round the grave, each one striving to be first. This caused some disorder and irregularity. Conspicuous among the foremost was the unlucky Newman, who came next after the captain, and hurled two great clumps of earth on the coffin, so that it fairly bounced from the effect of the blow.

This afforded the captain a fresh opportunity of exhibiting his dislike to the poor fellow.

'May a thousand furies overwhelm the rascal! The man must be raving, stark mad!' he roared out furiously. 'I suppose he wants to wake up Miller from his last sleep, so that he may make his appearance before the whole company with nothing but a shirt on, and freeze to death that would be a pretty piece of business, when his clothes have already been delivered to the quarter-master's department. Sergeant ! remember that this fellow is to have three additional tours of duty at the powder-mill. Now, perhaps he'll keep quiet, and not budge from his place; if he do n't, I'll make a fricasee of the scoundrel!' The grave is slowly filled up with earth. When that part of the ceremony is over, the captain silently doffs his helmet, and at this signal the soldiers follow his example. The sergeant steps officiously to the side of his commander with the question:

'What prayer does it please our captain to order?'

'That's a fact, sure enough. I had forgotten to tell you that. Well, let every one that can, say the LORD's Prayer, and pray at that till I order you to stop.'

The captain shields his eyes with his helmet, taking good care, however, to hold it so that he can see over the top and watch his men, who, taking the hint from him, look earnestly at the lining of their helmets and pretend to pray.

'Amen' roars the captain; and then, in the same breath: 'Attention! company; left face, forward march!' and, at a quick step, away marches the whole company back to the barracks.

'Give me back my son! Where is my son?' the poor mother, who has by this time recovered her senses, demanded of the soldiers as soon as she saw them returning to their quarters.

'He is buried, my good woman,' abruptly retorted the captain; 'buried with full military honors! Don't be so down-hearted, for he was a first-rate soldier; and 't is a great pity that he is dead. Now, go home, and tell your husband and children what I say.'

Ah! they are all dead he was the last!' sobbed out the unfor

tunate creature.

'Why, then, go and get married again, and perhaps you will have some more children, who will grow up and be a fine set of fellows, just like him.'

Giving this piece of consolation, the captain walked off, while the poor old woman, half-stupefied, half-crazed by her loss, stood silently gazing after his retreating form.

Tears started to the eyes of the soldiers in the guard-house who had witnessed this scene. They made a collection amongst themselves, aud every man there contributed his last copper to enable the griefstricken mother to pursue her desolate journey home.

GOLDEN MEMORIES.

BY EDWARD GOODWIN, OF ALABAMA.

COME, listen to the times of old.' -SOUTHEY.

BLESSED be a good, genial, cheerful fire! Beneath its soothing influence we cease to hear the eternal jar of opposing elements; we, for a time, forget that without is biting coldness; that a thousand hearts are bleeding in sorrow and want; that pale-faced orphan children are crying for bread; that men are wasting away beneath the rude touch of disease, and that misery lies on every side.

Dear reader, have you no comfortable ingleside about which you fondly linger, when the wintery winds go wailing by, and when the snow-wreaths hang in gorgeous, glittering festoons from every bending bough? Have you no hearth-stone, broad and ample, upon which you can heap great piles of clean cleft hickory?' We know right well you have, and about its sacred jams linger lovingly the many sweet remembrances of the olden time' when you, with light heart and active limbs, gathered wild-flowers high up the towering mountainside, or sported in glee upon the green, grassy lawn, or chased the gaudy butterfly over the distant fields ! Is it not a happy privilege, seated as we are by the glowing fire-side, to recall those golden memories and dwell upon them with a melancholy pleasure? They are the jewels of the mind, and they flash athwart it, causing it to glow afresh with all the gorgeous glories of youth, hope, and love. We fondly cherish them, so full of half-forgotten dreams, youthful fancies, and delightful hours, and doatingly cling to them as the mother bereft of her darling child, clings to it on the border of the grave, and even in the dim twilight of old age we hug them to our bosoms with tenderness and joy. They are true and faithful companions. From a refined and sensitive mind they are never entirely absent. They add a freshening ardor to our pleasures, and soften our adversities, as distance mellows the mountain and the landscape. When the beautiful bow of promise has vanished from the heaven of our hopes amid a night of blackness and despair, and pale Melancholy, with spectral fingers, has traced upon our hearts grief and dire misfortunes, it is sweet to know that we can turn to a world within us, which no storms can disfigure, and revel again amid scenes of brightness, beauty, and joy.

These blessed memories come upon us in a thousand different ways; sometimes

-'like the murmur of a dream;'

at another, in crowded halls, amid music and the merry dance, they whisper softly unto us; and still at another, in the sombre mid-night,

they steal gently over us.

When we least expect it, lo! arises before us some beautiful vision of the farthest back hour,' from

'BENEATH the umbrage deep

That shades the silent world of memory.'

6

Do you not see a splendid peristrephic panorama moving before you from those far-distant shades?' How natural! How vivid, and how true! See! there glides the old school-house, in which many of the sunny hours of childhood were past. It is silent and deserted now, but it will live forever in the world of memory.' The kind-hearted teacher has gone down to the gloomy grave. And those dear friends who went to the same school; read from the same books; drank from the same spring, and prayed the same prayers where are they? They are scattered hither and thither over the wide earth. Some are in foreign lands, and some have faded like flowers from the earth. The melody of their voices still lingers and falls upon our ears, like echoes from the glory-land. There, too, is the grassy lawn upon which we once sported in glee! Oh! it is there, bright in the sunshine, and lovely in the shade! How often, long, long ago, did we -you and I-in those days, play with our brothers and our sisters upon that dear familiar spot, when

'SPRING trieth her trick of greenery;'

when the bees murmured among the flowers; when the atmosphere was laden with aroma; when every grove was filled with the melting melody of birds; and when the hills and vales were garnitured with light and loveliness. That was many a weary year ago, and some of that joyous, happy band have passed away, as the rainbow melts from the bosom of the cloud. The dews of heaven now sprinkle the grave of a kind brother or sister, and beautiful flowers shed their fragrance over their final resting-place. Even the old oak tree, beneath whose wide-spreading branches we used to sit and wreathe the flowers into chaplets fair, or watch the silvery sailing clouds far up in heaven, is not forgotten. We remember it still, and love it; and from our souls bless the poet who sung

'WOODMAN, spare that tree,

Touch not a single bough:
In youth it sheltered me,
And I'll protect it now.'

Touch it not with the sacrilegious axe, for every stem, leaf, and bough has in it a tale full of love. Many and many a time have we sought its shelter from the summer-showers; years on years it cast its genial shade over the home of our childhood, and hither did the bees and birds come. We remember well the last time we sat beneath that dear old oak. 'Twas on a summer's morning, and we were not alone. It was a morning as soft and beautiful as ere beamed upon the world and touched the heavens with radiance. That was our last day in the home of our youth, and duty had prompted us to go forth and battle with the rugged world for wealth, honor, and emolument. The girl of our affection was beside us, and fond words were spoken and solemn vows were plighted. We think that we now can feel the influence of

that bright blue eye, blue as the bending heavens,' beaming on us, and can hear the melting murmurs' of that low sweet voice breathing words of hope, and love, and constancy. Alas! alas! cruel Time writes many sad changes on the human heart, for ere we saw again the old oak tree and our home, she had gone up to the mansions of bliss, and joined the angels of that brighter world.

Blessed be that dear old tree! Often and oft have we seen its dark green leaves arising from the world of memory,' and often and oft have desired to lay once more our wearied limbs beneath its boughs. The panorama glides on, and O beautiful vision!- there is our childhood's home, nestling like

'A thing of beauty'

amid the forest scene. Again we sit beside its ample hearth-stone, that

'OASIS in the desert-star of light,

Spangling the dreary dark of this world's night;'

that spot about which cluster so many fond and holy associations. This is truly a golden memory! Sorrows and affliction cannot erase it, and neither changes nor difficulties can dim the image of the dear old home. We may perchance roam into distant lands; may tarry beneath soft Italy's skies; may stand amid the glittering glaciers of the Alps; or may linger among the vineyards of the Rhine; yet this remembrance will cling to us a joy forever.' We live over again those happy hours. We feel the same spirit that thrilled us years ago, and gaze upon the same scene that filled our youthful eyes with joy. Do you remember how you rejoiced when, on a morning in cold December, you awoke and beheld a scene of snowy coldness, stretching away. away? Have you forgotten how you made tiny track upon the snow-bank, and wondered why all the chickens were gathered within the old barn? Have you forgotten how you flattened your little red nose against the window-pane, and looked out upon the hills and hollows, and admired the glittering show; how you saw

'DROOPING, the laborer-ox

Stand covered o'er with snow,'

away,

and how you pitied him from your soul? How you watched the snowbirds in the cedar trees, and how you wished for a little salt to throw upon their tails? All this you cherish, and much more, and a feeling of sadness steals over you when you think that those days and those realities have forever fled, and can only be recalled as sweet memories of the 'long ago.' But, gentle reader, let us ask, have you forgotten the 'old folks at home?' We see you have not, for the question has reöpened the golden portals of memory, and even now the great tears are rolling a-down your cheeks. How many will echo this earnest wish : Blessed be the old folks at home!' Hark! The response comes ringing up from a thousand thousand throats some giving it in plaintive tones, some with smiles of love, and some with heart-felt joy! Perhaps you