As lingering there I mused awhile,
On death's long dreamless sleep,
And morning life's deceitful smile,
A mourner came to weep.

Her form was bow'd, but not with years,
Her words were faint and few;
And on those little graves, her tears
Distill'd like evening dew.

A prattling boy, some four years old,
Her trembling hand embraced;
And from my heart, the tale he told
Will never be effaced.

"Mamma, now you must love me more;

For little sister's dead;

And t'other sister died before,
And brother too, you said.

Mamma, what made sweet sister die?
She lov'd me when we played;

You told me if I would not cry,
You'd show me where she's laid."

"Tis here, my child, that sister lies,
Deep buried in the ground;
No light comes to her little eyes,
As she can hear no sound."

"Mamma, why can't we take her up,
And put her in my bed?

I'll feed her from my little cup,

And then she won't be dead.

For sister 'll be afraid to lie

In this dark grave to-night; And she'll be very cold and cry, Because there is no light."

"No, sister is not cold, my child;

For God who saw her die,

As he look'd down from heaven and smil'd, Call'd her above the sky.

And then her spirit quickly fled

To God, by whom 'twas given: Her body in the ground is dead; But sister lives in heaven."

"Mamma, won't she be hungry there,
And want some bread to eat?
And who will give her clothes to wear,
And keep them clean and neat?

Papa must go and carry some;
I'll send her all I've got ;

And he must bring sweet sister home;
Mamma, now must he not?”

No, my dear child, that cannot be ;
But if you're good and true,

You'll one day go to her; but she
Can never come to you.

"Let little children come to me,'
Once the good Saviour said;
And in his arms she'll always be,
And God will give her bread."

THE FRESHET.

BY HENRY F. HARRINGTON.

Ir may not be known to the majority of my readers, that the scenery of the Connecticut river especially after passing the northern limit of Massachusetts, presents many singular appearances. Ranges of broken and towering hills hem in the fertile and verdant valleys, every here and there converging, as though once united-presenting, where the angry current hurries its waters over the jagged rocks that madden its onward course into foaming rapids, rude and frowning precipices; as though those hills had long ago been rent asunder by some terrible convulsion, and the wide and deep lakes that their various points of union had created, had discharged themselves in cataracts of waters, leaving only the intractable stream that now tumbles onward to the ocean; occasionally emulous of its pristine glory, when the torrents of heaven have swelled its current, and bursting the fetters that winter has bound about it, it revenges itself in its fiery liberty, by adopting those fetters as the very instruments of its revenge; flooding the vallies, far and near, and piling up the huge blocks of crystal against mill and stately bridge, roaring in angry triumph at its work, and heaping block upon block, until, with a sound as of thunder, the object of its rage is lifted from its

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very foundations, and splintering and crashing, is borne away to aid its destroyer in its further devastation.

These evidences that the more northerly portions of the river were originally a chain of lakes, is corroborated by the fact that, at a certain height around the bases of the hills, tables of land extend into the valleys, uniform in height, evenness of surface, and perpendicularity of elevation; indicating the water mark, being themselves depositions of alluvion from above. Sometimes the tables rise from the very centre of the valleys, strangely regular in the concavity of their sides, having corners standing forth like huge bastions. Those who have neglected to observe the uniformity of the height of these elevations with the tables at the bases of the hills, have supposed them to be Indian mounds, instead of islands, once rising in beauty from the midst of lakes.

These tables sometimes extend for some distance up the banks of lesser streams that empty into the Connecticut; and serve to add a new charm to their already glorious scenery. Connected with a stream of this description, are some thrilling incidents, which I am about to relate. The events of the freshet, the preservation of the individuals, and the heroic bravery of their preserver, will have deeper interest in the eyes of my readers, from the fact that they are strictly true.

Peter Kennedy was an honest man-a hard working farmer-in the town of P- in Vermont, which lies on the banks of the Connecticut. He was not a beforehand man; for though he labored assiduously,

he could never look forward with complacency to a" rainy day," in the consolation that he possessed the wherewithal to procure the necessaries of life, should misfortune assail him. There are many of Peter's stamp; who, though diligent and economical, seem to be ever struggling against time and tide. How it is-whether in their cases, fortune never will show her face, or the unfortunates do not coax her properly-do not get a fair hold of the handle of success, we divine not, but we pass our word for it, that they are, and by this token are much to be pitied. Peter, having nothing of his own, rented for several years, a thrifty farm at the halves, as it is called in Yankee land-receiving half the produce for his superintendence. He married-he reared a family-he grew somewhat old-and still he was a farmer only" at the halves," still had laid up nothing of his own. Bye and bye he died; and was lost to further labor in the grave. What was his family to do?

That family-there was Mrs. Kennedy, a good woman-a very good woman; but firm and wilful and superstitious-mayhap, now we reason upon it, herself the drawback to her husband's success. Then there was Mary Kennedy, his daughter-a trueborn Yankee girl; with all her father's energy and perseverance and just enough of her mother's firmness to give solidity to her character-and more mind than both together. She was not beautifulbut she was good and well-shaped, and gracefulwith expressive features and a firm sparkling eye. These two were all; and what were they to do?

The funeral was over. Friends and neighbors