leaves culled, almost at random, from the thick foliage, (not of the bay, or laurel tree,) but from the quivering, trembling aspen.

The bright summer has gone, and the glorious Autumn has come to soothe and quiet my spirit. Oh! may strength be vouchsafed me to accomplish my task, and then I, too, will "willingly" depart.

The author was advised not to alter, or strike out the "quotations," from her departed friend's letters, which she had copied in these leaves. They appertain exclusively to the spiritual, and not to the externals of life; and the beauty of the language and elevation of thought, were deemed sufficient reason to justify their publication, notwithstanding their frequent allusions to the author; who fears that her friend's too partial eye, and own spiritual emanations, caused a halo to encircle her, and that dearly loved one looked upon it admiringly, unconscious that it proceeded from her own beautiful and purified spirit. She felt it would be a wrong done to herself, to send out a book of her heart histories, yet withhold, or disconnect it, from that precious friend, whose affection and aspirations had occupied so large a share in that heart's spiritual life and experience; and in those quotations which she has selected, the peculiar relation which existed between them, could most clearly be seen. She also feels that those "extracts" cannot but reflect more beauty on the "freed spirit” that uttered them, than on the "fettered one" which still remains behind.

E. N. G.

Minnie- Temperance Tale.

"Dear mother, why do you look so sad every day, and night too; and why do you keep looking out of the window? And when I ask you questions, you do not hear me, but sometimes say, "yes darling;" and then you say, "mother did not understand you;" and often I see tears on your cheek-but you try to hide them from me. You did not use to cry; and when dear father came home, we used to be so happy!— Now, he does not laugh and talk, and take me on his knee, and let me lay my head upon his shoulder. Once, when I looked up in his face and kissed him, and said, "dear father," he would kiss me, and always call me his precious little Minnie. And little Charlie does not now creep up to him and say, "Papa," as he used to. Why is all this, dear mother? I cannot go to sleep after you have kissed me and bid me good night; what is it dear mother? do tell your little Minnie." The mother clasped her child to her bosom, with a convulsive grasp, and the tears would force their way through the closed fingers, as she said, "My precious,

precious child! have I indeed betrayed the bitter anguish of this tortured heart? I had hoped that thy childhood would be as sunny as was thy mother's; so that, in after life, it should be to thee ever as a beautiful dream of sunshine and of flowers. I have no right to drop pebbles into the pure and guileless fountain of thy innocent heart, and I have struggled hard not to do so; but thou art like that delicate plant that shrinks and trembles at the slightest approach, and closes its little petals even before the rude hand is laid upon it. I cannot deceive thee, my little cherished flower." Then, the mother put back the soft curls. from her child's forehead, and gazed into those mild, thoughtful eyes, thoughtful beyond their years,—and said, "what if thy fate should be like thy mother's!" And she clasped her close to her heart, and shuddered. She held her there, for a few moments, in silence, and then said "Minnie, my first-born darling-my precious one, I cannot tell thee what makes thy mother sad, and why a change has come over our once happy home, but thou wilt know it soon enough, for it comes on apace. I would not have a shadow darken thy pathway; but stern duties are before us both, and in stead of being refreshed with the flowers, thou wilt feel nothing but the thorns. Tis hard for me to think this, much more to speak it; but thou art old beyond thy years, and you and little Charlie are all I have in the world,—now, now that I cannot."-She paused, for she could not speak against the father of that trusting, loving little being. Ella Howard was an only child; the idol of her parents, the bright cherished flower that for seventeen summers, bloomed in their elegant and

tasteful mansion. But, although it was adorned with rare paintings and statuary; to their fond hearts, and to the hearts of their visitors, Ella seemed the most worthy of admiration. Simple in manners, and affectionate in heart; without one particle of coquetry, or af fectation; she grew up beloved by all who knew her. Ella was a christian-thus following the example of her good and excellent parents. It seemed impossible for one constituted like herself, so thoughtful and affectionate, to pass through life and not look above and beyond it. She reverenced all she looked upon; the lowliest flower was a mystery to her mind; but, still, it spoke to her heart of the goodness of God. Ella had many suitors, but she loved one, and one only. They had grown up together; he was ever by her side, even in her childhood, when he watched every expression of her guileless face, and was eager to gratify her every wish, ere it was uttered. As she grew to womanhood, he regarded her as a holy and pure being, and the earnest wish of his heart was, that he might be worthy of her affection. All who looked upon the manly face of Charles Arnold, and who were acquainted with his former life, said, "He alone is worthy to be the husband of the beautiful Ella ;" and the fond parents thought so too-and though they gave her away with tears, they felt he was worthy to be entrusted with their treasure. Such was the father and mother of our little Minnie, when they stood before the altar, and plighted the marriage vow which was registered in Heaven. But how had that vow been kept? We shall see.

Soon after their marriage, Ella was called upon to witness the departure of that dear mother, who had

watched over her with such sedulous care. It was a hard blow; but she endured it as only the christian can bear up, under such overwhelming trials. Not many months after, her father followed! A fever, that proved fatal to many, deprived her of her last earthly parent. Poor Ella!-the death of her father and mother had come upon her so suddenly and unexpected, that she would have sunk under it, had it not been for the untiring love and sympathy of her husband; and she blessed God, that he had bestowed such a priceless blessing upon her. And, at that time, he was worthy of her love. He possessed that intuitive sense of the beautiful-that ready sympathy, which is rarely to be found in man-united to a childlike submission to the will of his heavenly Father, that you sometimes look in vain for, in the older and more advanced christian. Charles Arnold was sincerity itself. But it was fashionable, among the higher circles, to have wine on their tables, and handed round when callers came. He had early imbibed a taste for it, and was in the daily habit of drinking it; but never, for one moment, did he think that he should become the slave of that habit. He was a promising lawyer; but, as there were many of that profession, in his native city, he thought it best for them to remove to the beautiful town of N. Ella bade farewell to the home of her childhood, and accompanied her husband, with a resigned heart. For a few years, all was peace, in their happy dwelling. Little Minnie came, to gladden their hearts with her winning smiles; and, three years after, the little, prattling Charlie. But a change, (almost imperceptible, at first,) by degrees