think, now, if you had done what they say he did (and they lie that say it), an' that I heard the world down upon you for your first slip-do you think, I say, that I'd not defend you out of clane contrariness, and to vex them? Ay, would I!" 66 I know, darlin', that you'd do everything that's generous an' right but, setting this affair aside, my dear Dora, what are you and I to do?" "I don't know what we're to do," she replied; "it's useless for you to ax me from my father now, for he wouldn't give me to you-sorra bit." "But you'll give me yourself, Dora, darling?" "Not without his consent-no, nor with it, as the families stand at this moment; for I tell you again that the sorra ring ever you'll put on me till your sister sends for my brother, axes his pardon, and makes up to him as she ought to do. Oh why, James dear, should she be so harsh upon him?" she said, softening at once; "she is so good, and so faultless, after all!-But I suppose that's the raison of it-she does not know what it is to do anything that's not right." 66 Dora," said her lover, "don't be harsh on Kath leen; you don't know what she's sufferin; Dora, her heart's broke-broke!" The tears were already upon Dora's cheeks, and her lover, too, was silent for a moment. "She has," resumed the warm-hearted girl, "neither brother nor sister that loves her, or can love her, better than I do, after all." "But in our case, darling, what's to be done?" he asked, drawing her gently towards him. "I'll tell you, then, what I'd recommend you to do," she replied; spake to my brother Bryan, and be guided by him. I must go now-it's quite dusk." There was a moment's pause, after which she bade her lover a hasty good night, and hurried home. EDITOR'S POSTSCRIPT. From our Writing-Desk. In these inconceivable and incomprehensible times, | which have come upon us as suddenly as showers are popularly supposed to do in the weeping month of which this Day of Fools is the commencement; in these stirring times, when wonders come treading on the heels of wonders, till we cease to feel surprise at anything; when kings slip off their thrones, and are lost to sight in the dim obscurity of private life, or pitch constitutions ready cut and dried out of the window, to be scrambled for by the murmuring masses below, even as we have beheld charitably disposed practical jokers distribute red-hot halfpence from a fire-shovel to small boys in the street, (boys and masses both running the risk of burnt fingers for their pains ;) in these eventful days on which we have stumbled, so to speak, we feel sure that our loyal subjects, our amiable and enlightened Public, must rejoice to learn that we are still undeposed, still able and willing to watch over their interests, and cater for their instruction and amusement. For, gentle Readers, be it known unto you that editors have been at a premium of late. As citizen kings have gone down, and their princely progeny fallen below par, (pa,) as a punster, which be it observed we do not consider ourselves, would say, so, in an inverse ratio, editors are looking up, and poets is riz. But we, faithful to our Sharpe, have steadily resisted the temptation of acquiring small fame by adding our own pericranium to the list of "Heads of the People" broken in Trafalgar Square by the ruthless staves of indiscriminating policemen. And yet such individuals as A 26 and B It would be to anticipate the interest of the dénoue-47 ought to have respect for men of letters, unless, inment, were we to point out the rather amusing Hibernianism in the title to our tale; we shall only add our best thanks to the publishers of the Parlour Novelist for introducing it to us. It was the favourite project of the enterprising Constable to offer literature to the public at so cheap a rate that the "book on the cottage window should become as necessary to its inmates as the chair by the cottage fire." The pub lishers of the Parlour Novelist seem determined to carry out this principle to its utmost extent. We wish them heartily success, and for ourselves only hope that they will continue to supply their readers with tales which in interest and beauty may equal that of the Emigrants of Ahadarra. ANSWER TO CHARADE. YES, Beauty's blush is fair to see, The veriest WORM that crawls would be Like GLOW WORM through the shades of night. Οιδίπους. deed, they confuse them with their natural enemy, the "homo trium literarum." Neither have we betaken ourselves, like a certain brother editor, to the city of the barricades, to fraternize with Liberty in a blouse, and see the fun. But as, instead of availing ourselves of any of these openings for "a nice young man," we have remained at home to attend to our own affairs, let us prove that we have not relinquished these highly desirable opportunities for nothing, and enter upon business. In the first place, then, S. M. has not made April fools of us, and we have much pleasure in introducing our readers to the "Story of a Family," by the authoress of the "Maiden Aunt." We also feel sure that they will be glad to perceive the name of Miss Pardoe amongst our contributors, and to learn that our pages are for the future to be occasionally enriched by the productions of her graceful pen. Of our Steel Engravings we need say nothing; we leave them to speak for themselves. We have more good things yet in store for our readers; of what they are to consist, the enlightened members of society who are sufficiently alive to their own interest to invest a shilling in the May part will become aware. A word to one of our fair correspondents. We did not know till she did us the favour of writing to us, that Xantippe was an Irish woman; such is, however, the only hypothesis by which we can account for her sending us a letter to inquire the fate of her contributions, and carefully concealing both her own real appellation and the names of the articles in the fate of which she is interested. 'FUR, a thief. THE FIRST SETTLERS. BY ELIZA FARNHAM. On the northern side of a prairie, eighteen miles in extent, two groves approach within a short distance of each other from the east and west. They lie on a lofty swell of land, and are visible many miles away. The plain between these dark green promontories is smooth as the unruffled sea; and you fancy as you look upon its quiet outline, while the tree-tops toss and swell against the clear blue sky, that the smallest object would be discernible. Presently a short dark line rises against the light, and as the coach toils over swell after swell, and brings you nearer the object, it grows distinct, permanent, and bold, and fastens itself with a strange pertinacity on the eye and mind. It concentrates your wandering thoughts, and you wonder what could have led to the construction of such an object on that spot. No dwelling or other tenement is visible, and the green wall of the western grove rises apparently a full mile from it. There it stands, without proportion or symmetry, its harsh angles unrelieved by a single shrub, its silent walls brown with the storms of years. -It is a tomb! Farther back in the grove, stands a house near which its silent tenant lived and died. Long before these lands were vacated by the Indians, a settler came hither from the eastward with his family. He was roving through these beautiful gardens in search of a spot whereon to make his home. One morning his white-topped waggon entered the southern border of this large prairie, and, all day, was seen by the wondering Indians at the grove to rise and fall slowly among the green swells, coming nearer and nearer, till at nightfall it halted on the line where this solitary tomb now stands. Here the travellers encamped; and one who has visited the spot will not wonder that when the patriarch had seen the next sun rise on the scene before him, he declared their journeyings ended. A site was selected in the grove for their cabin, the logs were felled and laid up by the father and his sons, and a frontier home soon sent its smoke curling through the overhanging boughs. Their only neighbours were the rambling Indians, who, in their excursions from the north and south, always halted at this grove. They had no domestic animals save the faithful cattle that had drawn them, and a dog. For many months after the cabin was built they depended on wild game and fruits for subsistence. The rifle of the father brought down abundant supplies of deer and grouse, and the smaller members of the family could trap the quail, gather berries and plums, and beat the hazel and nut trees. The wife and mother wrought patiently for those she loved. Her busy hands kept a well ordered home during the day, and at night they plied the needle to the wardrobe of her little household band. It was already scanty, and materials to replace the worn-out garments were far away, and would cost what she had not to give. When one was worn beyond the resuscitating powers of her needle, its place was supplied as well as might be, by the skins which they had taken from their game. Sunrise and evening twilight found the father at his labours. He had no harvest that year, but if he would reap the next, much preparation must be made before the winter came. First, the turf was broken where he proposed to plant his corn, rails were next (1) From Life in Prairie Land. Harper & Co. New York. VO L. VI. I made and laid around it, some of the native hay was gathered and piled up at the corner of his cabin, and a little garden fenced and ploughed. When all these things were done, there yet remained the journey to the nearest settlement for winter goods and grains, and for the cow, which could not longer be dispensed with. When all was ready, the father and his eldest son started in the emigrant waggon, the mother and her little children-protected, if danand were absent many days, during each of which ger came, only by the dog-looked anxiously out upon the great prairie, now embrowned by the frosts of autumn, and wondered when they would return. plains. Day after day passed, and no sign of life There were few travellers then in those uninhabited was visible on the plain, save the deer bounding among its crisp herbage, or the famished wolf rushing madly against the winds which bore the scent of prey. The intense sunshine which flooded the swaying sea, was now softened by the hazy atmosphere peculiar to those plains in the autumn months; the flowers were all dead, the trees disrobed, and a wild, vast desolation, which penetrated the soul of the lone woman, seemed hovering over the face of her new home. On the fifth day, a party of Sauk warriors, plumed and painted, entered her dwelling. Her heart beat quick, and her eye glanced wildly toward her little ones, as their swarthy figures darkened the door; but a moment restored her self-possession. She knew they were not enemies, and felt secure in her very helplessness. They had not lived much among the whites, and it requires some teaching to induce the savage to fall on a helpless person who is not his foe. With the few words and signs which she had acquired, she entered into conversation with them, and learned that they were on their way to give battle to the Kaskaskias and Peorias. Here was a new cause of solicitude; her husband's road lay through the battle ground, and who could tell what savages, seeking blood, might do? or what would be his fate should he fall between the hostile parties! Offering them such hospitality as her poor home afforded, and praying that it might purchase the safety of the absent, she signified her hopes and fears, and watched their retreating footsteps with a boding heart. All day she bent her eyes to scan the plain, but nothing met her search save the forms of the retreating warriors, which grew dimmer with distance lost. With aching head and anxious heart, she put and the fading light, till at length they were wholly her little ones to bed; and when they slept she rose and looked anxiously out upon the night. Black broken clouds were driving across the heavens at a fearful rate, and the wind rushed through the naked trees, and howled around her chimney, like some evil spirit demanding sacrifice. The only window of her cabin looks over the plain; and there she stands, gazing as if the daylight rested on it, and she hoped each moment to see the long-wished-for object heave in sight. Presently a strange light gleams on the blackened sky! What should it be? Not lightning, for it rose instead of falling, and hung longer on the sight than the electric flash. But it is gone!-now again it comes, stronger, and looks as if the bright fiery sun had lost his place, and, without any precursor, were rushing up the southern sky. Again it almost disappears; but the faint tinge is soon increased, and a broad glare bursts up which overwhelms that widowed heart. The Ꮮ dreadful truth pierces her very heart, and makes her whole frame tremble. The prairie is on fire! Oh, God! what a conviction! She remembers now that they have talked of prairie fires, and promised themselves much pleasure in beholding them: but she never dreamed of the red demon as an enemy, and one to be encountered in this dreadful solitude. Her heart sinks within her. There are no means to avert or escape it. The only living things about her are the children and the faithful dog. The former are sleeping quietly, and the latter sits at her feet gazing in her face with a mute sympathy that brings tears to her eyes. She does not need to look for the light now, for it has gained so that she cannot escape its glare. The wind is bearing the fire almost with its own speed across the immense savannah. She cannot calculate the distance at which she first saw it, but if it were at the extreme southern border, it must, with such a wind, reach her in a few hours, nay, even less! her knees, and commended herself and her helpless babes to the mercy of her God; and then rose, calm and collected for the event. She had not, hitherto, contemplated the wonderful scene apart from the dangers with which it was fraught: but now, for the first time, she was struck with its grandeur and sublimity. It was an unbroken line of flame, wide as the eye could reach, mounting, roaring, crackling, and sending up columns of black smoke, which as they rose became rarer, and rising still higher, were reilluminated so as to appear another devouring demon sweeping the heavens. Mercy and hope seemed alike cut off by its angry glare. The fiery wall shut out the world behind; except occasionally, when a blast cleft it, it opened upon a black chasm that looked like the funeral vault of nature. Scarcely had she taken this brief survey, and noted the nearer approach of the flame, when the dog came bounding to her side, and, with the most earnest petitions, sought her attention without the door. She followed him a few steps, scarcely thinking what she did, but, finding nothing, and seeing him making rapidly for some distant point, she turned back, closed the door, and sat down before the window to watch the progress of the fire. In an instant he was there, pawing, whining, howling, and, by every means in his power, soliciting her attention. Before she could open the door to admit him, he bounded through the window. But what to do? where to go? She rushes to the door. Merciful Heaven! It is all one sea of dry combustibles around her. Grass, dry grass, everywhere! she can find no refuge. The very tree-tops, if she could gain them, with those she is bound to save or perish with, would afford her no protection from such a sea of flame as is roaring yonder. The wind increases--the elements seem to grow madder as the flame approaches, and aggravate its fury. With every blast it towers and curls, and then, as if "Merciful God! what have you done! we shall enraged at its own impotence, sinks a moment sul-all be consumed-there is no hope now!" He stood lenly, to gather strength for a fresh effort. There is a large creek about four miles away; and on this the lone woman hangs her last faint hope. The wind will not befriend her, and she can only hope that the waters may arrest the flame. Hapless woman! she little knew the strength of the devastating demon that was let loose that night! A slender thread of water to separate her from such a surging sea of flame! But if it did not protect her, what then? If the last extremity came, what should she do? She could have but few moments to deliberate, after the dreadful foe crossed this line. Bewildered, almost stupified, by the terrors of her condition, she had not waked her children. She had contemplated their dreadful fate alone, almost in silence, and with little action, after she opened the door, and was overpowered by the conviction that to leave the house was even more certain death than to remain. Now, when the time grew short, and the hot breath of her relentless foe rushed fiercely around her, she addressed herself rapidly to the care of her little ones; she woke them with much difficulty, and with much more brought them to comprehend the danger that awaited them. One lively boy enjoyed the spectacle, and clapped his hands, and almost maddened his mother by rushing out to get a fairer view of the wonderful scene. But where was the dog?-the noble dog who was her only intelligent friend in this fearful time? Her quick mind had counted on his protection in case she should escape and were shelterless. But where was he? She stepped to the door; the light was now strong and revealed distinctly every object. He was nowhere to be seen! She made the woods ring with his name, and presently a low supplicating bark was borne to her ears on the hot wind. The fire had crossed the creek, and was tearing its way, like an infuriated demon, up the plain. A few minutes must decide her fate; she fell on at her feet; the strong intelligence of his face fascinated her eye in spite of the danger. What could he mean? In an instant the sagacity of his instinct flashed upon her. To the ploughed field! Yes, there was hope, and there alone. She seized the two younger children in one arm, and almost lifting the other by her hand, she fled along the trodden path, the delighted dog going before, and manifesting his joy by every sign in his power. They gain the fence-the fire is at their heels, it almost blisters their unprotected faces! One or two more leaps, and the herbless ground is gained. The fire has nothing now to feed on, and almost faint with the sudden and certain safety, the exhausted mother drops on the ground among her helpless infants. "Merciful Saviour, what an escape!" In a few minutes the flames are besieging the house; the logs covered with dry bark are but a morsel in their fierce jaws; the hay-stack takes fire, and communicates to the rest of the cabin, and while the great volume of the fire sweeps among the trees and over the plain, it leaves the heavier materials to be consumed more slowly. Long did the light of the burning home, therefore, blight the eye of the lone woman after the "prairie fire" had done its worst around her and gone, bearing ruin and devastation to the northern plains and groves. Worn out by the terrors of the night, she sank into the semblance of sleep on the naked earth, among her babes, with her faithful protector crouched at her feet. She woke in the morning to the dread reality, which had been briefly forgotten, but which now broke with stunning force upon her senses. Her children were chilled and hungry. The spot where late their pleasant hearthside shone was a heap of mouldering brands and blackened ashes, with which the morning winds were toying in merry pastime. There was neither food nor shelter! and when she rose to her feet and looked out upon the plain, its strange appearance startled her. It seemed more f |