kindly heart, and every boy and girl was his friend, and delighted to serve and please him.

Walter was so young it would have been hard at that time to say which of my parents he most resembled. Young as he was, however, he was a real little fancy character, such as novelists like to describe. His "golden locks" (as they would have said) fell on his shoulders in the prettiest shining clusters. He ran alone, bending back like a major, and moving his limber legs so lightly you would have said he could dance a hornpipe before he was two years old.

Walter was my favorite, as I suppose I must have been his, for he said he liked everybody, and loved me. I loved Jesse very much, but Walter bewitched me with that pretty hair, those charming eyes, and crimson velvet cheeks.

Poor Walter, how often in after life have I thought of his innocent ways, and the happiness he gave us at that time! He was such a blessing from the day of his birth; our lonely home was made so light and pleasant by his smiles; there was such gay and tender music in his prattle; he cheered so many lonely hours, charmed so many sorrows from our hearts; and wound so many webs of silken attachment around us, it would have grieved us terribly if he had been taken away. all to the future, and how little do we

How blind are we know what we ask

for our dear ones, when we pray that they may be permitted to live on earth! How often in later years have I thought of the comfort he gave us when a child! How I loved to draw him across my lap and bury my face

betwixt the fillets of fat which bound on his double chin, and kiss him till he made the house ring with his merry laughter!

I wonder not that father took Walter from his crib that morning and looked at his dimpled hands, held him in his bosom, and caressed him as if he would devour the lovely creature. And I know not what he would have given, at any time of that lonely voyage, to step into his pleasant Salem home and enjoy one summer day with us. O, I know not how often he dreamed of such tender joys, to be awakened by the creaking of his vessel, or the wind that wailed among its shrouds !

Amelia Dorlon was of my own age, and we were intimate friends. Amelia's parents were poor and not intelligent, but they were very good people, were much respected, and took a world of comfort in their humble home. Amelia-or Milly, as we called her, and as I shall call her often in my history-Milly Dorlon was not an intellectual girl, and she did not manifest much force of character, while her appearance was rather comely than commanding. But she was a frank and confiding creature as ever loved a friend.

Hannah Buxton was only six years old, and she was as prim a little Quaker maiden as one could wish to see. She was not what you might call a Quaker beauty. She was rather too slender in form and features, and the freckles were too plenty on her dark brown face. Her complexion was so different from that of either of her parents, they were frequently asked where it came from, and how it was that she had so slight a family likeness. The

physical likeness, however, became more perfect in after years, while already the mental and moral likeness was true and striking. Decided individual forces were rising within and around her heart, which held her in great reserve, and kept her from mingling with others as freely as most girls of her age; and yet she was generous, affectionate and good.

When Milly and Hannah went home, and told their mothers how my mother wept that morning, they were very sad, and said they would spend the afternoon with her, and try to give her comfort. They came over about one o'clock, but found us not at home. Mother took a little breakfast on the return, but her house was so lonely she kept Jesse and me from school for company, and sat down to her sewing and tried to sing a cheerful hymn. But she could neither sew nor sing. She whiled away the time, however, till the clock struck eleven, and she was so miserable she told us we would put Walter into his wagon, and take her sewing, a book, and basket of refreshments, and go and spend the day on the Juniper.

The Juniper is a point of land in the bay, about a mile east of Salem; and it takes its name from the juniper trees which it bears. Its contour is somewhat broken by the remains of Fort Pickering, but at that time it was covered with luxuriant verdure and tufted with a few evergreens, which formed delightful shades, and it remains to this day a fashionable resort for parties, and the favorite haunt of those who like to go out alone and commune with nature for a solemn or a joyous hour.

We children clapped our hands with joy, of course,

when the Juniper was mentioned; and in half an hour we were past Bentley's Rock and the Alms-House, and within sight of the tree under which we spread our blankets for the day. It was a sweet relief to get on the Juniper. The day continued one of the fairest and most delicious of the season.. The mild, warm, motherly sky seemed to stoop down near us and invite us to a rest in its placid bosom. The wind came soft and fragrant as if blowing from gardens of bloom. Rains had fallen in such profusion the grass was fresh and bright as a green meadow in May, and we needed only to exchange the cries of the cricket and katy-did for the songs of the thrush and bobolink, to make us forget we were on the verge of autumn.

We children had a jubilee. I romped and raced, as mother said, like a wild colt. Jesse raced after me, clomb all the trees, played hide-and-seek in the trenches of the fort, and fished for flounders from the rocks. Walter frolicked like a little corset lamb, now under a tree, and now on the rocks at the water's edge; and mother found she must lay aside her sewing and abandon reading altogether. So she looked after us, and gave what heart she could to the scene. The sea tossed and murmured in gentle commotion, and every wave that rolled against the rocks convinced her, she said, that father was having a pleasant voyage, and yet she imagined more than one peril yawning in the distance, counted the chances that rose against every mariner's return, and endeavored to conceive what her grief might be if father never came home. She knew that her few

friends would not desert her, nor withhold any sympathy or aid; but she was so unfortunate in gaining friends and having her true heart understood! She shuddered at the very thought of dependence; and, bereft of him who was the world to her, what might she do? "What may become of these glad little beings," sighed she, "who bless my eyes with so many of his looks?" But she went to the Juniper to forget her grief, and those fears were banished as soon as resolution could prevail. She cheered her heart and showed a smiling face. She joined in our sports; she caught flounders for Jesse; she gathered sea-weeds for me, and shells and pebbles for Walter. In the afternoon Milly Dorlon and Hannah Buxton joined us, and very soon Mrs. Dorlon followed the runaway girls. They were welcome company, and they remained till night. Milly and I were despatched for another basket of refreshments; a fire was kindled on the rocks, and we enjoyed a fine supper, and returned at sunset with our hearts lightened and our spirits restored. That pleasant day on the Juniper was better than society or any words of comfort for my mother. soothed her nerves and solaced her lonely soul. She read her lesson that evening with a clearer voice and more cheerful spirit, and found an early and a grateful sleep. The next day we had visitors from Wenham, and Mrs. Buxton and Mrs. Dorlon were over in the afternoon, conversing the whole time in words that fell on mother's heart like the comfortings of Heaven.

It