On their unbroken shade. Thou in the embrace
Of this wide shore as sweetly shalt repose—
As brightly gleam at evening’s fervid close.
Thou hast no part in fleeting years that tell
Of human ills! My native shore—farewell!
E. F. E.
MARY WALLACE.
A JUVENILE STORY.
“Now for a story!” said Henry Jackson, as he put the last piece to a dissected map, which lay on the table before him; “Grandmother, do you remember you promised to give us one of your best to-night, if I could put this new map together; and see, here it is, every bit in its place—all right!”
“Not quite so fast,” said George Gray, an intelligent youth of fourteen, who, with his sister Ann, was spending Christmas-week with his cousins in town; “not quite so fast, Henry; see, here is a part of the Hudson spliced on to the Connecticut; and New York and New Haven have fairly changed places!”