melancholy. He had so completely won the affection of everybody, that it spread a universal gloom. In a few days he yielded up his spirit to his Father and his God. The next day was the Sabbath, and the one appointed for his burial. The sky was without a cloud, and the cool breeze, as it rustled among the leaves, brought health and refreshment to the body and soul of every one. The meadow lark and the woodland birds sang louder and sweeter than they were wont to do. A good man had died, and Nature, animate and inanimate, seemed anxious to pronounce his requiem. A larger funeral than this I have seldom seen. Old men and women, young men and maidens, and children with tearful eyes, followed the old Indian to his grave. It is situated in the northeast corner of the burying-ground, in the shadow of two weeping willows, that seem the guardians of his silent resting-place."

Last evening, an hour before the sun had set, I stood beside the clay-cottage of my old Indian friend. Green is the grass, and many

and beautiful the flowers, that flourish above his grave. I plucked a single harebell and placed it in my bosom, and its sister flowers I watered with my tears. Those tears, which were not the offspring of corroding grief, but of a mournful joy, were the only tribute that I could pay to one whom I dearly loved, -who was born a benighted heathen, but died a Christian. The mildly beaming and beautiful evening star had risen in the west, ere I departed from the "Silent City"; but I felt that the flower I had plucked, though faded, would in after hours remind me of my friend, and therefore I came away in peace, repeating to myself these words:

"And I am glad that he has lived thus long,

And glad that he has gone to his reward:
Nor deem that kindly Nature did him wrong,

Softly to disengage the vital cord.

When his weak hand grew palsied, and his eye
Dark with the mists of age, it was his time to die."

Bryant.

AFTERNOON IN THE WOODLANDS.

"O, leave your towns, and go with me,
Under the shady greenwood tree!"
Thomas Miller.

READER, I invite thee to leave thy occupation for a little while, and come with me into the woods, and we will hold silent and holy communion with the visible forms of Nature. Come, and I promise thee that when thou returnest thy heart will have become more peaceful and happy than it was before. Summer hath thrown open her leafy doors, leading to the voiceless woodlands, and by the perfume of her thousand flowers, invites us forth to enjoy the luxuries of her bounty. Let us depart, swift as the breeze.

Here, then, we will rest ourselves on this mossy bank, which lies in the very heart of

the lonely woods. It is the sultry hour of noon, but the glaring heat of the sun does not reach this place. Like music of angels, the hum of the distant city comes softly echoing through these mellow-lighted chambers of solitude. Here, silence is for ever seated on her invisible throne. The song of the drowsy bee, the chirp of the grasshopper, and the drone of the beetle, tend but to deepen the surrounding stillness. There is not a breath of air. A single leaf has detached itself from that maple-tree, and is sinking to the earth. Thus, one after another, do our most cherished hopes pass away. See! here comes a little yellow-winged butterfly, flitting from flower to flower. It is a strange and beautiful truth, God protects that little insect with the same care that he does each member of the human family. Is He not a God of love?

In a place like this, how many fantastic images are wont to rise up before the mind and eye! Even now, I behold a leafy temple, formed by the locked branches of the trees. It is the dwelling-place of the spirits of the

wood. Ah! here they come, a bright and beautiful band. They have been wandering in the far off, mute woodlands, and are now returning to revel in their emerald abode. There are many of them, but she who seems to be the queen is robed in a garment made of the wild rose. The petals of the primrose, the violet, the marigold, the lily, the jessamine, the honeysuckle, the foxglove, and the mignonette, have been wrought into various robes to encircle the graceful forms of others. And some of them are clothed with delicate and deep green leaves. Each one is the guardian spirit of some flower, or plant, or tree. I hear one of them exclaim, while a tear glistens in her eye, "that a wicked mortal has pulled up one of her sassafras trees." Another is mourning the death of a favorite flower; while each, in turn, is relating some incident connected with her wanderings. Excepting these few troubles, how happy and free from care are these little woodland inhabitants! Would it were thus with the beautiful among men. But this can never be;