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claimed their heart's content. They listened as each gust swept howling by, and told its tale of cold bleak misery ; then pressing closer to the glowing pile, with outstretched ears they listened to the goodsite's tale- an aged, venerable man, whose silvery hair, and snow-white beard proclaimed the winter of his life, whose statement was received with eager, simple looks, that told the interest they felt, and showed they were all attentive to his words.

The old man paused ; for, as he spoke a sound now thrice repeated, met his ear, which first he took for that low plaintive moan, the herald of each blast, but now more like the human voice ; 'twas still-they listened long with breath suppressed-again- the old man started up ; a child's low plaintive cry now mingled with the wind, and smote their hearts with a sense of woe. The sire gave the word, and each one, torch in hand, now sallied forth, and plunging into darkness, sought the place from whence the cries arose, and as they neared the spot, the roar of waters rose above the still low wail of agony that grew more feeble at each step. They reached the brink, and casting over the gulf the flickering glare from the torch upheld, espied the infant clinging to its mother's neck, whose snow-white arms were twined around the branches of some fallen tree, whose trunk, impeded in its downward course by some projecting rock, upheld this helpless pair. One daring youth descended from above, by a rope entwined, and plunging in the midst, he struggled with the stream till, by great effort, he achieved his end, and seizing in his brawny arms the mother and her child, the three were drawn to shore.

They bore her lifeless to the cot. One held her babe, whose feeble cries had ceased ; they stripped its little form, and chafed its feeble rigid limbs till at last life's current to its heart returned, and every soul was gladdened with its smile. It called, in gentle accentsmother. She, poor hapless one, it seemed was still in death, for yet no signs of life appeared to cheer their eager cares ; her lips were closed-and from her lovely brow, pale as the marble, her dark hair strayed in wild profusion to the ground. Her heart was still- no heaving breast betokened life ; and as they hung above and gazed upon her beauteous face in wondrous admiration, the big tear started to the old man's eye, whose tears were scarcely ever shed before.

The good wife and her daughters, still with anxious and untiring zeal, applied them to the task through the night, and ere the morning dawned their tender cares were blessed with that reward for which they toiled ; and she, the daughter of misfortune, awoke to life, and awoke to bless them for their pains ; and oh ! with what a look- with what a heart of thankfulness and love she pressed once more the babe to that fond breast, whose warm affection now gushed forth in gratitude and joy.

SONNETS ON NAMES.

KATE. THERE is a witchery about you, Kate, "Tis not the saucy sparkle of your eye, Nor step with conscious victory elate, Spurning the suppliant earth in passing by, Nor smile that seems all comers to defyIt is not these, but all of them combined, And voice that varies with each fancy wild, Playing, like noon-tide shadows, o'er thy mind : As wilful art thou as a petted child, Fickle, alluring as an April wind ! None ever yet have touched that heart of fire Burning far down with all this dross aboveAh! that were prize where bold heart may aspire, "T were worth a world to tame thee into love!

CAROLINE. I SEE you sitting with your downcast eye, A modest blush upon your pearly cheek, Your bosom heaving gently with a sigh That tells emotions which you may not speak My pensive Caroline ! If I would seek To read thy inner soul, I would but look A moment on thy face, there ev'ry thought Is written eloquent as in a book ! Oh! thou art meek, with sympathy so fraught, So self-sustaining, from all guile so free, So girt around with purity divine, That as I look I almost dream I see The sainted Mother gazing from her shrine, Wrapt in her all sublime divinity!

LINES TO MRS. WOOD. DIVINE enchantress ! whose excelling art So oft hath bound me in its magic spell, Waking delightful feelings in my heart, And strong with gentle power to dispel, Its gloom of sadness making it rejoiceHow shall I honor thee-methinks e'en now I hear the wondrous magic of thy voice In its surpassing beauty,-soft and low, And sweet as the Eolian, when the brecze Plays gently o'er its chords- and then again, As by the storm-blast sweeping o'er the seas, Woke to a bold, sublimely sounding strain ; Thou sway'st the human heart oft hard to move As rock or stone-starting the graceful tear From eyes unused to weep-filling with love, And hope, and joy, bosoms long warn and sere With the world's commerce-wakening again Within the cold and chilly breast of age Fond memories of youth-oh, not in vain Heaven gave the genius that can thus assuage Man's grief and cares, and gently lead his heart To pure and pleasant feeling-making green The soil else desolate, glorious the art, And glorious thou, its mistress and its Queen. T. K. H.