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 Here was a difficulty. We had had the child vaccinated at
Pittsburg, on our way, but had used no precautionary measure
against hooping-cough, and in "the dead of winter" there was some
hazard in it. I looked at my wife: she looked troubled. Our friend—
for he was friendly—told us there was "a house on the Turkey Hill
Road, a mile or two ahead; but it was a smart little bit on the Rocky
Trace, afore we'd git any place to stop." The roads forked just where
we stood, and we might choose either, to go to St. Louis; but some
circumstance made it necessary for me to go through Kaskaskia.
"What shall we do, wife?"
"I really don't know what to advise. I am afraid to expose Amy
to the hooping-cough, and I am afraid to go on far. It will soon be
dark."
I was irresolute and anxious. We would have "timber," and
probably a stream to cross; and, with my little "dearborn," it might
be somewhat hazardous in the dark. The man sympathized with us
—told us we "were welcome to stay, ef we'd a mind to resk it;" but
then, if we did stay, we would have to be huddled in the same room
with the family, and I don't know how many of "the childer" had the
dreaded disease.
All this while my wife was sitting in the wagon, and, if not
freezing, was sufficiently cold to wish for a good fire. We had hardly
observed another man standing near, with whom the man of the
house had been talking. He listened in silence for a considerable
time, but at length spoke.
"Ef you'll put up with sech as I have—it's tol'able poor—you can
go to my house and stay."
I looked now at the speaker, and discovered an elderly man, in a
mixed jeans hunting-shirt—it was not the fashion to call it a blouse
then—tied round the waist, a 'coon-skin cap, and "trousers
accordin'." He had a rifle, or an axe—though I think it was the latter
—lying across his arm, and looked wrinkled, and rough, and all
drawn up with the cold. The twinkle of his deep-set eyes might be
merry, or it might be sinister. I inquired where he lived.
"Why, it's rayther on the Turkey Hill Road, and about a mile from
t'other; but I can go in the mornin' and show you the way. It's
mighty easy gittin' over from thar to yon road."
It occurred to me that his neighbour had not once referred to
him to solve the difficulty, and I wondered why; but he now rather
intimated that I might as well take up with the old man's offer. I did
so, without consulting my wife's opinion.
He trudged on, and I trudged after him, leading my horse,—
which I did much of the way across the State,—through the snow.
After a little while I discovered that we left the road, and were
winding through a sort of ravine, or rather depression of the prairie,
almost deserving the name of valley. The snow-covered ground—the
brown, or bare bushes—the bleak, though diminutive hills—all
looked cold, and wild, and dreary. My guide still trudged on, seldom
looking round; and we seemed to be travelling without a road to
"nowhere." My wife called me to her. Her looks gave token of alarm.
"Do you think it safe to go on with that old man? I don't like his
looks, and this is a wild place. Hadn't we better go back, or try some
other way? I feel afraid."
I laughed at her, but her fears troubled me. She was not given
to false alarms; or, if she ever felt them, she never annoyed me with
them. I cannot say that I participated in her fears now. Indeed I did
not. The old man looked anything but terrible. I thought his
countenance mild rather than austere. Still, these backwoodsmen
were famous for a quiet ferociousness that could do a brave or
terrible deed without the least fuss. I did not know what to think.
But what to do seemed to admit of but one answer—I must go on
with him, and trust Providence, who had brought us safely some
fifteen hundred miles. My wife shuddered, perhaps trembled, and
hugged the child closer; but she submitted quietly—I may say
trustfully. She certainly gave him no hint of her fears.
 At length—for the time did not seem very short to me, and
doubtless stretched out much longer to my wife—but at length, after
a long and very gradual slope down a hollow, such as I have failed
to describe, we saw the habitation of our guide. It was a cabin of
the rudest sort and smallest size, in what had perhaps in "crap time"
been an enclosure on the ascent of a slope beyond a little wet
weather brook. I took notice—for it was an interesting fact to me—
that for the accommodation of my horse there was a "rail-pen,"
though, whether it was covered with straw, or "shucks," or prairie
hay, or the cloudy sky, I do not now remember; for I have seen
more such many a time since then; but there was "cawn" in another
rail-pen close by. So my horse was supplied. But my wife and child
must be got into the house first; and in we went.
Reader, in that little dearborn-wagon was all I had in this world,
or of it; and though, to say the truth, all, except the wife and child,
might have been well sold for a very few hundred dollars—and
probably that is an enormous over-estimate—yet it was precious to
me, for much of their comfort depended on its preservation. And a
few hundred dollars—nay, a few dollars—would make quite an
addition to the comforts of the habitation we entered, and of those
who dwelt in it. There was neither table nor chair. The puncheon
floor was not air-tight nor a dead level. The stick chimney and
hearth were covered with clay; but there was a fire in it. The bed—
but we have not got to the bed yet.
I suppose it happened very well that we had our provisions with
us, for I saw no cooking nor anything to cook. I forgot to say, that
the inmates when we arrived were a boy, dressed something like his
father, and a girl, whose single garment—we judged from
appearances—was a home-spun cotton frock, not white, though I
think it had never been dyed. Both were barefoot. They might be
twelve and fourteen years old.
"Whar's yer mammy?"
"Mom's went over to Jake Smith's; and she haint never come
home yit. I reckon she's agwine to stay all night."
 I don't know what made me think so, but I remember I did
rather surmise that it was just as well for us. Something made me
think of a shrew.
Presently, while my wife was spreading the table (i.e. a short
bench, usually a seat) for our supper, I observed the old man seated
on something, with a plate on his knees, plying his hunting-knife on
some cold meat and corn bread for his. I suppose the children had
eaten before our arrival. We had, I believe, our provision-box and an
inverted half bushel for seats, and ate our supper with commendable
appetites; for by this time I think my wife's fears were sensibly
abated. At length bedtime came, and what should be done? There
was a bed, or something like one, in a corner, but that would hardly
accommodate all five of us and the baby. Soon, however, that doubt
was solved. The girl spread a pallet on the floor, taking the straw
bed for the purpose; and the feather bed—yes, feather bed—was
made up on the bedstead for us. That bedstead would be a curious
affair, doubtless, in a Philadelphia furniture store. I will endeavour to
describe it. It consisted of one post and three rails; or rather, what
was intended to correspond with those parts of a bedstead. The post
aforesaid was a round pole, with the bark on, reaching from the
floor to the joist or rafter, inserted at top and bottom into auger-
holes. At a convenient height, a branch cut off not quite close on
each of two sides, formed a rest for two of the poles that served for
a side and foot rail, the other end being inserted in auger-holes in
the logs which constituted the wall of the house. One end of the
other side-rail rested on the foot-rail. Across the two longest poles,
or side-rails, split clapboards rested; and on the scaffold thus
formed, the bed was made. I remember that it was comparatively
clean; and the bedstead being quite elastic, and my wife's fears now
entirely removed by the cheerful consent of our host to unite in
family devotion, we slept well and soundly: while the family reposed
no doubt quite as sweetly on their bed on the floor.
After we had breakfasted, our host, for whom we saw no more
preparation than on the night before, piloted us through a grove of
tall trees to the Kaskaskia Road, and pointed out our course; when
we went on our way rejoicing, and saw that day, for the first time, a
herd of seven wild deer together.
But the old man! What became of him? Didn't you pay him?
He turned homeward, and we saw him no more. We did pay him
his full charge, amounting to twenty-five cents!
I do not think my wife was ever afraid of a man after that,
because he looked rough in his dress. As for Amy, she had the
hooping-cough; I don't remember how soon, but she survived it;
and has weaned her eighth baby.
Does the reader want an apology for a dull story?
"Story—God bless you, I have none to tell."
I could have made one, embellished with various incidents;
could have had a rifle pointed, or frozen all our hands and feet at
least, "or anything else that's agreeable;" but it would not then have
been, as it is now, the simple truth.
 A NIGHT IN NAZARETH.
BY MARY YOUNG.

"But while he thought on these things, behold, the angel

of the Lord appeared unto him in a dream, saying, Joseph,
thou son of David, fear not to take unto thee Mary thy wife;
for that which is conceived in her is of the Holy Ghost."—
Matthew i. 20.
Stern passions rose, and won wild mastery
In Joseph's breast. He wandered darkly on,
From the calm fountain and the olive grove,
Toward the wilderness, as he would find
Room for the ocean tumult of his thoughts.
Long had he loved her with a matchless love,
Deep as his nature, truthful as his truth;
And she was his—by every sacred tie—
His own, espoused; though ever still had dwelt
On Mary's thoughtful brow a chastening spell,
That shamed to stillness all life's throbbing pulses:
Or, if his words grew passion, there would steal
To her large, azure eye a startled glance
Of sad, deep questioning, and she would turn
Appealingly to heaven, with trembling tears—
Yet was it she—the very same he saw,
Writ o'er with all the foul name of a wanton.

One fearful word broke from the quivering lips

Of the young Hebrew, as at last alone,
By the dark base of a high, shadowy rock,
He sank in agony; and then he bent
His forehead down to the cool, mossy turf,
And lay there silently. Light, creeping plants,
And one long spray of the white thornless rose,
Stooped low, and swayed above him; a soft sound
Of far, sweet, breezy whisperings wooed his ear,
Till gentler thoughts stole to him, and he wept.
Ere long his ear heard not: all things around,
The present and the past—the painful past—
Became as though they were not. Joseph lay,
With eyes closed calmly, and a strange full peace
Breathed to his spirit's depths; for there was one,
Fairer and nobler than the sons of earth,
Bending in kindness o'er him.
 Calmly still,
Although to ecstasy his being drank,
The fathomless, pure music of the voice
Heard in that visioned hour, as once again
He stood by the low portal of the home
Of Mary. He passed in with noiseless step.
Through the dim vine-leaves of the lattice
Not a moonbeam fell, and yet a softer ray
Than ever streamed from alabaster lamps,
Lit the white vesture and the upturned face
Of her who knelt in meekness there. Her lips
Were motionless, and the slight clasping hands
Pressed lightly on her bosom, but a high
Seraphic bliss spoke in the fervent hush
Of the pure, radiant features; for she held
Unsoiled communion with her spirit's lord.

Slowly away faded that glorious trance,

And the white lids lifted as though reluctant.
She looked on Joseph, and a faint, quick flush
Swept shadowingly her forehead. Woman still,
She felt, and painfully, that at the bar
Of manhood's pride, earth had for her no witness.
But the calm mien, and broad, uncovered brow
Of Joseph, told no anger. He drew near,
And knelt beside her; and the hand she gave
In greeting was pressed close and silently,
With reverent tenderness, upon his heart.
 TEARS.
BY CHARLES D. GARDETTE, M.D.
'Tis said, affliction's deepest sting
Some token of its pain will bring
In tears of bitter flow;
But they who thus judge sorrow's smart,
Know not the pang that wrings the heart,
With withering tearless woe!

The scorching grief that blasts the fount,

And dries its tears, ere yet they mount,
To soothe the burning eye;
That speeds the blood with torrent force
Through every bursting vein to course,
Yet leave each life-track dry!

The grief that binds with rankling chain

Each feeling of the heart and brain,
Save sternness and despair;
And crushes with relentless hand
Each hope religion's trust had planned,
Planting rebellion there!

Such grief, not one of these have known,

Who say that flowing tears alone
Proclaim the bosom's throes!
Tears are the tokens God designed
For lighter griefs of heart and mind,
Such as pure child-life knows;

And therefore, hath He so ordained

That infant-tears be not restrained,
But lightly caused to flow,
That these, who cannot tell their grief,
Shall find in weeping, such relief
As manhood may not know!
INCONSTANCY.
BY E. M.
They told me he'd forsake me; that the words
With which he charmed my very soul away
Were like the hollow music of a shell,
That learns to mock the ocean's deeper voice.
For he had listened to love's tones, until
His ear and lip, though not his heart, had grown
Familiar with their melody. Nay, more,—
They said his very boyhood had been marked
By worse than a boy's follies; that in youth,
The season of high hopes, when lesser men
Put on their manhood, as a monarch's heir
Rich robes and royalty, his poor ambition
Asked but new charms and pleasures; newer loves;
New lips to smile until their sweetness palled,
And softer hands to clasp his own, until
He wearied even of so light a fetter.
Thus did they pluck me from him, but in vain;
For when did warning stay a woman's heart?
I knew all this, and yet I trusted him.
Yea, with a child's blind faith I gave my fate
Into his hands, content that he should know
How absolute his power and my weakness.
Speak not of pride, I never felt its lash.
There is no place for fallen Lucifer
In the pure heaven of a sinless love.
And when he left me, as they said he would,
My spirit had no room for aught save grief.
Giving the lie to my own conscious heart,
I taxed stern truth with falsehood to the last.
But when to doubt was madness, when, perforce,
Even from my credulous eyes the scales were fallen,
What was the cold scorn of a thousand worlds
To the one thought, that for a counterfeit
I'd staked my woman's all of love—and lost!
CROSSING THE TIDE.
BY MISS PHŒBE CAREY.
Fainter, fainter, all the while
On us beams her patient smile;
Brighter as each day returns,
In her cheek the crimson burns;
And her tearful, fond caress
Hath more loving tenderness,—
Saviour, Saviour, unto her
Draw thou near, and minister!

And when on the crumbling sand

Of life's shore her feet shall stand;
When the death-stream's moaning surge
Sings for her its solemn dirge,
And our earthly love would shrink,
Trembling, backward from the brink.
Saviour, Saviour, take her hand,
That her feet may safely stand!

Firmly hold it in thine own,

Gently, gently lead her down;
And when o'er the solemn sea
Safely she shall walk with thee,
Nearing to that other shore.
Whence a voice hath called her o'er.
Saviour, Saviour, from the tide,
Aid her up the heavenly side!

Lead her on that burning way,

Brighter than the path of day,
Where a thousand saints have trod
To the city of our God;
Where a thousand martyrs came
Shining on a path of flame;
Saviour, till her wanderings cease
On the eternal hills of peace.
THE END.
 Transcriber's Note
Footnotes have been placed at end of their
respective chapter, poem or note.
Obvious typographical errors have been silently
corrected. Variations in hyphenation have been
standardised but all other spelling and punctuation
remains unchanged.
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