, now far off, now nearing, nearing, till it brought its cargo to the beach. It was wonderful what the change did for May. The roses came back to her cheeks, the light to her eyes; the little limbs regained new vigor, the step new elasticity, and she ate and slept as she had hardly ever done at any period of her life. Her father was radiant, triumphant; he loved her now with extra love, because she was restored to him; because he felt, as it were, grateful to her for recovering. Even I was hopeful; might I not dare to believe that my fears were groundless-that my great love had exaggerated the danger-that there was more of superstition, of accident than of warning in the event that, on that birth-night, had so powerfully impressed me? coldly kind, half-scorn, half-pity for earth and its poor weak, weary strugglers, whose joys and griefs could never come home to her, though she witnessed them every night of her pure life. Then home, and May to bed, her last glance turned to the uncurtained window that looked out over the broad blue moonlit sea. For a month things went thus, each day the counterpart of its predecessor, May blooming and happy, her father delighted; I hopeful: then a change, barely perceptible-yet, still a change, crept over her. The roses waned a little, the eye was hardly so lustrous, the step so light. No longer the treasures on the beach possessed the same value, the food the same savour. Now, instead of roving to and fro as we sat under the cliffs, she would remain by us, leaning on my shoulder, and looking out silently and wistfully over the sea. Another month, and she was nearly the same frail wan creature we had brought there. What were we to do next? This place no longer consult another physician, we would adopt another system; she should go to a warmer climate, we would spend the winter in Florida; there were resources, he May was so happy; everything was new to her. In the morning, she took her bath, and came up, radiant and glowing as a sea-nymph; then to breakfast, when the comparatively coarse bread, the fried fish, the new-agreed with her; we would take her home, we would laid eggs, the milk, the butter, all seemed so far better than the best that she had ever before tasted. Out again on the beach, where, while we sat under the cliffs watching her, she found such rare treasures; shells and | knew-thousands of resources in nature and in art pebbles and sea-weeds; tiny crabs, running sideways over the smooth sand, in mighty tribulation at being discovered; star-fish and mussels; clear pools, on which to float the baby-boats we made for her a thousand foolish things, to her more precious than "grete perlis round and orient, And diamondis fine and rubys red." Then, away for a drive into the lovely country round, so fair and rural in its aspect; with lanes leading through broad cornfields, heavy and wavy with their harvest-green pasture-lands, tenanted by fine cattle; orchards and farms, all mapped out by hedgerows where tall trees stood at certain distances, looking out over the land. Then we came home and dined, and again sauntered out on the beach, or climbed the cliffs that presented their hard, stern, stony faces to the sea, but that landward were green and rounded and undulating, bearing close velvet turf and hardy wild flowers even at their very verges, and ever so little further inland, giving nourishment to fine fields and gardens. There, on these steeps, overhanging the plashing waters, that lapped their bases with a gentle, sleepy monotony, we would sit, May between us, watching the great red sun sink down, down into the far sea, mid purple and gold, and rose and amber; down, down, his disc gradually eaten away by the horizon, till suddenly all was swallowed up by the greedy ocean; and then the tints paled, and waned, and faded, till the sky became all one deep, dark sapphire, through which diamond stars here and there twinkled and trembled. Then, slowly came up the large yellow moon, sailing onwards, looking down on the tides she drew after her, shining broad on the wet sands, where the cliffs projected masses of against such cases. Dr. L― had positively said there was no actual malady; her conformation was as faultless for the anatomist as for the sculptor; though not a robust, she had always been from her birth a healthy child; so he said; and then her slow step and pale cheek and drooping eye passed before him, and he got up and left the room, that I might not see the agony he could not control. We brought her back home and took her again to Dr. L-; he looked grave and spoke ambiguously: perhaps a warmer climate might be of service to her later, but now, the end of August, it would be worse than useless to try it; the heat would exhaust her remaining strength, and prove highly injurious. We were determined to believe that he knew nothing about the case; we must consult some one else every one of note. We did; but who has yet discovered the means to withdraw the victim that death has marked for himself? Gradually her little strength waned away. Like a shadow she wandered slowly through the house, through the garden; she suffered little pain, only weakness and weariness. Often through the long, slow, autumn nights, she lay sleepless, but quiet and uncomplaining, I listening to every sigh, every breath, every languid movement. Towards morning she would fall into a light feverish slumber, disturbed by restless dreams; then wake unrefreshed, yet ever with a sweet faint smile ready to greet us as we bent over her, ever with a word of encouragement and reassurance. The time at last arrived when she could no longer walk about, even in the house. She was taken from her bed each day and laid on a sofa near the window, that looked on the garden. It was October; the last flowers were fading away, the breeze blew chill through the trees, and the yellowing leaves whirled across the beds and the walks. The messenger of death was abroad on his mission; nature felt it, and we all knew he would not pass by our door. May was looking out dreamily, her face pale as the pillows on which it rested, her hair like a halo of glory already surrounding it. Her thin, white fingers played with the coverlet, as they were wont to do, when she, a little child, I a hopeful mother, used to steal to her cot at night, half uneasy at the silence, to see if she slept. I sat by her side, her father was a little behind the head of her couch, that neither she nor I might see his face. The day died away, twilight shades gathered, and still we sat, no one speaking. off her shoes, and I held her feet in my lap, while he rubbed her hands. "Send for Dr. L "I have." Dr. L came, looked at her and shook his head. Her father wrung his hands. "Something for God's sake, do something! try something! O, don't stand and look at her so!" I seemed turned to stone; I held her on my bosom, quiet, voiceless, tearless. He flung himself on his knees; he took her hands and showered on them frantic tears and kisses; she raised her head a little, tried to look at him through the shades that were glazing her eyes. "Don't cry, papa-dear papa; you'll ” She held up her lips to me-I pressed mine to them; at first they responded to the pressure, then there came a quivering sigh; I felt them relax, her head dropped A shiver ran through May's frame. "You feel cold, my darling!" Her father started up, left the room, and returned with a lamp; we covered her warmly, we took-May was an angel. EATING GRASS. Furthermore, and to starve him out entirely, let him recollect Sir William Jones's microscopic talk with the Brahmin about his strict pomegranate breakfast; every bit of fruit and every glass of water is a world of animal life, and even (poor Peascod!) you cannot breathe a breath without inhaling hundreds of eggs! Think of that, and boldly try a bantam's for breakfast. I once had a dog who took to eating grass; not medicinally, as some dogs do, but after a right hungry fashion, like Peascod, and Peascod's great prototype, the lunatic Nebuchadnezzar. Well, poor Juno soon swelled up like a cow among the turnips, and then lay panting on the dunghill, till the keeper shot her, to put the poor maddening beast, as he said, out of her misery. I hope Mr. Peascod may never live to meet such tender mercies. Push everything to pure extremity, says Folly: mix all things, and take the mean every way, says Wisdom. Compromise nothing, is the rule of human vanity: make compromise with everything around is the brotherly providential maxim. Really now, this is a poser for the over scrupulous: Mr. Brotherton must see to it, and do as the Pope has done, and get up a grand vegetarian conclave to decide upon the immaculate conception of honey. I fear your question, Cis, will reduce poor Peascod's dietary still further. Ay, Mr. Peascod, and is not also mushroom near of kin to flesh, morel to tripe, and truffle to gizzard? Who shall draw the line of demarcation, and fix where the zoophyte ends and the fungus begins? Why, they hunt truffles with dogs in our parts; and some toad-stools smell villainously putrid. Let Mr. Peascod, if he has a conscience, tremble at the flavor of such luxuries. ism of a mushroom. Peace at all price and vegetables for ever! That's your motto, O most flatulent Cowardice; but recollect, henceforth you are forbidden to eat honey; ́ay, and there are even grave doubts about the pure vegetarian THE rose you sent, love's tale to tell, Scarce lived till eventide; A blight upon its beauty fell, It pined for thee and died. TO A LADY. To that poor flower, my fancy saith, A TALE. BY THE AUTHOR OF "WALTER MARCH; OR, SHOEPAC RECOLLECTIONS," AND "FACA, AN ARMY MEMOIR." CHAPTER VIII. proposed that they deep clouds. "Hem! fill up, should go over and re- fellows!" "Let's jump upon the ugly plebe, and pound him!" "Hem! good: try it!" Puff, puff. Plebe, I must go." "Hem! A president of a court-martial give into a plebe!" Puff, puff. If the party was surprised before, they gave token of as connoitre the proceedings. Accordingly, the two went and lay upon the grass, near the tent, listening. As if devilling a plebe was not sufficient, the young gentlemen had evidently set to work to make smoked buffalo of him. He served them freely with tobacco, and bade them, with his customary "hem," to fill up the pipes, again and again. He tonishment now. Mayberry went was not sick yet. The young dogs out laughing. A voice criedabout him were incapable of being "Plebe, you are not such a fool made sick to smoke from morn till as you look!" dewy eve, from dewy eve till mid- "Hem! you are!" Puff, puff. "You thought you were cutting it fat, that ar night you played judge advocate so smart"-puff, puff— came out in the hall, and advised me to say nothing, and the court would spare my life." Puff, puff. life ain't no whar when I'm mad!" Puff, puff. "If I'd known you were hoaxing that night, Je-ru-sa-lem! wouldn't there have been some bloody heads !" Puff, puff. night, and to go to sleep smoking, seemed to form their vocation at the Academy-sub rosa, of course. It was a violation of regulations, but that only rendered the stolen fruit sweeter; it spurred on their desire the morebesides, is it not manly to smoke? And, is there not great consolation and soothing, in puffs of purple fragrance rising in curls to the ceiling? What visions! what fountains and palaces in a pipe! To chase away the blues, it is peerless. "Hem! fill up, fellows: I believe I'll take a pipe myself!" There was an audible murmur of surprise, as Colin lit a pipe, and began very coolly to roll out volumes of smoke. My The party seemed rooted in the tent. No one moved to go, and yet, from certain unequivocal sounds, there were at least one or two sick stomachs within. "Hum!" said Colin, knocking the ashes out of his pipe on the tent-pole as he rose, and stood by the "I thought you never smoked!" exclaimed May-door. "I reckon you treed the wrong possum this berry. time, and got caught in the tamrack. You are all "Hem! never do," puff, puff. a pitiful set of scoundrels; and, if you'll step outside, "We might as well be off," remarked one of the I'll lick the whole raft of you into sawdust." patrol. He flung open the tent door. Mayberry jumped up, "Hem! not yet, gentlemen. You don't disturb me." threw off his coat, and said, "I'm your man!" Puff, puff. "I believe the plebe will make us all sick," whisper- echoed round; but Mayberry insisted saying, "The plebe ed another. "Hem! I don't make people sick, if I can help it! Down whar I live, we keep open house for strangers." Puff, puff. "I've no idea of being done up by a plebe," said Mayberry. "Let's thicken the air with smoke. He isn't used to it!" "Don't fight a plebe! Don't fight a plebe!" was has proved himself a gentleman; and insulted us all!" Philip hastened to Colin, and begged him to take it back; telling him he had punished them enough. And Julian brought in Redesdale to parley between the combatants. The affair was patched up. Strange to say, there were no more attempts to devil Colin Clout, in the corps of cadets. Philip and his tent-mate, Julian, were mutually curiosities-neither comprehending the other. One spent the time apparently musing, the other, courting the muses. Julian had a world in the air, and another at his fingers' ends in the bow of his dear fiddle. Crossgrained, imperious in disposition, dry in his humor, undemonstrative in his manners, he turned away from man, to poetry and music; where he both talked, and was talked to, in a world of gentle spirits. Among them he lived-lived wrongly-lived too much. Philip never knew whether Julian was asleep or awake at night, after they lay down. For often the tent seemed charmed with some strange, wild, sweet melody, that, according to Nan's theory, Phil must have heard before, only in Heaven, it seemed so natural. Not willingly would he stay in the day time to hear his companion play, though it were the divinest of airs, as Julian said. But at night Julian would softly unroll his violin from the blankets in which he kept it in the case under his pillow, give expression to some newly-inspired concord of sweet sounds that had, perhaps, been haunting his dreams. "A little imp" he would call it, in such soft, tender accents, that even Philip's unpoetic soul could melt before it, but like Philip, Julian kept his own counsels. At times he was talkative, but never communicative. He never spoke of his family or home, or friends known before he entered the nigh to him. Their paths were separate. Nothing Julian enjoyed more than that hoax played upon Colin, on the memorable night in barracks. And now, when his suspicions as to its being a hoax were confirmed by what he heard at Colin's tent, he returned to his own and rolled on the tent-floor with delight. Then he took out his fiddle and played the whole affair over-in an opera, which he called "Colin Clout's Court-martial,” universally popular, even with "Smitth." The cadet who had personated the inspector and commandant of Cadets, was a dark-complexioned, prema turely old-appearing youth, and when Julian, with his fiddle-bow, drew off the "Ahem! I've said it!" in sounds so deliciously imitative of those acted that night, the cadets who began now to hang about the tent, would set up a shout, and Philip would laugh till he cried. He could appreciate it better than "Somnambula"-at least he thought so-the deep, still night often telling a different story-for what we like best does not always come up to the surface at once. Prejudice may keep it hidden deep in our natures, till time, with its changes, sets it free. The genuine "Ahem! I've said it!" the commandant of Cadets never used to say it he looked it. His air of decisive briskness said it for him, and the cadets were keen interpreters. The commandant was a zealous officer-drilled enthusiastically, and watched over the corps vigilantly-the plebes fraternally. The first of July was come. academy. And though the two lived together, they | Both examinations, academical and surgical, of the new He was never walked together. Julian made great sport of Philip and Colin Clout wandering so much by themselves, while he always wandered by himself. seen on the hills, and down the deep shady walks among the cliffs, not unfrequently with his face upturned, if it were night, or sunk upon his bosom, if it were the day, lost in revery. Now, if the two could only have broken in upon each other's world, what great good might not each have known! "Smitth!" Julian would exclaim. "What is there to be got out of Smitth?" Phil, on his side, wondered more and more at his strange tentmate, but never drew class had been gone through, and it was now known who were admitted to remain, and who were rejected. Among the fortunate ones were all the friends we have had the honor to introduce to the reader. The class was marched to the chapel, where they took the oath of allegiance, and received some excellent religious and sensible advice from the chaplain. He would advise them not to make too many acquaintances (that was unnecessary to Philip) to start right, and then it is easy to keep right; to obey orders; be contented; endure (with a good grace) that which cannot be cured; trust in God for direction and protection: finally, sign a pledge of temperance! |