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 142 husband, he laffed so loud I was afeard they'd hear him.

"They did look funny enuff, though; she was so strait and still-like, you'd a thought the wind kerried her along; and he a swingin' both arms, with her fan in one hand and her sunshade in the other.

"And I wouldn't wonder a bit, Sophier, ef there was a weddin' afore long, and we was both invited."

A SOLITARY waif, Upon the changeful sea, Will lightly float, serene and safe, Where tempests roar and billows chafe, And the foundered ship sinks hopelessly.

'Tis true wat ganant bark Bore the cherished and the brave; But the surge has hushed their last death-note, While the lonely waif is still afloat. On that vengeful, melancholy wave.

And 'mid the living crowd That throng life's busy mart, Are there not many desolate, Who pray for death, or wishing, wait, His last, his sure, envenomed dart!

The gifted and the fair: The cherished and the brave; The hope of youth, the stay of years, They who are mourned with bitterest tears, Sink earliest to the solemn grave.

They who are formed to bless, Whose life is one bright dream, Struck by some thunderbolt from Heaven, Sink, while the lonely waif is driven Adown life's dull and solemn stream.

BEAUTIFUL HILLS OF EDEN.

BY ANDREW SHERWOOD.

In my dreams I have thought of the Heavenly land, Far away up the portals of torn, Where the evergreen-mountains eternally stand, And the beautiful rivers are born; 'Tis the land of the leal, 'tis the home of the biest, Where our sorrows are known not, they say; Where the way-weary voyager findeth a rest, And the pure waters wander away.

Our gaze cannot soar to the evergreen-vales, Which alone by the fancy is trod; But our souls are refreshed by the odorous gales, Which are fanned from the gardens of God; And we sometimes have longed for that beautiful Eden, Where the blue hills in majesty rise, And the clouds, like an army with banners unfurled, Float away through the ambient skies.

Oh! the stars never smile from their temples of light, Where the world of eternity glows, And we never behold the blue mountains at night, But we dream of a holy repose. We are traveling home as the centuries roll, Each a sailor on life's open sea, To the beautiful hills in the land of the soul, Whose pleasures and treasures are free.

DREAMS.

BY MRS. A. E. WOODBURY.

DREAMS-What are they? No sage can tell What bears the obedient soul afar, On tireless wing, to scenes long past— To moon or star.

All heights and depths, trod with an ease These mortal bodies ne'er could tread; Faces familiar greet and smile; Forms of the dead

Are clothed with life and health; and hands Clasp ours with youth's warm clasp of love, Or, crooked with age, and care, and pain, Tremblingly move.

And other dreams we have, so fraught With pain and passion, that the pen Need not the record give, to meet The eyes of men.

Sometimes, ah! blissful moments rare, Of Heaven's bliss we catch a gleam, And wake to find the vision sweet Was but a dream.

But, though a dream, the holy calm May tarry with us, if we will; And, storm-tossed, we may hear the Voice Say, "Peace, be still!"