MY BOY'S MINIATURE. BY CHARLES EDWARDS. JUST-as when we parted! When I, broken hearted, Wander'd from a home of sorrow and from thee! Just the same expression, From the lip's depression, As when in the twilight thou wert on my knee. When the air is lightest, Art thou in the garden talking to a flower? If the room be shaded, And the day-spring faded, Dost thou mock the chiming of the evening hour? Thoughtful, blue-eyed beauty, Dost thou know thy duty, When thy mother prays thou 'lt prove a honey-bee? Do thy wild caressings Mingle with her blessings, Dost thou smile and whisper, ' mother, I love thee?' I am often dreaming Of a taper, beaming Near my babe's siesta, shaded by my hand : Through thy fingers wreathing, Comes such gentle breathing, As might bear a hymn of praise from the seraph band Lord of life and kindness, Let this veil of blindness Veil of parent sorrow be thy dew o'er him; May his lake of thinking, Have no tide of sinking; May his deeds be rainbows never to grow dim; May thy book of glory, Teach him to write the story, How the earth is swelling, How the heavens are telling Of thy love and goodness to the sons of men; May it, 'mid his playing, Bring those lips to praying; May it, in his manhood, make a shield of thee; May it in his dying, Through the spirit's sighing, Cause a cry for mercy-mercy, God, for me! Oh! my boy, this fooling Is not like the schooling Earthly parents utter to the thing they love; But my health is failing; And I've long been wailing Wailing near the willows as a widow'd doye! A ROMANCE OF THE BORDER. BY WILLIAM L. STONE. "She had just arrived "At life's best season; when the world seems all "Where youth and beauty view their growing image, MORE than thirty years ago, there lived in the beautiful vale of one of the tributaries to the Susquehanna, whose waters wind their way among the hills of Otsego, a person of singular character and appearance. Without, as far as the writer knew, ever having lifted his finger against a human being, he was nevertheless a terror to children and youth of the border settlement: and those even who had arrived at the age of manhood shook their heads mysteriously, and looked grave, when he was the subject of conversation. His cottage, at that time ancient and mossgrown, was situated at the foot of a hill descending with a gentle slope to the south, and fronting a beau- tiful meadow, skirted in part by the creek which murmured tranquilly by. On the opposite bank, the deep-tangled shrubs, which fringed the statelier forest, dipped their pendent branches in the clear stream. On three sides the clearing' was bounded by the dark primitive forest; but on the north-east there was a thick secondary growth of timber over the space of a goodly sized farm, among which were yet standing the apple-trees of what appeared to have been in former days a regularly planted orchard. There was a small open space in the midst of this younger forest, in the centre of which were the ruins of buildings; associated with these were tales of terror, Indian wars, murders, ghosts, tomahawks and blood. The passage through this little forest-for as no heirs appeared to claim the soil, it stood years and years after the 'clearings' had approached its borders on all sides-always reminded my associates and myself of Indians and scalping-knives, and of the possibility that unquiet spirits were hovering there. In the night time especially, if one of us had to pass alone the Buxton farm,' as it was called, he walked briskly and 'whistled to keep his courage up.' If a company of lads had occasion to go by after twilight, they would crowd closer together as they came near, hurry onward with a lighter tread, and speak scarce above their breath, while a shuddering sensation would creep over them at every rustling leaf. Having crossed the gloomy |