(I must crave leave to mention here, that the second line of the last verse was struck out, and "Who deign to share our childish mirth" substituted in its place.)

And next, dear school-boy, what for thee,
In this thy hour of jubilee?

Advance in wisdom, shall it be,

The grave tone of the concluding verses produced its usual sedative effect. The boisterous laugh was quieted down to an arch smile, accompanied with much animated crimination and recrimination on every side. Every body charged every body with what every body denied. Some repelled the charge on the plea that they were not wise enough, others that they were not silly enough to write verses; and one or two opined that these came out of "Aunt Nelly's Portfolio," but this last suggestion was triumphantly refuted by the simple fact that, of all the parties named in the verses, scarcely any were born when the Portfolio first came to light.

"All I can say," observed my brother, "is that I did not write them. Mary is my witness that I never tagged together two rhymes in my life."

Except that once," said I with point.

"O yes, I remember now: we all agreed, didn't we, to write a sonnet apiece, or was it an epitaph, on a favourite bird?" "And you recollect your two famous rhymes ?" asked I. "Not exactly,-pitch and toss perhaps : oh, now I think I do remember wasn't it

These were the opening lines; and then followed a couplet ending with wary and canary; but I don't believe you any of you did a bit better, though you kept it upon me for months; and Aunt Nelly, blessings on her memory! used to take my part. Samuel, my boy," continued he, addressing our eldest, you used to be a notorious rhymester, what have you to say for yourself?" “That I think I was not very likely, papa, to have ushered myself in with that flourish of trumpets about Apollo, and budding bay-leaves,-nobody would think of bringing themselves in-"

A happy thought seemed to strike his papa. Waving his hand over his head in mock triumph, he cried out, "I have it, as sure as we are all standing here."

"The better half being sitting," gallantly observed Mr. Witherspray.

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Well, sitting or standing, I have hit on the real delinquent. They need not fear, however; the cat looks so well in her bag that I promise them I do not mean to let her out. But Charley my boy," said he, bestowing this juvenile appellation on a person near fifty, (who was apparently seeking to shrink out of notice behind my chair,) "how comes it that you have no share in all this good wishing? that you are the only person left out of this fine affair? that you should be the sole exception-when even little Septima I protest I consider it quite a personal attack, (as the cheese said to the mouse, my Willie.) You,” continued his merciless assailant, "whom we all know are a poet yourself."

On this last hint the light which had been slowly dawning on the rest of the party burst into the full blaze of conviction, and "Uncle Charles is the man,' 99.66 Uncle Charles wrote the verses," broke from every mouth at once. The poor culprit stood convicted, that is, as far as a person can be said to stand who seems ready to sink into the earth. Poor fellow! he could only try to parry the general mirth, of which he found himself the object, by occasional abortive titters of his own. None but the shy can estimate the sufferings of the shy; but, however constituted in this particular, I hope, kind reader, you are not without a feeling of sympathetic concern for your old friend Charley, who, I have the pleasure to tell you, is settled down in a secluded little

curacy within a round walk of our vicarage, so secluded and hemmed in by trees, that we call him "our Backwoodsman." Henceforth this sobriquet is likely to be exchanged for that of "Poet Laureat." Poor dear Charley! he is but little altered since, perching on the bar of his papa's chair, he piteously besought a description of " Aunt Nelly's Poetry." It is true he is somewhat, though not much, increased in stature, and the tight little curls have a sprinkling of grey, but this is the only alteration you would find in him. He is no whit less affectionate, sweet-tempered, and lowly in his own eyes than he was forty-five years ago. But you should see him in his parish, in the church, the school, the cottage, by the sick bed, you would not know him again. When I have heard him stoutly and fearlessly rebuking vice, or defending his beloved Church from rude attack, I have thought of that pretty passage in Shakespeare:

"The poor wren,

The most diminutive of birds, will fight,
-Her young ones in the nest, against the owl."

THE LOST CHILDREN.

"I ask the moon, so sadly fair,

The night's cold breath through shadows drawn,
'Where are they who were mine? and where?'
A void but answers, All are gone.'"

MISS H. F. GOULD.

THERE was sickness in the dwelling of the emigrant. Stretched upon his humble bed, he depended on that nursing care which a wife, scarcely less enfeebled than himself, was able to bestow. A child, in its third summer, had been recently laid to its last rest beneath a turf mound under their window. Its image was in the heart of the mother, as she tenderly ministered to her husband.

"Wife, I am afraid I think too much about poor little Thomas. He was so well and rosy when we left our old home scarcely a year since. Sometimes I feel, if we had but continued there, our darling would not have died."

The tear which had long trembled, and been repressed by the varieties of conjugal solicitude, burst forth at these words. It freely overflowed the brimming eyes, and relieved the suffocating emotions which had striven for the mastery.

"Do not reproach yourself, dear husband.

His time had

come.

He is happier there than here. Let us be thankful for those that are spared."

"It seems to me that the little girls are growing pale. I am afraid you confine them too closely to this narrow house, and to the sight of sickness. The weather is growing settled. You had better send them out to change the air, and run about at their will. Mary, lay the baby on the bed by me, and ask mother to let little sister and you go out for a ramble."

The mother assented, and the children, who were four and six years old, departed full of delight. A clearing had been made in front of their habitation, and by ascending a knoll in its vicinity another dwelling might be seen, environed with the dark spruce and hemloch. In the rear of these houses was a wide expanse of ground, interspersed with thickets, rocky acclivities, and patches of forest trees, while far away one or two lakelets peered up, with their blue eyes deeply fringed. The spirits of the children, as they entered this unenclosed region, were like those of the birds that surrounded them. They playfully pursued each other with merry laughter, and such a joyous sense of liberty as makes the blood course lightsomely through the veins.

"Little Jane, let us go farther than ever we have before. We will see what lies beyond those high hills, for it is but just noon, and we can get back long before supper-time."

"Oh! yes, let us follow that bright blue bird, and see what he is flying after. But don't go in among those briers that tear the clothes so, for mother has no time to mend them."

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Sister, sweet sister, here are some snow-drops in this green hollow, exactly like those in my old, dear garden so far away. How pure they are, and cool, just like the baby's face when the wind blows on it! Father and mother will like us to bring them some."

Filling their little aprons with the spoil, and still searching for something new or beautiful, they prolonged their ramble, unconscious of the flight of time, or the extent of space they were traversing. At length, admonished by the chilliness, which often marks the declining hours of the early days of Spring, they turned their course homeward. But the returning clue was lost, and they walked rapidly, only to plunge more inextricably in the mazes of the wilderness.

"Sister Mary, are these pretty snow-drops good to eat? I am so hungry, and my feet ache, and will not go.'

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"

'Let me lift you over this brook, little Jane, and hold tighter by my hand, and walk as brave as you can, that we may get home, and help mother set the table."

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We won't go so far the next time, will we? What is the reason that I cannot see any better?"

VOL. VII.