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 1 
 
 2 
 
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 1 
 
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 6 
 
f. 
 
 
 y- 
 
 THE LIBRARY 
 
 THn UNIVERSITY OF 
 BRITISH COLUMBIA 
 
 Leon and Tbca Koerner 
 Foundation 
 
 1} 
 
 ^^ 
 
 c^ 
 
li It 
 
 idSS 
 
 s. 
 
 SHOET STOKIBS AND POEMS 
 
 nBY- 
 
 MISS M. S. SNELL, 
 
 INCLUDING A 
 
 SKETCH OF THE AUTHOR'S LIFE 
 
 This work may 1»e all the more Intareiting owing to 
 the faet that illss Sncll is bllad, haviuK lost her 
 Hlght when about SeYen ycart of age. 
 
 CHATHAM:; 
 
 BANKER 8T1AM PRINT, 153 KIKQ STRBKT WB8T. 
 
 1881. 
 
 .. y-mf^mtm 
 
tssJfSJ- 
 
7^'?^' 
 
 PREFACE 
 
 The stories conttiiiicfl in this small volume are true. 
 M early all of them were related to me at different times 
 by my mother, they being incidents that came under 
 her notice in ear^'er days, while living in England, and 
 are given just as they happened, with but little or no 
 coloring, the real names of persons aud places only 
 belli/ withheld. 
 
 I have striven to make this little book interesting to 
 both old and young. If I succeed I shall be glad, and 
 if, though beyond my expectations, anytliirg edifying 
 can be gleaned from its pages, I shall be doubly repaid 
 for my trouble. With good will to all, I have care- 
 fully avoided saying aught that might in any way tend 
 to mislead or offend others, while on the other hand I 
 have s< /tight to uphold and promote, as far as lies in 
 my power, all that is good and pure, having charity 
 for my watchword, and keeping truth on my side at 
 all times. M. S. S. 
 
CONTENTS 
 
 A SKETCH OF MY LIFE. 
 
 Chat. I. — Rouiiniscence of childhood before losiuL,' 
 
 my sight, 3 
 
 Chap. II. — H(iw 1 lost my sight 7 
 
 Chap. III. — How I amused myself the firat seven 
 
 or eia:h^. years after losing my sight 11 
 
 Chap. IV. — A description of the view from the 
 lighthouse, with an account of a violent storm 
 
 I experienced while living there 21 
 
 Chap. V. — My trip to Boston with other recollec- 
 tions of the past 52 
 
 SKKTOHES AND POEMS. 
 
 More .Blessed to give than to Receive 45 
 
 Speak Gently of the Erring 4r> 
 
 The Fairies — a poem 4'J 
 
 Joe Summers. ....'.... 51 
 
 Advice to a Young Friend — a poem 54 
 
 A Hurricane at Niglit 55 
 
 An Excursion Song 57 
 
 A Dream 58 
 
 Beauty in All Seasons - a poem 60 
 
 Grandma's Story, <u- the Child's Faith 61 
 
 Lines to the Memory of my Cousin, Sarah H. -larvis 64 
 
 Almost H omo 65 
 
• »• 
 
 in. 
 
 3 
 
 Porsoverance, or tho Feeblo One Protected —pijeni <>7 
 
 Tlio Acorn and the Oak 01) 
 
 Morniiitf Meditations 7 1 
 
 Evening Meditations 7i"> 
 
 'Ihe Ruined City— a [unna 7H 
 
 The Ishmds of the IJay of Fiindy 70 
 
 Arthur to Nancy — a [x em 80 
 
 'f'lie Discomforted Lovi r 87 
 
 The Rose — a poem Dl> 
 
 A Welcome to Spring — a poom 90 
 
 Memory -^1 
 
 How the Passamaquody Indians win Their Brides. 94 
 To a Frier.d About to Cross the Ocean— a poem. . 1)5 
 
 My Mothers Story About Her Bible UO 
 
 God Seen in All iiis Works — a poem 99 
 
 Fretthig Without Cause 102 
 
 ."shamming Insanity \(H\ 
 
 Set Down That Gla'js — a poem 110 
 
 The Slave's Lament — a ]>oom Ill 
 
 My Grandfather 112 
 
 Contention Between the Life and Death z\ngel. . .123 
 
 Luke Anson 1 20 
 
 lilighted Flowers — a poem 135 
 
 Sweet Content —a poem , 135 
 
 The Evening Breeze 130 
 
 A Conversion in a Barber Shop 137 
 
 Learning to Dive 141 
 
 T(j the Memory of Little Rosa 143 
 
 Annie BowdeH 146 
 
IV. 
 
 The Song of the Indian 148 
 
 The Birds 141) 
 
 Lines on the Death of a Friend 151 
 
 The Child's Prayer 153 
 
 The Scoffer Converted 154 
 
 The Blessings of tlie Sabbath 156 
 
 Lines on the Death of a Friend 158 
 
 My Island Home — a poem 159 
 
 The Dying Child — a poem 160 
 
 Evening Charms— a poem 101 
 
 , 
 
A SKETCH OF MY LIFE. 
 
 •^- 
 
 I„5'' 
 
 Chapter i. " • ^ 
 
 KEMINISCENCE OF (!HILDJlOOD IJEFOUH LOSING 
 
 MY SIGHT. 
 
 I was born in 1841, in a small town called 
 Seahani Harbor, County of Durham, in the 
 North of England. When I was about a 
 year and a -half old my parents came to 
 America. 
 
 Immediately on our arrival my father was 
 ajjpointed keeper of the Head Harbor Light- 
 house. The Lighthouse is situated on the 
 North-east point of the Island of Campobello, 
 in the Bay of Fundy, County of Charlotte, 
 and Province of New Brunswick. 
 
 There I spent my childhood and early wo- 
 manhood. How many scenes of blithe, happy^ 
 innocent childhood "remain fresh in the recol- 
 
A 8KETCII OF MY LIFE. 
 
 lection even unto the end of life ! When 
 looking back in after years childhood appears 
 like a rosy bower, far away in the distance, 
 radiant and glorious in the fair light of the 
 rising sun of life's early morning. Like all 
 other children, I was fond of the beautiful, 
 and a more ardent aduiirer of nature could 
 scarcely be found in a child, or a more silent 
 one. I studied the force of nature with deep 
 interest, never making a remark or asking a 
 question. It would seem as though I instinc- 
 tively felt that I wouid not always enjoy the 
 blessing of sight, and eagerly sought to satisfy 
 my soul with long and earnest gazing on the 
 beauty and grandeur of creation, just as one 
 takes a last farewell look ; and even now, 
 though years have passed, yet, fair as a pic- 
 ture fresh from the hand of the artist, is en- 
 graven on my memory my childhood home 
 and its surroundings. The blue sky, the green 
 fields, and the distant hills, the long sandy 
 shore, the high steep rocks, their rugged sides 
 covered with seaweed, and the rippling tide 
 ever sweeping around the point, where stood 
 the Lighthouse, ever hurrying on its way to 
 and from the Atlantic. All this, and more, is 
 
 
A .SKETCH OF MY LFEE. 
 
 as plain to my mental vision as if I liad hut 
 recently looked upon the scene. How often, 
 when stormy winds disturbed the deep blue 
 water of the broad bay, have I watched the 
 great waves as they came rolling in and dash- 
 ing against the solid rocks, tlung the white 
 spray higli in the air ; thus, as one wave suc- 
 ceeded another, they formed a line of foam 
 which encircled the Island '^'ce a snowy 
 wreath, while the roar of th^. breakers was 
 music deep and grand. > At other times, on a 
 fail" summer's morning when the sea was calm, 
 I have looked eastward whore the sun, pour- 
 ing its bright rays on the smooth surface of 
 the Bay^made it appear in the distance like 
 liquid gold, while neaier the siiore the clear 
 water reflected the deep blue of the sky, 
 forming a very pleasing and interesting sight. 
 I was fond of flowers, and when thev were in 
 bloom I marked the beauty ol each and all. 
 but, unlike other children, I never wished to 
 gather them, for well I knew they would 
 wither in my hand, and I would much rather 
 see them fresh and bright. 
 
 I especially admired the pansy with its soft 
 
6 
 
 A SKKTCH OF MY LIFE. 
 
 velvet leaves and varied hu3s, always lookinir 
 up so sweet and modest. I also loved to 
 wateli the wild birds hopping among <!he grass 
 or liitting from tree to tree, chirping and 
 singing their happy songs. A clear summer 
 sunset sky never failed to attract my atten- 
 tion. Oft and long have I gazed on that 
 beautiful siofht, and as the ijold and crimson 
 faded in the west, and as the deeper shades of 
 night drew on, I would watch the stars as 
 they came out one by one until the whole sky 
 was spangled with tliosci tiny lamps. To 
 those who have always enjoyed the blessing 
 of si'ijht these thin<rs niav seem scarce worth 
 recalling, but to me it is like telling a plea- 
 sant dream. I love to think of these happy 
 days, but seldom speak of them. I was a 
 sol)er-minded child, those who knew me said 
 I was old-fashioned and wise l)eyond my 
 years. It may have been that the great sor- 
 row that was to sadden my life cast its .sha- 
 dow over my soul, making my young heart 
 less joyous than the hearts of children gener- 
 ally are. 
 
Chapter it. 
 
 HOW T LOST MV SIOHT. 
 
 At the early at>*e of seven I was deprived of 
 sicfht during a short illness. I first complain- 
 ed of a severe pain over my eyes. As I grew 
 worse a physician was called in, but he could 
 do nothing to give relief. After a day or two 
 the pa^'n left my head and passing down the 
 back of my neck finally ceased, leaving me as 
 weak and helpless as an infant. It was not 
 discovered that I had lost my sight until one 
 morning after I began to recover. I asked 
 my mother why she did not light a lamp, say- 
 ing it is always dark now and you never light 
 a lamp. These words startled and surprised 
 her, for the morning was far advanced, and 
 the sun was shining bright./ into the room 
 whera 1 lay. My mother, fearing the worst, 
 came to my bedside and tried various means 
 to attract my notic(% but failed. My sight 
 
 ^vva-5 gone. 
 
8 
 
 A SKETCH OF MY LIFE. 
 
 
 i 
 
 My parents were much grieved that such an 
 affliction had come upon their only daughter, 
 but for a long time entertained the hope that 
 with returning strength and the aid of a skil- 
 ful physician my sight would be restored. 
 Many physicians were consulted; but all to no 
 purposei Some at once pronounced the case 
 hopeless, saying the severe pain I had suffered 
 in my head had withered the optic nerve, and 
 medical treatment would avail nothing, but 
 only tend to weaken my constitution. Some 
 tried their skill, but in vain, and my parents 
 were obliged to give up all hopes of my sight 
 ever being restored. When I had regained 
 my usual health and strength I soon learned 
 to go about my own home, both in doors and 
 out, almost as well as if 1 could see. I was 
 quite happy ; for while a child I did not fully 
 realize the loss of my sight, feeling sure that 
 when I grew up to be a young lady I would 
 be able to see. But it was not so. After los- 
 ing my sight I was forced to depend mainly 
 on the sense of touch and hearing, both of 
 which soon became very acute. I could no 
 longer see sights, but I could hear sounds. I 
 could listen to the song of the wild birds, and 
 
 1 
 
A SKETCH OP MY LIFE. 
 
 9 
 
 feel the warm sunshine, and as I walked over 
 the green grassy fields in summer, I could 
 smell the odour of the wild, flowers and feel 
 their velvety leaves. But the blue sky, the 
 silver moon, and the twinkling stars were all 
 blotted out of my existence. Henceforth 
 nature was to me a sealed book, the pages of 
 which I was no longer permitted to study 
 and, without a murmur, I submitted to the 
 Divine will, though at times my heart was 
 sad and my spirit longed to look out upon the 
 fair light o? day and the beautiful world- 
 The following lines I composed after losing 
 my sight : — 
 
 When summer spreads its beauty, 
 
 Though all by me unseen, 
 I know that trees and meadows 
 
 And fields are robed in green. 
 I know the beaut«»ou« flowers 
 
 Are opening into bloom, 
 When I, in passing near them, 
 
 Inhale their rich perfume. 
 
 The birds that sing so sweetly, 
 
 I know are very near, 
 When their soft strains of music 
 
 Falls on my list'ing ear. 
 And when the sun is sinking 
 
 Gently down to rest, 
 I know there's gold and crimson 
 
 Gleaming in the west. 
 
10 
 
 A SKETCH OP MY Lll^fi. 
 
 I know that darkness gathers, 
 
 Silently around, 
 When the day is ended, 
 
 And the dew is found 
 In the moonbeams sparkling, 
 
 Gems of nature's store. 
 All from me are hidden, " 
 
 Veiled for evermore. 
 
 f 
 
 Flowers brightly blooming. 
 
 Wild birds soaring high, 
 Verdure sweetly smiling 
 
 Evening sunset sky. 
 All those charms of nature 
 
 I shall never see, 
 Twilight gently falling 
 
 Brings no change to me. 
 
 True, my life is saddened, 
 
 Yet in prayer I find. 
 At the throne of mercy, 
 
 Grace to be resigned. 
 When life s journey closes 
 
 I shall soar away, 
 From this vale of darkness. 
 
 To the -realms of day. 
 
Chapter hi. 
 
 HOW I AMUSED MYSELF THE FIRST SEVEN OR 
 EIGHT YEARS AFTER LOSING MY SIGHT. 
 
 I being the only girl in the familw and liv- 
 ing in a somewhat secluded spot, I was oblig- 
 ed to spend the greater part of my time alone, 
 amusing myself as best I could. My first pet 
 was a beautiful black kitten, which was one 
 day given to me. I was delighted with the 
 little creature, taking care to feed it several 
 times a day, and preparing a soft warm bed 
 for it to sleep in. I would sit for hours with 
 it on my lap, stroking its soft fur and listening 
 to its low purring. As time passed the little 
 kitten grew to be a large kitten, and a very 
 playful one, as kittens generally are. We 
 were very fond of each other, and spent a 
 great deal of time together, kitty and I. One 
 morning, after it had grown to be a fine large 
 cat, my brother John came into the house 
 carrying it in his arms, But, oh, sorrow, the 
 
12 
 
 A SKETCH OF MY LIFE. 
 
 k ' 
 
 r< i 
 
 cat was (lead. It had been caui^lit in a trap 
 set to catch minks ; and iny beautiful cat was 
 dead. I took it in my arms and going out 
 sat down on the door step and laid it carefully 
 on my lap, crying all the while as if my heart 
 would break. I took its paws in my hands, 
 but they were cokl. I stroked its soft coat, 
 but it did not move or pur — pussy was indeed 
 dead. After my first burst of grief had some 
 what subsided, my father came, and gently 
 taking the cat from my lap, carried it away. 
 I did not ask what he did with it ; it did not 
 matter, pussy was dead. After a few days I 
 ceased grieving for my eat. But I have not 
 yet forgotten my first pet. , ■ . 
 
 Every little girl has one or more dolls. 
 I usually had three or four, and a room all to 
 myself to play house-keeping in, of which I 
 was very proud. And no mother was ever 
 more zealous in caring for the real needs of 
 her children than I was to the imaginary 
 wants of my dolls. I cut and made their 
 clothes very nicely, so every one said who, 
 seen them. 
 
 At first I experienced much inconvenience 
 
A SKKTOII OF MY LIEE. 
 
 13 
 
 on account of not being al)le to thread my 
 needle. It prevented my sitting in tlie room 
 with my dolls as T liked to do when sewing 
 for them, and for that reason I did not sew so 
 much as I otherwise would have done. And 
 moreover, as now, so it was in childhood, I 
 shrunk from wearying others with my troubles 
 and would often amuse myself in some other 
 way rather than be constantly teasing some 
 one to thread my needle. So at last I deter- 
 mined to try and thread a needle myself, 
 which after a long trial, to my great joy, I 
 succeeded in doing./ Thus encouraged I tried 
 again with the saiwj success. Again and again 
 I unthreaded and threaded the needle, and 
 after some little prr?tice I could thread a 
 needle as quickly as any one, and can do so 
 now. 
 
 This difficulty surmounted, I spent hour 
 after hour in my play room, sewing for my 
 dolls, feeling quite independent and as deeply 
 interested as if my woi'k had been of the ut- 
 most importance. Times out of number have 1 
 been asked " How do you thread a needle ?'* 
 I always reply, I cannot tell j^ou, nor ^ar^ I 
 
14 
 
 A SKETCH OF MY LIFE- 
 
 I Is 
 
 i 
 
 i 
 
 explain to satisfaction how I do. I put the 
 eye of the needle to my tongue in order to 
 o-et it in a right position to receive the thread. 
 Then I put th( thread to the eye and as if by 
 
 magic 
 
 it 
 
 goes 
 
 throufdi and the neodle is 
 
 o 
 
 threaded. This is tha best explanation I can 
 
 give. 
 
 Another source of amusement to me in 
 cliildhood was a flock of chickens I owned, tive 
 in number. At first thev were very shv when 
 I put their food down, they would not come 
 near to eat until I had moved quite a distance 
 from it. But I soon won their confidence and 
 in a lew diiys I and my chickens were on the 
 most friendly terms : they would come and 
 eat out of my hands without the least fear 
 In fact they seetned rather to like my being 
 among them. Whenever I went out of doors 
 they would gather round me, all talking in 
 their way, and which talk by my interpreta- 
 tion, was expressions of regard for me and 
 confidence in my good will to them. They 
 seemed pleased when I spoke to them or 
 stroked their feathers. If I showed partiality 
 by taking one upon my lap the rest woulcj 
 
A SKETCH OP MY XAF^. 
 
 15 
 
 jc^ive vent to their feelings of jealousy by sun- 
 dry little picks at my clothes. If I at onc(^ 
 put down the envied chicken they would 
 
 avenge themselves by not allowing it to come 
 near me again for that time at least. If I 
 persisted in keeping it on my lap its compan- 
 ions, after a little while, would walk slowly 
 away, talking to each other in confidential 
 tones, evidently disgusted with my lack of 
 taste in the choice of beauty and goodness 
 even in a chicken. Sometimes, like Kitty 
 Clyde, I would take my line and hook and go 
 to the brink of a steep rock and catch small 
 fish which sported near the shore when the 
 tide was in. But instead of the clear running 
 brook that Kitty fished in, I threw my baited 
 hook into the broad briny waters of the hsiy. 
 When fish were plenty my time was fully 
 taken up in catching them ; now and then one 
 would wriggle off my hook just as I had got 
 it to the surface, which was very fortunate to 
 the fish, but to me really provoking. After 
 losing two or three in this way my fishing 
 would be about done, for those who get such 
 a scare, besides getting their mouths badly 
 
1 I 
 
 If) 
 
 A SKETf'II OF MY LIFE. 
 
 hurt with the hook, immediately struck out 
 into deep water, and the rest taking the alarm 
 would hastily follow suit. When fish were 
 scarce — or, perhaps, not hungry — while I wait- 
 ed for them to decide whether to taste my bait 
 or not, I mingled my voice with the murmur 
 of the tide, as I sang some song familiar in 
 those happy days of childhood. This was not 
 a favorite pastime with me, owing to the fact 
 that it yielded me as much pain as pleasure. I 
 was pleased when I felt a bite at my hook, 
 but as soon as I had brought the fish to land 
 I was sorry for the suffering little creature, 
 and taking the hook from its mouth as care- 
 fully as I could, I frequently returned it to 
 its native element feeling more satisfied with 
 myself for so doing. 
 
 At times, when in a listless mood, if the 
 weather was pleasant, I would go out of doors 
 and sit down in some spot where I could lis- 
 ten to any sound there might be to listen to. 
 The usual sounds were the screaming of the 
 sea gulls as they darted hither and thither, 
 skimming the water in quest of food ; the 
 splashing of the wheels of a passing steam- 
 
 %. 
 
A SKKTCII OK MV IJFK. 
 
 17 
 
 Itoat; the voices of tlie lisliernieii talkiiii"- as 
 thf y pissed and repassed in their tishino- hoats, 
 with now and then tlie spoutin<j;" of a wdiale, 
 for tliese great fish freijiiently make their ap- 
 pearances in the hay, often swimming ahmg 
 witliin a few yards of tlie shore. Sometimes 
 the only sound to be heard was the lowing of 
 the cattle, the bleating of sheep, or the hark- 
 ing of dogs on the neighbouring Island. That 
 which pleased and interested me most was the 
 sin<j:in<T of the sailors while ii^ettintj their ves- 
 sels underway preparatory to leaving the har- 
 bor, to the entrance of which the lighthouse is 
 a faithful guide to the mariner by night in all 
 seasons of the year. When a dozen or more 
 sailors unite in singing, as they usually do 
 when weighing anchor, their concert is w^ell 
 worth hearing. As their voices come floating 
 over the water, borne on the wangs of a sum- 
 mer In-eeze, there is a softness and richness 
 imparted to the strains which cannot fail to 
 attract attention. And often have I listened 
 with delight to those hardy sons of Neptune 
 while they sang some one of their favorite 
 songs — composed, for aught I know, by Nep- 
 
18 
 
 A SKETCH OF MY LIFE. 
 
 
 |i 
 
 !f » 
 
 •\ 
 
 "t- 
 
 tune himself. Those, I have mentioned were 
 my chief amusements when alone ; but, be- 
 sides these, there were many other ways in 
 which my young heart was gladdened, and 
 many comforts I heartily enjoyed. Occasion- 
 ally I would spend' the day with some little 
 girls of my acquaintance, and now and then 
 they would visit me. Though deprived of 
 sight I still retained my fondness for flowers, 
 and in summer always had some growing near 
 the door. When they were in bloom I was 
 quite happy, trying to cheat myself into the 
 belief that I could see them. T loved to go 
 to Church and Sabbath School, and did so 
 whenever I could, though it was a walk of 
 nearly three miles. 1 was fond of learning 
 by rote hymns and passages of Scripture, 
 which I did with but little trouble, being 
 blessed with a good memory. It gave me 
 much pleasure to have some one read aloud 
 to me, or join with me in singing. Possessing 
 quite a good voice of my own and being very 
 fond of music I was always pleased to learn 
 a new tune. Thus passed my childhood un 
 clouded by care or sorrow. 
 
 ii 
 
 L 
 
«p 
 
 A SKETCH OF MY LIFE. 
 
 19 
 
 How oft back to childhood 
 
 My iiieinory strays, 
 To the morning of life, 
 
 Those bright hai)i)y days. 
 Those moments all freighted 
 
 With innocent glee, 
 Unmingled. with care, 
 
 And from sorrow were free, 
 
 With heart full of gladness » 
 
 I played mid the flowers, 
 And sang with the the birds 
 
 Through the warm summer hours; 
 No thought for the morrow, 
 
 As j«yons as they, 
 O childhood, sweet childhood, 
 
 How short is thy stay. 
 
 To wish to recall thee, 
 
 Were foolish and vain, 
 Yet fresh in my memory 
 
 Will ever remain, 
 Those scenes of my earlier, 
 
 Happier years; 
 Like a beautiful picture 
 
 To me it appears. 
 
 But childhood must pass 
 
 With its visions so fair, 
 And youth with its dreams, 
 
 And its castles in air. 
 Time hurries us onward 
 
 O'er life's busy way. 
 To the unknown beyond, 
 
 To eternity's day. w 
 
npsssEzsr^sHT; 
 
 : r* i 
 
 H 
 
 I 
 
 * 1 
 
 I 
 
 {■f 
 
 t i 
 
 1 
 
 t 
 
 i 
 
 20 
 
 A SKKTCH OP MY LIFE. 
 
 When clouds gjither darkly 
 
 Above and aroiind, 
 When my spirit is sad, 
 
 And trials abound, 
 When feeble and faint 
 
 Is the glimmer of light 
 That shines on my [)atliway 
 
 To guide me aright, 
 
 A voice seems to whisper, 
 
 And tenderly say, 
 Fear not, I'll not leave thee 
 
 Alone on the way; 
 I will lead thee to joys 
 
 That are fadeless and pure, 
 Where all that is lovely 
 
 Shall ever endure. 
 
Chapter iv. 
 
 A DESCRIPTION OF THE VIEW FKoM THE 
 
 LIGHTHOUSE, WITH AN ACCOUNT OF A 
 
 VIOLENT STORM I EXPERIENCED 
 
 WHILE LIVING THERE. 
 
 The spot where Head Harbor Lighthouse 
 stands is a small Island of itself, containing 
 not more than a half acre of land, separated 
 from the main Island by a long bar, which, 
 when the tide is out, is wade enough for a little 
 army to cross dry shod, but whtm the tide is 
 in it is covered with water to the depth of 
 six or eight feet. The Lighthouse is a wood- 
 en building, sixty feet high, with dwelling 
 house attached. A few yards from the door 
 of the cottage is a large flat rock about fifteen 
 feet in length by seven or eight at the broad- 
 est part, oval in shape and somewhat elevated. 
 From this rock a fine view is presented to the 
 eye. As you face the east, on your right, and 
 within a stone's throw is Head Harbor, bound- 
 
mm 
 
 il^ 
 
 22 
 
 A SKETCH OF MY LIFE. 
 
 ed on the opposite side by a pretty island ; 
 on the left is the entrance of the Passame- 
 cj noddy river ; to the north and about three 
 -liles distant is the main land, stretching 
 away to the eastward, its harbors, coves, and 
 headlands appearing between the numerous 
 islands that fringe its shore. In a southeast- 
 erly direction, as far as the eye can see, there 
 is nothing to be seen but sky and water, that 
 being the entrance of the bay where it meets 
 and mingles with the Atlantic Ocean — the 
 whole forming a beautiful prospect, especially 
 on a summer evening when the bay is thickly 
 dotted with boats and vessels of all sizes 
 making their way into the river or harbor. 
 The rock already described is by no means 
 the only one there, for there is a superabund- 
 ance of them, both large and small ; in fact the 
 little inland is completely surrounded with 
 huge ledges and boulders of monstrous sizes, 
 which do good service as breakwaters in the 
 stormy weather of winter. I will here give 
 an account of one storm I well remember, a 
 gale of unusual violence, almost amounting to 
 a hurricane. On awaking one morni'^g in 
 
A SkETCH OF MY L'FE. 
 
 23 
 
 winter I heard the wind blowing heavily from 
 the east, but being accustomed to those things 
 I was not in the least alarmed. I arose with 
 the rest of the family, and while breakfast 
 was being prepared, my father remarked that 
 if the wind increased with the rising of the 
 tide, as it generally did, that the storm would 
 be a fearful one. The tide in that vicinity 
 rises and falls to the height of twenty-four 
 feet within the limits of twelve hours — being 
 six hours rising and six hours falling. It was 
 now near seven o'clock, and the tide ha<l 
 boofan to rise. But there was no immediate 
 danger, and my father engaged in lamily 
 prayers, as was his custom, after which we sat 
 down to breakfast, the storm still raging 
 wildly. About eight o'clock my father had 
 some thoughts of taking his family on to the 
 main Island, but hoping the tide would abate 
 at half tide, as it sometimes did, and not 
 wishing to take us out in the drenching rain, 
 perhaps for nothing, he delayed doing so un 
 til it was too late ; the water was over the bar, 
 and we were obliged to remain, come what 
 would. The storm steadily increased but did 
 
24 
 
 A SKETCH OF MY LIFE. 
 
 il i 
 
 no damage until oleven o'clock ; then it began 
 its work of destruction. The Lighthouse 
 boat was the first thing to be swept aw^ay and 
 dashed to pieces by tlie waves ; a small wharf 
 soon followed, and so one thino- after another 
 went until almost evervthinor moveable was 
 washed away. About fifteen minutes before 
 twelve an outbuilding used for general pur- 
 poses was lifted from its foundation and 
 thrown down on to the beach, where it re- 
 mained without further injury. The storm 
 was now at its height. If we passed the next 
 thirty minutes in safety the danger would be 
 over. Higher, higher came che tide ; the wind 
 seemed to have gathered all its strength for 
 one tremendous sweep ere it finally ceased, 
 each succeeding wave leaping nearer and 
 nearer until they dashed fiercely against the 
 house, breaking in the windows and flooding 
 the lower floor with salt water to the depth of 
 several inches. Thus, for one half hour, we 
 waited in terrible suspense, expecting every 
 moment the house would be swept from its 
 foundation. My father gathered his family 
 ground him, and there, amid the roaring of 
 
A SKETCH OF MY LIFE. 
 
 25 
 
 the tempest, he, in fervent prayer, besought 
 God, in whom he trusted, even that God who 
 rules the storm, to protect us from the threat- 
 ening danger. . ; 
 
 In a few minutes more the tide had turned, 
 the wind and waves had begun to subside, 
 and we again breathed free. As soon as they 
 could cross the bar some of the neighbors 
 came to see how we had fared. Those who 
 were living in sight of the Lighthouse watch- 
 ed it anxiously all through the storm. They 
 said the waves ran so high at times the Light- 
 house could not be seen at all, and more than 
 once it was thought to be gone. But it stood 
 firm and uninjured ; the dwelling house sus- 
 tained no further damage after the windows 
 had been broken in. Before night the storm 
 had entirely passed away, the sun went down 
 in a clear sky, and not a breath of wind or a 
 ripple of the water disturbed the stillness of 
 the evening. It may readily be supposed that 
 I was not so brave in stormy weather after 
 that as I had been before, though I did not 
 experience another such a storm while living 
 at the Lighthouse. 
 
-"-"^f" 
 
 ■p 
 
 1 
 
 26 
 
 A SKETCH OF MY LIFE. 
 
 . 
 
 Being now about sixteen years of age, and 
 no longer a child, I put away childish things. 
 I was no longer content with merely amusing 
 myself, but always wished to be employed in 
 doing something useful. I began by learning 
 to knit, but did not get along very well for 
 quite a while. I was constantly dropping 
 stitches or knitting two instead of only one, 
 or putting the yarn twice over the needle 
 when once was enough. After working in 
 this troublesome way for an hour or so I grew 
 discouraged, and w^ould put away my knitting 
 perhaps for a week or two, but being natural- 
 ly active and persevering I was not apt to 
 give up entirely if in any way I could accom- 
 plish whatever I might undertake. So I tried 
 knitting again and again, and little by little 
 improved until I could do plain knitting quite 
 well, and in course of time I could knit stock- 
 ings, socks and mittens ^s well as any one. 
 shaping them all myself. I learned to do 
 plain sewing with less difficulty than I expe- 
 perienced \x\ learning to knit, though I pricked 
 my fingep with tho ne^dje a good deaj at first, 
 but ftft*^V ^otne practice I QQuld sew very well. 
 
A SKETCH OP MY LIFte. 
 
 2? 
 
 i began and finished a patchwork quilt, cut- 
 ting the squares and sewing them all myself. 
 When at this work I was obliged to sit near 
 some one who could tell me the light pieces 
 from the dark, and also the right side of the 
 calico. 1 was a long time about it, but my 
 quilt was done at last, and that was the only 
 patchwork quilt T ever made. I also made 
 quite a number of door mats and hearth rugs 
 in those days. The first ones I braided. Then 
 I knit two or three. After that I learned to 
 make them with a hook. Some of my hook- 
 ed mats were said to be quite pretty. I know 
 thev are verv serviceable, for some of them 
 are in wear yet. 
 
 I sometimes tried my hand at fancy work 
 but did not do much at it. I made one wool 
 card basket, one bead collar, and a bead neck- 
 lace. I also made several pin-cushions, a few 
 netted tidies, and some shell picture frames. 
 That was about all I did in the way of fancy 
 work. One day my father gave me an accor- 
 deon. I was much pleased with the instru- 
 ment, and being very fond of music I imme- 
 diately began learning to play, but having 
 
•r 
 
 M 
 
 A SkETCn OV MV LIFE. 
 
 I! 
 
 
 ii 
 
 to be my own instructor I did not progress 
 very rapidly. However, after a few months' 
 practice I could play quite nicely, and many 
 an hour did I spend singing and playing — 
 ^s happy as a queen. Happy, because in 
 my secluded home I was unaccustomed to 
 the ways of the world, untainted with its 
 vain aspirations and unacquainted with its 
 follies and fleeting pleasures. An artist might 
 have painted my portrait and called me inno- 
 cence, for though a woman in years, I was as 
 unsuspecting and artless as a child. So igno- 
 rant was J of the siniulness of human nature 
 that never for a moment did I entertain the 
 thought that one person would willfully 
 wrong another. In form and features I was 
 not homely ; that could not be truthfully said 
 of me. Neither -was I beautiful ; no one ever 
 said I was ; but more than once I was compli- 
 mented on being pretty. Upon one occasion 
 when in company with a young gentleman, an 
 officer in the American navy, he asked me if 
 I remembered my looks when I used to see my 
 face in the looking-glass. I answered, yes. 
 " Well," said he, " you do not know how yow 
 
A SKETCH of MY Ut'E. 
 
 2d 
 
 look now, so I must tell you you are (^uite 
 pretty." This was the first time I had been 
 told the fact by a younL*" gentleman, and I was 
 so embarrassed that instead of thankinj): him 
 for the compliment, I blushed like a rose and 
 said nothing. I presume he thought me the 
 very essence of shyness and stupidity. I was 
 extremely bashful, never speaking when in 
 company except when spoken to, and then the 
 shorter I could make my answer the better 1 
 was pleased. This often annoyed my parents 
 for it made me appear dull and unsociable 
 Up to this time my days had passed in tran- 
 quility ; though the loss of sight saddened my 
 life, yet, being of a happy turn of mind, my 
 young spirit was not entirely crushed. As yet 
 not a wave of trouble had rippled the smooth 
 surface of the river of time down which my 
 light barque glided pleasantly. 
 
 But clouds must rise and storms of sorrow 
 fall to remind us that this is not our abidinir 
 place. Few tread the path from the cradle to 
 the grave without experiencing more or less 
 of the disappointments and trials that fall to 
 

 99 
 
 f 
 
 30 
 
 A SkETCll OP MY Llt*Bl. 
 
 I 
 
 the lot of mankirul. The first grief that 
 pierced my heart was the death of my father 
 — but in this bereavement I mourned not as 
 one without hope, fully assured that my loss 
 Was his infinite gain. My father was a sin- 
 cere christian, neS^er shrinking from his duty 
 As such, never weary in well-doing, always 
 serving the Lord and rejoicing in his loving 
 kindness. While living he was a man belov- 
 ed and respected by all who knew him, and 
 after death was followed to his last resting 
 place by a large company of mourners. After 
 a short illness he was called to lay down his 
 cross and enter into his eternal rest. His end 
 was peace. Without a struggle he breathed 
 his last, without a sigh he fell asleep in Jesus. 
 " Blessed are the dead who die in the Lord, 
 yea, henceforth, and forever. ' 
 
 Dear Father, thou art gone to rest, 
 
 Life's troubled scenes are o'er, 
 Now safe at h6me among the blest, 
 No more by sin and doubt oppressed, 
 
 Thy joys are rich and pure. 
 
 Dear Father, oh, I mids thee now, 
 ' Life's happiest hours are sad, 
 I miss thee when in prayer we bow, 
 I miss thy soft kiss on my brow. 
 In tenderness bestowed. 
 
A SKETCH OF MY L'FE. 
 
 31 
 
 Dear Father, oh I miss thy words 
 
 Of kind instruction giren, 
 To cheer me on life's weary road, 
 And in my heart to shed abroad 
 
 Sweet thoughts of home and heaven. 
 / 
 Dear Father, I remember well 
 
 Thy precepts and thy love, 
 Deep in my heart, O may they dwell, 
 Till from this world I soar to swell 
 
 Thy song in heaven above. 
 
 Dear father in the Heavenly choir 
 
 Thy voice me thinks I hear, 
 And music from thy golden lyre 
 Doth with sweet hope my heart inspiro 
 To meet thee, Father dear. 
 
Chapter v. 
 
 ■:i 
 
 MY TRIP TO BOSTON WITH OTHKR RE(>T)LLEC- 
 
 TIONS PASSKU. 
 
 As I had an ear for music and a voice lor 
 singing, it was thought by those interested 
 that if I had a melodeon I might learn my- 
 self to play on it. So my brothers bought 
 one and gave it to me. My friends were not 
 disappointed, for I soon learned to play quite 
 well considering the disadvantage of my po- 
 sition. I was elated with my success, and de- 
 lighted to have a musical instrument of my 
 own to practice on. Though I am only an or- 
 dinary performer, yet it has been a great source 
 of amusement to me. I have my melodeon 
 now, apparemiy as good as ever, and would 
 not part with it for twice its value. I do not 
 take so lively an interest in playing now as I 
 did the first few years, still I am passionately 
 fond of music and often spend an hour or so 
 very pleasantly playing and singing. As J 
 
 L 
 
A SKETCH OP MY UFfi, 
 
 33 
 
 have no embossed music books I have to de- 
 pend on others to read music to me, but I am 
 not long in learning to play a tune, sometimes 
 only a few minutes It was about two years 
 after I got my melodeon when my heart was 
 again gladdened by receiving a copy of the 
 Gospel of St. John, in embossed letters for 
 the blind — in two parts, kindly presented to 
 me by R. W. Crookshank, Esq., of the City of 
 John, New Brunswick. 
 
 I took one of the two books in my hand, 
 opened it. ran my fingers over the page and 
 soberly thought if these strokes are intended 
 for letters how are they to be understood, for 
 really at first they seemed to me like a con- 
 fused mass of marks that might mean noth- 
 ing. However, I had not the least doubt but 
 that I should soon understand and learn to 
 read them, and with newly awakened interest 
 and much pleasure I turned to the first page 
 where I found the Alphabet, and also instruc- 
 tions for the pupil. With my fingers I slow- 
 ly traced every line of each letter, carefully 
 noting tha shape and position of them all 
 
 (1 1 
 
!J 
 
 34 
 
 A SKETCH OP MY LIFE. 
 
 delighted with the prospect of learnin_,^ to 
 read so much for myself, which I was not long 
 in doing. Before a week had passed I could 
 read almost as well as I can now. My books 
 are not much the worse for wear, the leaves 
 being of very strong paper, and I take great 
 care of them, prizing them highly for two 
 reasons: — First, because they are a portion of 
 the word of God ; and second, for the sake of 
 the giver, whose sympathy for and good will 
 towards me prompted him to this act of kind- 
 ness, which I shall always remember with 
 gratitude and thanks to Mr. Orookshank. 
 
 Four years after my father's death my eld- 
 est brother married, and my mother and I, 
 with my two younger brothers, left the Light- 
 house and went to live on a small farm which 
 my father had purchased two years previous 
 to his death. The farm was a neck of land 
 about a mile in length, the same from which 
 was detached the small Island where the 
 Lighthouse stood, there being no houses be 
 tween the Lighthouse and the one we lived in. 
 This was a pleasant change to me. I could now 
 
A SKETCH OF MY LIFE. 
 
 35 
 
 enjoy the society of neighbors, several fami- 
 lies living close by. Our house was situated 
 on the top of a hill gradually sloping down to 
 the shore on either side. On the south was 
 Head Harbor, and on the north the Passama- 
 quoddy river. 
 
 For many years tlie shore on the river side 
 has been occupied by Indians as a camping- 
 ground. During the summer seasons the men 
 go out in their canoes porpoise hunting, and 
 the women sit in their camps making baskets. 
 They are quiet and civil, never giving any 
 trouble. They dress well, and some of them 
 have a good English education. The men are 
 sociable and friendly, but the women are gen- 
 erally shy. 
 
 Strangers, who at different times come to 
 Head Harbor in vessels from the State of 
 Massachusetts, and distant parts^ of Maine, 
 spoke to me of Professor Williams, of the 
 City of Boston, the well-known oculist, tell- 
 ing me of many cases of blindness they had 
 known cured by him, and advising me to lose 
 no time in going to consult him. At first I 
 
36 
 
 A SKETCH OF MY LIFE. 
 
 did not think much about it, knowing that so 
 many physicians had pronounced my case 
 hopeless, and also remembering that my father, 
 several years previous to his death, had writ- 
 ten to Dr. Williams, describing my case and 
 asking his advice, and in reply had received no 
 encouragement. Knowing this, I feared the 
 journey would be a useless one. But being 
 urged from time to time, I began to have a 
 desire to go to Boston ; thinking, if Dr. Wil- 
 liams could examine my eyes, the case might 
 prove not*so hopeless as he had judged it to 
 be by a written discription, and perhaps my 
 sight might be restored. As days and weeks 
 passed I grew more and more anxious to go, 
 and at last, in company with my eldest broth- 
 er, I left home for Boston on the steamer 
 New England; the- Captain kindly giving 
 me a free passage to that city and back. It 
 was a voyage of nearly four hundred miles. 
 The weather was pleasant, with a moderate 
 breeze. But I am never sea-sick, and had my 
 mind not been so agitated with hopes and 
 fears as to what the result of my interview 
 with Dr. Williams would be, I would have 
 
A SKETCH OF MY L;FE. 
 
 37 
 
 enjoyed the trip ; as it was the hours passed 
 slowly, and I spent a sleepless night. 1 was 
 glad when morning came, it was not so 
 lonely when the people were talking and mov- 
 ing about. At six o'clock in the evening we 
 landed in Boston. A short drive in a cab 
 brought us to the hotel, and sick with excite- 
 ment, and w^eary with travelling, I retired to 
 rest. As soon as my head was on the pillow 
 I fell into a sound sleep. I will here relate 
 what I have never before mentioned. About 
 midnight I was suddenly awakened, the room 
 was filled with a soft and heavenly light ; my 
 troubled spirit was at rest ; my inmost soul was 
 flooded with exquisite bliss and perfect peace 
 pervaded my whole being. I was not alone, 
 my father was with me, in spirit, strengthen- 
 ing me for the coming trial in tender and 
 loving tones. I heard his dear, familiar voice 
 inff unto me, " fear not for I will be with 
 
 yyr 
 
 >> 
 
 Aiid then another voice firmly but gently 
 said, " Be still and hear what I the Lord thy 
 God wiil say unto thee.' Ages might have 
 passed unheeded could I have remained wrapt 
 

 38 
 
 A SKETCH OF MY LIFE. 
 
 in such holy ecstacy. But as the last sen- 
 tence was finished, suddenly as I had been 
 awakened, I fell asleep, sleeping soundly until 
 
 uiornnig. 
 
 Doubtless the general opinion of those who 
 read this will be that it was a dreauj. Per- 
 haps it was. If so, it was no ordinary dream, 
 for I was perfectly conscious. As I have be- 
 foje said, I was sudi ^' awakened and as 
 suddenly fell asleep. Th^ ream, if such it was, 
 occupied not more than two minutes. The 
 rest of the night I slept soundly, not having 
 slept before lor about forty hours. That day 
 at twelve o'clock I met Dr. Williams in his 
 oflice. After examining my eyes he and my 
 brother -went into the next room. I could 
 hear them talking but could not hear what 
 was said. They soon returned and I asked 
 the Doctor if he thought anything* could be 
 done to restore my sight. He replied, he was 
 afraid not. This was sufficient to convince 
 me that he could give no hope, but was too 
 considerate to say so. He accompanied us to 
 the door, kindly shook hands with me, and 
 
 1 
 
 
 r pt^ numv m m ii^ « 
 
A SKETCH OP MY TJFE. 
 
 39 
 
 expressed his sympathy by saying he was sor- 
 rv he could <xiv(i me no encouraL>ement. I 
 thanked him, and said it coidd not be helped. 
 
 On reaching the hotel I went immediately 
 to my room. Once there, I could no longer 
 restrain my grief, but burst into a passionate 
 fit of weeping, and for a time the bitterness 
 of my disappointment was so overpowering 
 that 1 lost all self control. Again and again 
 I wished that I might die there and then. 
 My brain seemed on fire, and my heart was 
 near breaking. It was the crushing of a last 
 hope, and in the darkness of despair I thought 
 of death as a sweet release. I thought of the 
 grave as a place of calm repose. My tears 
 fell like rain, it was well they did, for in my 
 excessive grief had that fountain been sealed, 
 reason must have deserted her throne, or a se- 
 vere tit of illness been the result of so fear- 
 ful a trial. The paroxism lasted over an hour 
 and when at length it began to subside I 
 thought of the occurrence of the previous 
 night, and as I recalled the sweet vision, I 
 geew more calm, strength of mmd gradually- 
 returned, and I regained self-possession. 
 
40 
 
 A SKETCH OP MY LIFE. 
 
 After a short time I was to outward appear- 
 ance quite composed, nor did any fresh out- 
 burst of sorrow accrue until the evening when, 
 as I sat alone in one of the great parlors of 
 the hotel, I again wept, not passionately now, 
 but quietly, my tears falling fast but silently. 
 The storm had passed, but my saddened spirit 
 could not restrain its fretting, even as the sea 
 continues its moaning after the tempest has 
 subsided, seeming to grieve that it had been 
 so ruthlessly disturbed. The next morning 
 at eight o'clock, I was again on board the 
 steamer Neiu England, and soon on my way 
 home, where, in due time, I arrived safely. 
 It was not until then that I learned the de- 
 cided opinion of Doctor Williams. It was 
 this. He said the optic nerve was so com- 
 pletely withered that it was beyond human 
 skill to restore it. Weeks and months passed 
 before I regained my usual spirits ; in fact I 
 do not know as I have altogether done so yet, 
 for before visiting Professor Williams T had 
 heard the opinion of none but ordinary phy- 
 sicians, and secretly cherished a faint hope 
 that the skill and experience of a professed 
 
 i 
 
A .SKBTCH OF MV LIFE. 
 
 il 
 
 oculist, should 1 (jver have the opportunity of 
 consulting one, might effect a cure, where or- 
 dinary physicians knew no remedy in the case. 
 But that hope was entirely swept away after 
 my trip to Boston. 
 
 Mv home on the farm ac Head Harbor was 
 a pleasant one. The six years I spent there 
 1 shall always remember with pleasure. It 
 was especially refreshing on a warm summer's 
 afternoon, accompanied by some one of my 
 friends, to go down on the shore and sit in the 
 cool shade of the high steep rocks, where I 
 could hear the salt water washing gently up 
 over the smooth pebbles with a soft rippling 
 sound, and listen to the wild birds singing in 
 trees growing along the edge of the bank far 
 above my head. 1 also much enjoyed a walk 
 in the evening. The road on either side was 
 skirted with spruce and fir trees, and, as the 
 light breeze played among the branches, and 
 wild flowers ladened the air with their fra^r- 
 ranee, I loved to linger by the way, and at 
 such times was apt to grow pensive. Nor 
 was winter entirely without its pleasure to 
 

 42 
 
 A SKBTi'H OF MY UFK. 
 
 irie, for often on a pleasant evening I was 
 agreeably surprised by a party of eight or ten, 
 or perhaps a dozen of my young friends, who 
 would come to see me from the village, which 
 was about i^ mile and a half distant. 
 
 After the usual greetings were exchanged 
 and some time spent in general conversation, 
 those who could sing did so, while I played 
 on the melodeon. Thus pleasantly passed 
 many a winter evening in my home at Head 
 Harbor. We were a lone family, having no 
 kindred near, but many kind friends. All my 
 mother's relatives are living in England, and 
 all my father's people who are in America, 
 except one brotiier and his son, are living in 
 Chatham, Ontario. So it came to pass, after 
 some persuasion, my mother sold her property 
 at Campobello and we also came west, arriv- 
 ing in Chatham on the Nineteenth of October, 
 1871, where I met quite a number of relatives, 
 uncles, aunts, and cousins, from whom I had 
 been separated for over sixteen years, they 
 having lived in New Brunswick before coming 
 to Ontario. 
 
 I 
 
A SKETCH OF M\ LlFi. 
 
 id 
 
 1 am still residing in Chatham. My gene- 
 fal health is good, a blessing I have always 
 enjoyed, for which I am truly thankful. I 
 can go about my own home as well as any 
 one, and do nearly all the work of the house. 
 My mother is getting advanced in years and 
 is of a delicate constitution, so that she can 
 do but little and very light work. 
 
 It is now thirty years since I lost my sight. 
 Those who have always enjoyed the blessing 
 of sight cannot know the many trials that 
 beset the daily path of one who is deprived 
 of that blessing, or the sense of weariness by 
 which they are continually oppressed. But I 
 must not murmur, " The Lord gave and the 
 Lord taketh away, blessed be the name of the 
 Lord. 
 
 It is the will of our Heavenly Father that 
 some of his children should be chastened bv 
 affliction in order to prepare them to dwell in 
 that land beyond the river. 
 
 There's a home for the weary, a beautiful home, 
 
 A mansion so bright and so fair, 
 Where forever they dwell 'neath its sheltering dome, 
 
 Free from sorrow, from toil and from care. 
 
44 
 
 A RKFTCH OF MY LIFE. 
 
 A beautiful home in the city of gold, 
 
 Prepared by our Father ab(.ve, 
 Where the King in His glory they ever beliold, 
 
 And rejoice in His ])ardoning love. 
 
 A beautiful home where the weary forgets 
 
 All the trials of life's dreary way, 
 Wliere turmoil and strife never vexes or frets, 
 
 Where nothing can fade or decay 
 
 A beautiful home where no storms ever rise, 
 
 Nor tlie winds of adversity ])low, 
 Not even a cloud ever darkens the sky, 
 
 There's no winter with frost and with snow. 
 
 A beautiful home where the weary may dwell, 
 
 Secure from all dread and alarm, 
 Where the songs of the ransomed exalting swell. 
 
 And each in their hands bear a palm. 
 
 A beautiful home, an eternal abode, 
 
 A life everlasting and pure, 
 Where youth is renewed and its freshness restored, 
 
 And shall ever and ever endure. 
 
Sketches and Poems, 
 
 MORE BLESSED TO GIVE THAN TO 
 
 RECEIVE. 
 
 One afternoon in suiunier I was sitting liy 
 an open window, w4\ich was shaded by a 
 grape vine, a gentle breeze playing lightly with 
 the leaves and fanning my cheeks with its cool 
 breath. The day was pleasant, but I felt 
 weary, and my heart was somewhat sad. I was 
 suddenly aroused from my gloomy thoughts 
 b}'^ a rap at the door. I got up and went to 
 see wdio was thei'e. It was a poor man who 
 said he had travelled round looking for work 
 until his money was gone. Would I please 
 give him something to eat. Now when a fel- 
 low creature as'ks me for something to eat, I 
 cannot find it in my heart to refuse, so 1 
 brought him some food and gave him a drink 
 of cold water. As he took it he said, " I am 
 much obliged to you, indeed I am. Thank 
 you, lady." 
 

 i), 
 
 1.. 
 
 4rt 
 
 SKfeTrHKS ANI» l'OK>ts. 
 
 The ione oi L^ratitude in which those word.l 
 were spoken assured uie they came from a 
 thankful heart, and that little deed of kind- 
 ness was rewarded ten fold. As the poor man 
 went from the house the thoufi^ht that I had 
 afforded relief to one who was in need, was 
 like the sun shinino- through an opening in 
 the clouds shedding a bright ray on my path, 
 dispelling my sad thoughts at least for a time. 
 The grateful acknowledgment of that simple 
 act was like an angel visit to my soul, and my 
 heart was lighter the rest of the day. Truly 
 it is more blessed to -L^ive than to receive. 
 
 SPEAK GENTLY OF THE ERRING. 
 
 • There is a beautiful poem entitled " Speak 
 Gently to the Erring." The idea suggests 
 itself stronojlv to mv mind that we should not 
 only speak gently to the erring, but also speak 
 gently of them. ;; A great many people, and I 
 am sorry to say more especially the female 
 portion of a community, when they meet, free- 
 ly indulge in scandalizing any one of their 
 neighbors who happens to be spoken of ; the 
 
SKKTCHES AN1> POKMS. 
 
 47 
 
 character of the unconscious offender is 
 thorou<.';hly examined, faults carefully selected 
 and eagerly discussed. All the bad ([ualities 
 are niaonitied and largely coiniiu'nted on, wliile 
 the good traits, if ])(?rchance there is any in 
 the opiaion of those engaged in the discussion, 
 aie entirelv foi<i'ott(Mi or overlooked. 
 
 Ah, me, who is there among us without 
 faults :* Alas ; not one. Some try to excuse 
 themselves by saying we do not mean any 
 harm ; we know it is so, and we iiust talk to 
 free our minds. This is a poor excuse. It is 
 not only foolisldy and wickedly wasting time 
 which might and ought to be usefully em- 
 ployed, but it is in direct opposition to the 
 rules of Christianity. If we cannot say any 
 good of our neighbor, let us say nothing. It 
 can do no good for you and I to spend an hour 
 or two every day in privately talking over and 
 exaggerating the errors of others. It is not 
 one atom of benefit to the erring one, and has 
 a strong tendency to disturb our own peace of 
 mind, and produce and foster in our hearts 
 the ill feelings of envy, jealousy, hatred and 
 
( 
 
 48 
 
 SKETCHES ANJ> POEMS. 
 
 <leceit, makintr us a i-Teat deal Avorse than 
 
 * i 
 
 ki/--'' 4 
 
 
 those whose faults and shortcoui 
 
 mg 
 
 s we havt 
 
 been enumerating. " Judge not that v^e be not 
 judged, for with w^hat judgment you judge 
 ye shall he judged again. Love thy neighboi- 
 as thyself." Whenever you are tempted to 
 free your mind by slandering your neighbor 
 pause and think before you speak. Considi'r 
 the follv of so dointif. At such a time it is 
 wise to be silent. Remember it is a w^aste of 
 words and the gratifying of an evil propensity- 
 Against those things close the door of thy 
 heart and bar it with charity. 
 
 Forget not thou hast often sinned, 
 
 And sinful yet may be, 
 Deal kindly witli the errini,' one, 
 
 As God has dealt with thee. 
 
 Rely not upon thine own strength to resist the 
 temptation, for if you do you will surely fail, 
 and in some unguarded hour the tempter will 
 ^ead will you far out of the narrow path. 
 Look to Him who says, " My strength is suffi- 
 cient for you," and when you are sorely temp- 
 ted, enter into thy closet, and when thou hast 
 shut the door pray to thy Father, who seet 
 
HKJMP0UB8 AND POISMH. 
 
 49 
 
 ip- 
 
 ast 
 
 V 
 
 in secret, and if you pray fervently and 
 earnestly for strength and grace it will be 
 given you, and you will come forth at peace 
 with God and man, and in a true Christian 
 spirit, and with tender feelings in your heart, 
 you will be able to speak gently of the erring* 
 
 THE FAIRIES, ; 
 
 I. 
 
 T many times have thought about 
 
 That tiny little race, 
 Heard of by all, but none as yet 
 
 Have ever found a trace 
 Of what we would suppose to be 
 
 A fairy palace ground. 
 I guess they never yet have built 
 
 A castle in our land. 
 
 II. 
 
 I heard of caves all lined with pearls, 
 
 And shells of beauty rare, 
 Down by the sea in distant lands. 
 
 The fairies may dwell there. 
 At all events, I think they stop 
 
 Within their homes ail day, 
 And wander forth in moonlight houm^ 
 
 To sing and dance and play. 
 
 III. 
 And run about and try to catch 
 The moon's bright silver boMHiit 
 
50 
 
 I^KKTOHlS^i AND P0KM8. 
 
 Or launch some tiny shells for boatS| 
 
 And float upon the streams. 
 I always think they love to roam 
 
 Best where the flowers bloom. 
 The lilies and the roses are, 
 
 Their favorites, 1 presume. 
 
 IV. 
 
 Their laugh is music low and sweet, 
 
 They speak in whispers too, 
 They tread so light they never leave 
 
 A track upon the dew. , 
 
 If any of them wish to rest 
 
 Awhile, I do suppose 
 They go and lay them gently down 
 
 Within a half blown rose. 
 
 i ' -■■■ ^ / , J • . ■■ " 
 
 V. 
 
 A fairy in a rose asleep, ' 
 
 Oh ! what a pretty sight, 
 Rocked gently by the passing breese, 
 
 Mid dewdrops shining bright. 
 Methinks 'tis fire-flies they train 
 
 For steeds, and fly away 
 As light as nothing, free as air. 
 
 Such tiny nymphs are they. ' ' 
 
 VII. 
 
 I think their clothes are made of leaven 
 
 Of flowers bright and gay. 
 Their corsages are always green, 
 
 I've heard the poet's say. 
 Some make their skirts of purple leaves, 
 
 Some are of crimson hue, 
 Some of the lily puro and white. 
 
 And some of pretty blue. 
 
SKKTCH18 AND POBMS. 
 
 51 
 
 VIII. 
 
 l^hey must be pretty little things, 
 
 Dressed in such pretty clothes, 
 And live a pretty little life, 
 
 But where, that no one knows. 
 If fairies really do exist, 
 
 I would not wish to be 
 An eliin with an aimless life, 
 
 'Twould never do for me. 
 
 . , JOE SUMMERS. 
 
 He was a very bashful young man, was Joe 
 Summers, very bashful. Whenever a girl look- 
 ed at or spoke to him, he would blush to the 
 tips of his ears, but Joe took good care that 
 did not happen very often, for he would fre- 
 quently go a long way out of his road in order 
 to keep at a distance from tb dear creatures, 
 and so avoid being under the paiiiful necessity 
 of encountering their bewitching glances, and 
 returning their salutations. As for kissing a 
 girl, why Joe never did such a thing in his 
 life, the very thought of such an act made his 
 brain whirl, and his heart beat wildly. Not 
 that Joe did not like the girls, for indeed he 
 really did like them, and when safe in the re- 
 
: 
 
 'i 
 
 ! 
 
 52 
 
 SttHTOHBS AND P0SM8. 
 
 treat of his own room he would sit by the 
 window for hours, watching and admiring the 
 fair damsels passing and re passing, dressed in 
 their gay colors, looking, as he thought, like 
 so many butterflies, and thinking how delight- 
 ful it would be if he only had the courage to 
 go among them and catch one for hiinself ; but 
 he had not. 
 
 One afternoon two yoiing ladies came to the 
 house to take tea and spend the evening ; the 
 evening passed ; it was time for the girls to be 
 going ; the night was dark, and Joe's mother 
 in a low tone told him he must see the girls 
 home, adding they would think him rude if he 
 did not. As he was the only young man in 
 the house Joe's heart beat high, but he saw 
 there was no help in this case. Now, all the 
 girls in the neighborhood knew Joe's failing, 
 and those two being young and somewhat 
 mischievious, quickly made up their minds to 
 have a little sport at his expense. As soon as 
 they were out on tha street each of the girls 
 seized an arm, and purposely leaning so heavy 
 as to almost drag the poor fellow to the 
 
I 
 
 sftHtcUBS AND PotlMS. 
 
 53 
 
 F 
 
 ground. Joe would have given all he was 
 worth if he could have escaped, but by a super- 
 human effort he bore up, and they went on 
 their way, the girls chatting gaily all the while 
 regardless of his embarrassment and quite be- 
 wildering him. 
 
 Near the home of the girls there was a 
 small brook. Two logs laid across served as a 
 bridge. The trio crossed in safety, but when 
 about to step from the logs one of the girls, 
 partly by accident and partly from a desire to 
 tease Joe, slipped and fell dragging him and 
 the other girl with her. Both of the girls re- 
 pressing the merriment that was nearly chok- 
 ing them, held on to his arms calling on him 
 to help them up, at the same time accusing 
 him of inattention and awkwardness. Poor 
 Joe nearly dead with shame and confusion, 
 after a desperate struggle, freed himseli from 
 his tormenters, and leaving them to complete 
 their journey by themselves, ran back home 
 as fast as he could, mentallv vowine never 
 again to be the escort of two girls at a time. 
 
I* 
 
 I 
 
 u 
 
 SKBtCUKS AND POKMfl. 
 
 i ! 
 
 ADVICE TO A YOUNG FRlEltl^* 
 
 Dear friend, fair youth and health are thine, 
 
 Improve eaoh passing day ; 
 Let truth around thy footsteps shiae, 
 
 Let virtue guard thy way. 
 
 Let wisdom lead thee by the hand) ; 
 
 With knowledge store thy heart ; 
 Obey thy Maker's great command, 
 
 From every sin depart. 
 
 Shun those who strive to turn thy feet , 
 
 From wisdom's pleasant way ; 
 And when temptations dark you meet, 
 
 For conquering courage pray. 
 
 To youth the path of life appears 
 To lead through flowery vales ; 
 
 But oft those flowers are bathed in tears 
 When storms of life assails. 
 
 Then go not forth in thine own might 
 
 To tread the path of life ; 
 Gird on the Christian's armor bright 
 
 To shield thee^ in the strife. 
 
 Oh ! watch and pray, for many a snare 
 
 The temper's hand will set ; 
 O'ercome it all by faith and prayer, 
 
 All earthly charms forget. 
 
 Look upward to thy starry crown, 
 
 Press forward to the prize ; 
 Soon thou will lay thy armor down, 
 
 And rest beyond the skies. 
 
 -V- 
 
rtKETOHES AND POBMH. 
 
 55 
 
 Then bravely fight and nobly win, 
 The victor's crown and palm ; 
 
 Then free from pain and toil and sin, 
 Rest safe from death's alarm. 
 
 A HURRICANE AT NIGHT. 
 
 A ASCRIPTION OF A HURRICANE THAT SWEPT 
 
 OVER THE BAY OF FUNDY AND VICIN^ 
 
 ITY ON THE 4th OF OCTOBER, 
 
 '■' 1869, l;.sting about 
 
 AN HOUR. 
 
 The night winds swM>pt in wild and fitful gusts, 
 moaning among the forest trees, tossing and twirling 
 their huge branches in sullen delight, as if it sought 
 to calm its fury by rudely stripping them of their 
 beautiful foliage. 
 
 Out on the deep blue sea the tempest lashed the 
 water into angry billows, seething and foaming they 
 chase each other like fierce demons, until at last 
 they dash madly against the solid rocks or rush 
 wildly up the pebbling shore. The dark clouds 
 lowered low in the heavens, they drew darker and 
 darker, and spreading more and mote. Soon every 
 twinkling star was shut out, and the soft silver 
 
56 
 
 AKETCHEH AND POEMS. 
 
 i t 
 
 ; I 
 
 M 
 
 light of the fair moon was hidden, vailed as it were 
 hy a thick black curtain. The pensive song of the 
 night bird was hushed, and the little cricket ceased 
 its chirupping, rain began to fall, at first the drops 
 were few and far between, but ere long they came 
 down thicker and faster, then rain fell in torrents. 
 The gale increased to a hurricane, and now it seem- 
 ed as if everything was being swept off the earth, 
 large trees were torn up by the roots, many were 
 snapped like dried straws and hurled yards from 
 where they had been standing, noble pines bowed 
 their lofty heads and fell prostrate to the ground, 
 houses trembled as though about to be lifted from 
 their foundation, cheeks grew pale and the hearts 
 of the people were filled with fear. Out on the sea 
 vessels large and small were tossed upon the waves 
 like feathers and crushed like egg shells, many were 
 thrown upon the rocks, others were stranded upon 
 the beaches. The breakers roared like hungry 
 wolves eager to devour their prey, and many a brave 
 sailor found a watery grave with scarce a moment's 
 warning. Many a prayer for mercy went up to 
 heaven that night from lips that perchance had 
 never prayed before. At length the hand of the 
 Storm King was stayed, the awful roar of wind and 
 wave was hushed, and anon a soft breeze floated 
 
 I' 
 
.■^KKTrllK^ AXI» roF.MS. 
 
 57 
 
 «>Vf;r land .uid soa, ilio dark cluiuls ndlrd away and 
 onfi V)> uiic the stars sliuiie out, the fair moon lo(»k- 
 od calmly down and nature was again at |)eae<', 
 ^V)l♦Ml morning daAvncd tiic sun rose brit^dif and 
 (dear, sliowing ruin and desolation (»n «verv hand. 
 The destruction of })ro[)ertv was immense, hut thai 
 was not the worst; many a loved one who M'ere in the 
 prim" of vigor of life the previous night, hfjd sinee 
 passed awav from earth forever, and were now 
 sleej)ing beneath the briny waters. Time and means 
 have restored the lost pr«)perty. but God alone eould 
 heal the bleeding hearts of the widow and fatherless. 
 
 AN EXCURSION SONG. 
 
 The summer breeze is sighing on the waters now, 
 Our flag is gayly flying, there's gladness on each br(»w. 
 Our little bark will safely bear us o'er the wave, 
 We'll glide secure and swiftly with hearts both free 
 and brave. 
 
 The shore is fast receding, fading from our view, 
 Before the breeze we're speeding, o'er waters deep and 
 
 and blue, 
 Our song of heartfelt gladness echoes far and wide. 
 We'll drive awav all sadness while on the rolling tide. 
 
ss 
 
 .1 
 
 1 
 
 I 
 
 
 ; I 
 
 
 .i: 
 
 iSKKTrHRS ANI> r'nKMS. 
 
 A DREAM. 
 
 I |>ayf?p»l iJirough the low gateway, and >t«.»<Mi in 
 H broad and beautiful enclosure. Thic sod nnd^'^ 
 my feet was softer and richer than the most costly 
 green velvet. The sky was blue and cloudless, the 
 air soft and njild and laden with a sweet odor, wafL 
 p(l hither by a gentle breeze. There was no need of 
 the sun to give light, neither the moon, b»r a holy, 
 heavenly light illumined the place. On the opposite 
 side of the enclosure there was a high and shining 
 wall, and just l>efore me there was a great whitp gat^, 
 lofly and grand. The gate was ajar, and near it stooil 
 the stately warden. As I gazed on the wondron> 
 beauties of the place, 1 heard sounds of music from 
 within the shining wall, music soft and sweet, deep 
 and melodious, such as mortal ear never listened to, 
 stirring my inmost soul with its rich cadence. 
 Many past in at the low gateway before and after 
 me, forms that seemed made of light, clad in snowy 
 garments, all going up to the great white gates, each 
 carrying in their hands a small square piece of 
 parchment, which they gave to the warden beforo 
 passing through the shining portal. I also drew 
 near and looked wistfully up at the pearly gate, 
 then timidly at the warden ; he fixed his mild starry 
 eyes on me and said in a tone of pitying love and 
 
SKilTHES AM> PnKMs. 
 
 M) 
 
 j^entle reproof, *^ Why earnest than hither tiiipre- 
 ])ared and unbidden by the King?" I bent forward 
 in silence, for I felt that unprepared as I was an«l 
 unbidden, I had no riglit in that holy place. The 
 angel's hand was laid upon vny Ijowed head and he 
 continued. " Thou art weary of earth, thou would 
 fain lay down thy cross and enter into thy lest, but 
 thy race is not yet run, thy «?arthly mission is not 
 yot fulfdled, return to the world and when thou art 
 weary seek not t.) lay down thy cross, but pray for 
 grace and strength from on high to sustain thee. So 
 shalt thou hold out to the end of thy pilgrimage, 
 and when thou hast accomplished all that the King 
 would have thee to do, he will send a white winged 
 messenger to summon thee and give thee thy pass- 
 l)ort and thy robe of spotless white. Then weary 
 one come, and I will gladly admit thee into thy 
 eternal rest." I turned slowly and sorrowfully 
 away, and retracing my steps, passed out at the low 
 gateway, and was again in the world. But the star 
 of hope smiles on me, though distanced far, whil*" 
 the wings of faith bear me safely over every trial' 
 and when . my weary spirit essays to unfold her 
 pinions and soar away to seek the rest she so 
 ari'ently desires, I remember the words of the angel 
 with the assurance that if I provi^ faithful to my 
 

 i 
 
 ! 
 
 li 
 
 m 
 
 (JO 
 
 ."^KBTrURs AM> PuKMS. 
 
 uiiasioii, ill i\u) service of my King, when he sum- 
 mons me henee, 1 shall receive my wliite rolie :iik1 
 with my })iissporL in my htiml, I will ajj;iiin pass in 
 at the low J^^•lteway; then with a smile of ivc )y;nititMi 
 and welcome the statisly warden will admit me 
 through the shining portal into the cell^stiul city, 
 where forever I shall dwell in the p/e>en(.«' of tlie 
 Kifi^. no iiiorc to b(; wearv. 
 
 BEAUTY IN A.LL SEASONS. 
 
 There's beauty all around us, 
 
 On the land and on the sea, 
 In the thiy shell and pebble, 
 
 In the leafy shrub an«l tree. 
 There's beauty all around us, 
 
 In all seasons of the year, 
 When the clouds obscure the sun^liine. 
 
 And when the sky is clear. 
 
 There's beauty in the spring time 
 
 When the fields are dressed anew, 
 In their garb of green all spangled 
 
 With the little violets blue. 
 When grove and woodland echoes 
 
 With the wild birds vesper song, 
 And the air is soft and balmy, 
 
 As the zephyr sweeps along. 
 
 There's beauty in the summer, 
 When the corn is in the ear, 
 
SKET«'MKS AMI POK.NIH. 
 
 Gl 
 
 \N lion thb rye is ripe aiul waving. 
 Ami the curfew bells ring clear. 
 
 When bees their flight are winging, 
 And tlie tiowers bloom hh gay, 
 
 Wlien the earth its fruit is yielding, 
 Oh I there's b.'auty every way. 
 
 There s beauty in the autuiuii, 
 
 Though it is of s«idder tone, 
 Yet the evergreens are waving, 
 
 Though tlie ])irdies all have tiowp. 
 Autumn Howers lend their beauty 
 
 To the season's fading hours, 
 And the early frost gems sparkle 
 
 On each twig in leafless bowers. 
 
 There's beauty in the winter, 
 
 Though the chilly noi-th winds bh.w, 
 When the sun is brightly shining 
 
 On the trees all draped in buow. 
 Then a thousand jewels glitter. 
 
 Wrought by winter's icy hand, 
 Yes, there's beauty in all seasons. 
 
 On the sea and on the land. 
 
 GRANDMA'S STORY; OR, THE 
 CHILD'S FAITH. 
 
 1 am going to relate an incident that happened 
 when I was a very little girl. My native place was 
 Portsmouth in England ; my parents had a large 
 family of chihlren, both boys and girls, 1 haa an 
 
' i 
 
 r»2 
 
 sKKTJ'IfKs AND I'OKMS. 
 
 
 
 t 
 
 ' 
 
 uncle and aunt come there to live; they lm«l no cliil- 
 (Iron of their own, so they wanted to adopt one of 
 ns, but my mother said no, but I could live with 
 them as long as they remained at Portsmouth. So I 
 went and lived with aunt Dorothy, and I found h*-' 
 to be a very nice, pious woman. J well remember 
 how pleasant we used to spend the evenings, when 
 tliere was no company. Auniy wouhl sing little 
 liymns to me, and she had a music box which she 
 would wind up and put on the talde, for mo to lis- 
 ten to. Once whi u we were alone sittiny; verv 
 ([uiet, she aaid suddenly to me, " Bessie dear, if 1 
 should promise you a new doll to-morrow, would 
 you feel sure of getting her I" 1 answered quickly 
 ^' Y^es, I'm sure I should, for you never tell me an 
 untruth." '' Now," said aunty, " L want you to 
 understand that is what is meant 1)V having faith* 
 and I am very glad yoa have formed so good an 
 opinion of me. Xow I want to impress it on your 
 mind that you must have faith in your Heavenly 
 Father. When you are in trouble or want any- 
 thing that you are very desirous to obtain, you musr 
 fall on your knees and ask Him very earnestly for 
 it, and if it is right and for your good, you will l)e 
 SUM to get what you ask for." 
 
 A few days after this conversation Aunty toM 
 
5KKHHKS AM> roKM.S. 
 
 (\:\ 
 
 inn il I wrtf a i^oud girl, an I it wa.s tine tlie \wx\ 
 atternfjon slio wouKl tpke wut throu^'h the fair, an«l 
 l)iiv nic a nreltv work box. 
 
 Now, 1 was higlily (Uilightod at tlir prn>s|>C(H, <>f 
 iioin^' tt» thi' fair, and looped it ^vt^nld b^ fine wea 
 tiipv. As soon US I awokr Ibo next morning I 
 peeped out of the window, and oh ! it rain<r^d. I felt 
 rerv bad aboiit. it. Suddenly it ••ime to mv mind 
 whHt, Aunty had paid about I'aitli, so 1 went right 
 down on my knees, and said, " Plaase l^ord to ston 
 th*^ rain and make it fine, so tiiat aunty miy;ht tak« 
 me to the fair." I rose up feflin;^ <|uite ruth that 
 my prayer was heard at.d would be answered. 
 About nine ri'eJock it cea&i»d raining, and 1 could 
 see patches of blue sky, and by ten o'clook the sun 
 shone bright aiid clear, i nnneniber tliat I felt 
 very serioUB and tliought wliat a good thing -t is in 
 have a heavenly Father to ask to do what no earth 
 ly person can do for you. My faith then was very 
 strong. Tlie afternoon was v^ry fine., and aunty 
 ijud I had a pleasant walk through v. e fair, and I 
 saw many beautiful things there. It wae a iarg*» 
 annual fair commencing on the 10th of July. It wan 
 free mart so there was a ^reat many things for eale. 
 I got my new work box ind went home highly 
 jileased with my day'?» adventui''. Many yenrp have 
 
TT7 
 
 I' 
 
 I! 
 
 i 
 
 
 if 
 
 < 
 
 (H 
 
 RKFT^'HES AM) I'OKMS. 
 
 jia^<=io<l Kinc'o tlinii and i am an olil lady now, and 
 hav<' und«rgon(! innny sorrows, hut I have n<n'rr 
 forgotten my first faith, it has ofton prompted mv. 
 in my trials t<» g<.» to the fountain qI all goo<l 
 
 LINES TO THE MEMORY OF MY 
 COUSIN SARAH H. JARVIS. 
 
 Hbr spirit has flown to the uuuisions of rest, 
 Her feet arc now treading the courts of the hlest : 
 No more 'mid earth's toils and tem]»tations to r<»ani, 
 Hut resting in peace in her heavenly home. 
 
 She has passed on before to that beautiful land. 
 And taking her place 'mid the angelic band ; 
 Her voice is now swelling their rai)turous strain , 
 We would not recall her to sickness and pain. 
 
 Ah I no. though we miss the dear one who lias gone, 
 We woidd not our darling to earth might return : 
 We would not imprison the spirit again, 
 Now free from life's trials and bodily pain. 
 
 We miss her at morning, we miss her at eve, 
 Ali, yes, we all miss her, yet we would not grieve ; 
 But when we remember the days as of yore, 
 <>ur tears How in silence — she's with us no mor«. 
 
 No mor« she will join in our innocent mirth, 
 We wept that so soon she must mingle with earth ; 
 Soon flowers will blossom and over her wave, 
 And dews of the summpir will moisten her grave. 
 
 ».,.- . 
 
 ■-.„a 
 
SKKTtHK5 ANI» I'OK.MS. 
 
 66 
 
 Her voice always gentle — her smile ami his kiss, 
 Her hand's kindly pressure, her love all we ir.iss ; 
 The form of our dear one is laid in the tomb, 
 But angels the spirit have bourn to their home. 
 
 The home of the ransomed so bright and so fair, 
 From earth she has gone all its glory to share ; 
 She stands with the company of those robed in white, 
 They need not the sun or the moon to give light. 
 
 That country is lighted by radiance Divine, 
 The crowns of the ransomed the sun doth outshine ; 
 And there dwells our loved one eternally blest, 
 No longer by sin and temptation oj)pressed. 
 
 And there we may meet her in that world tihove, 
 That city celestial the kingdou) of love ; 
 No parting tears fall in that blessed abode, 
 All those who meet there dwell forever with (jod. 
 
 Then farewell, dear Sarah, till time is no more. 
 Till we meet and greet thee on heaven's bright shore ; 
 And join our glad voices in rapture to sing, 
 All honor and glory to Jesus our king. 
 
 ALMOST HOME. 
 
 As the good ship speeding on her homeward 
 bound way, draws near the end of a long and bois- 
 terous passage across the wide ocean, bow the luarts 
 of all on board thrill with joy as the cry of ** Laiul 
 ahead " is lieard from the lookout aloft, every oye 
 brightens and every voice echoes Imd ahead, and in 
 
60 
 
 SKETCHES AND^rOEMS. 
 
 a glad tone i^ added the soul-cheering wuids almost 
 home. Manj hasten into the rigging eager to catcli 
 a glimpse of the green shores of home, but land is 
 too far away in the distance to bo seen with the 
 naked eye, and they are obliged to return to the 
 deck to watch and wait encouraged with the though* 
 of being almest home. In due time land is seen 
 from the deck, then as the refreshing sight meets 
 the eyes of the weary sailors, every heart and voice 
 join in sending cheer after cheer, rolling far over 
 the blue water. Flags are hoisted and the beaming 
 countenance of each man as he hurries here and 
 there as duty calls him, tells plainly that he is re- 
 joicing in the thought of being almost home, and 
 when a few hours after the good ship with flying 
 colors, glides gracefully into the harbor and drops 
 anchor, ehe is greeted with loud cheers and a hearty 
 welcome from those on shore, which is responded 
 to by the now happy crew, and many a brave sailor 
 as he again steps on his native shore, turns aside to 
 brush away a tear of joy and gratitude, ere he 
 grasps the hand of one and another of his old 
 friends, who congratulate him on being again safe, 
 safe at home. Thus it is with the Christian, who 
 is drawing near the end of a long and tedious voy- 
 age across the ocean of life, as the ever green shorn 
 
 i 
 
SKETlHlS ANI> POKMS. 
 
 67 
 
 of eternity opens to view, joy unspeakable fills the 
 soul, and the glorious thought of his heart finds ut- 
 terance in the sweet words almost home, and when 
 at last his frail barque glides smoothly into the har- 
 l)or of heaven and cast anchor within the vale, he is 
 greeted with cheers from the heavenly host, wh 
 gather on the golden strand to welcome him, and as 
 his glorified spirit joins their number, there is waft- 
 ed to us on a breeze from the celestial shore a faint 
 echo rtf the joyful words, safe, safe at home. 
 
 «» 
 
 PERSEVERANCE, OR THE FEEBLE 
 ONE PROTECTED. 
 
 The scene described in the following poem was witnessed by a ludy 
 who, in a despondin;^ state of mind, was walking early one moniin'^ 
 ;ilon<!: the sea shore on the Isle of Wight, England. 
 
 I wandered forth at early morn, 
 
 As I had often done before ; 
 With gloomy thoughts I strayed alone, 
 
 Along the pebbled sandy shore. 
 
 My heart was sad by doubt oppressed, 
 My mind disturbed by anxious fear ; 
 
 My weary spirit longed for rest, 
 I sighing, dropped a silent tear. 
 
 A stormy wind swept o'er the deep, 
 And deafening was the tempest roar ; 
 
 As surge on surge in fury leap. 
 
 And wreaked their vengeanee on the shore. 
 
Mil' 
 I 
 
 ; I 
 
 \ ' 
 
 i t 
 r 
 
 : 1 
 
 n- 
 
 
 (J<S 
 
 .SKETC'UBS AND P()E:.!S. 
 
 As I the troubled scene surveyed, 
 A Hock of sea birds Hoated by ; 
 
 The stonn their voyage had not dehiyed, 
 I watched tliem with an earnest eye. 
 
 They bt)ldly seemed the fearful gale, 
 Without a compass or a chart ; 
 
 (luided by instinct on they sail. 
 For distant lands they now depart. 
 
 But one, pei-haps a feeble one, 
 Appears to faint and weary s^row ; 
 
 N<»w slowly flies along alone, 
 Whih^ swiftly on the others go. 
 
 And lower, h>wer still he drops, 
 Till now upon an (cean wave, 
 
 To gather strength the weak one stops, 
 Then all alone the storm to brave. 
 
 He rises <»n the wing again, 
 His lonely journey to pursue ; 
 
 lie slowly passes o'er the main. 
 And now is hidden from my view. 
 
 Poor bird, I said, thy fate is sealed, 
 Thy pinions cease to bear thee on ; 
 
 Thy strength and courage, too, has failed. 
 And weary thou art left filone. 
 
 But- suddenly I saw him rise, 
 In rai)id flight and soaring high ; 
 
 With strength renewed he swiftly Hies, 
 To join his comrades far a*\ay. 
 
 Then slowly I my steps retraced, 
 My gloomy thoughts and anxious fears 
 
 mmmmmftwm 
 
SKETCHES AND PoEMS. 
 
 To faith and peace had ^iven place, 
 
 My eyes overtiovved with grateful tears. 
 
 He who doth mark the sparrows fall, 
 Will not forsake the feeble one ; 
 
 lie stoops to hear ns wheii we call, 
 To Him onr wants Jind fears are known. 
 
 'I'hough years have passed since on that niorn, 
 1 watched the sea bird in his flight ; 
 
 Tlieu humbled by the scene, I learned 
 To trust a Saviour's love and might. 
 
 m 
 
 THE ACORN AND THE OAK. 
 
 One day a good many years ago, an acorn fell 
 into a hollow in the ground. It was soon covered 
 with dry leaves and dust, and after a while the hol- 
 low was filled up and the little acorn was buried 
 several inches below the surface. It Iny very (|uiet 
 for a long time, bye and bye when spring opened 
 the aoorn began to get restless, a desire to climb up- 
 ward took possession of it. It was cold and dark 
 down there and very lonely. Day by day it grew 
 more restless, and the desire to climb upward grew 
 stronger, at last in a desperate struggle it burst its 
 shell, this was a I^appy release. Now 1 am free 
 thought the acorn, I will climb up and see what I 
 can see, so it climbed and clindie<l, and early one 
 
70 
 
 SKBT(-?H»S AND POKMS. 
 
 morning two little leaves peeped out of the ground, 
 they appeared fresh and green, and looked as if 
 they might be saying ** What a big world this is, 
 and how pleasant it is, I am so glad we have got 
 up into the beautiful light of day, pretty soon the 
 sun rose, shining bright and warm on the tiny 
 plant, making its heart dance for joy. As day ad- 
 vanced the rays of the sun grew stronger, noon 
 came and passed, and afternoon was waning, the air 
 was hot and dry and the little plant feeling weary 
 began to query, '* How shall I get water to drink, I 
 am very thirsty, if the sun always shines so bright- 
 ly I shall be scorched to death. I wonder how 
 those great tr^es get a drink, they are so very large 
 while I am very small, surely when water is given 
 them I shall not be forgotten." In due time the 
 sun went down, and as the shades of night drew on 
 dew began to fall, cooling the air and reviving na- 
 ture. Every large tree and each small blade of 
 grass received its sha're of the refreshing moisture, 
 all night the baby oak sipped the cool dew drops, 
 and when morning dawned it hailed the rising sun 
 with new strength ana vigor. Days and nights 
 came and went, weeks and months passed away, 
 and the young oak gathered strength from sun- 
 shine and from shower. Several years went by and 
 
fiKETCHES AND POEMS. 
 
 71 
 
 th« tiny plant had grown to be a snuill tree, noil- 
 «litig its head and waving its branches in the breeze 
 and anticipating the pleasure it would realize when 
 it became a large oak. And, when for the first 
 time a bird lighted upon one of its limbs, that 
 small tree was just as proud as a small tree con hi 
 he. Time went on and years rolled around, and 
 one day in summer an old man and a little boj 
 came and sat under the shadow of a great oak. 
 The old man said to the little boy I remember well 
 when this large tree was ([uite small, and now wc 
 can sit under the shade of its long branches. Just 
 then a rustling was heard, and the old man and thf- 
 boy thought a light breeze stirred the leaves, but it 
 was the tree laughing, pleased and happy to know 
 that at last it was numbered among the great trees 
 of the woods where it grew, aftbrding shade and 
 shelter to man and birds. 
 
 
 MORNING MEDITATIONS. 
 
 When we awake iu the morning the first thoughts 
 that take possession of the mind should be those 
 that give rise to feelings of deep gratitude to God 
 for his merciful proteotion through the dark and 
 s;ilent hours of the past night, most assurodly at all 
 
7-2 
 
 MKETrHES AM) PoKMS. 
 
 t 
 
 times and in all places we need iiie all })0\veiiiil 
 ai-m of (Jod to defend and protect U8, but while un. 
 Conscious in sweet repose we are indeed depending 
 on the kind care of our heavenly Father, for then it 
 is however near danger may be to us we know it 
 not, conse(inently we arc powerless to help our- 
 selves unless aroused to consciousness by the intei- 
 position of Providence. Oh ! what a comfort it is 
 to know there is one who never sluml^ers, never 
 grows weary, and who is almighty to preserve us un- 
 harmed through dangers seen and unseen, by night 
 as well as by day. Oh ! what a blessing to awake in 
 the morning with bodily strength renewed, energy 
 refreshed and in full possession of health, and all 
 the faculties with which God has endowed us, for 
 those favors we should be es[)ecially thankful. 
 While we lay peacefully sleeping, undisturbed by 
 pain or even an ill dream, many have been tossing 
 on a bed of sickness with parched lip.% and fevered 
 brow, from whose eyelids sleep had Hed, and who 
 weary of the long and tedious night have wished 
 for morning. Others poor and needy have not a 
 comfortable bed to lie upon, but vainly try to rest 
 their weary limbs on a pallet of straw, with little 
 or no covering save the dark curtain of night, and 
 \)\\i poorly sheltered, Others agaiji more destitute 
 
ftKETCHEff AND POEMH. 
 
 73 
 
 liave not even a placft of shelter, but wander about 
 the streets until, overcome by exposure and fatigue, 
 they sink down in some corner and sleep, or more 
 properly speaking, became unconscious from sheer 
 exhuistion. When we consider those things we can 
 truly say, '* Not more than others I deserve, yet 
 God has given me more." Poor though we may 
 feel ourselves to be in worldly things, yet we arc 
 surrounded by comforts that many poor creatures 
 never know. What have we done to merit such 
 favor more than they ? What are we that God is 
 mindful of us I Yet how seldom do we pause to 
 meditate upon his tender goodness and the manifold 
 blessings bestowed upon us, sinful as we are and 
 unworthy of the h^ast of them. Had (Jod been 
 strict to have marked one sm in a thousand we 
 might now have been reapiBg the reward of mis- 
 spent years. While we slept, the silver cord of life 
 might have been broken, and we suddenly ushered 
 into eternity ; and if we had sank to slumber un- 
 prepared fdr that awful event how fearful to think 
 of the consequence. But God remembers our frailty 
 and deals with us not according to our iniquities, 
 but according to the wondrous love and kindness of 
 His compassionate nature ; for ho wills not the 
 death of a sinner, but rather that every •ne should^ 
 
mmm 
 
 
 74 
 
 SKK'n HKs ANI» I'oEMM. 
 
 I 
 
 I , 
 
 liiiii to Him and live. Thoreforo }[e bears with 
 our infirmities luvl spares ua from day to day and 
 from time to time, living monunKints of His tender 
 more}. Yet how often do wo shght our Father's love 
 liwd grieve His holy spirit by weakly yielding to 
 wrong. How" ottcn do we stray fur out of the nar- 
 row path, lured by the pomp and vanity of this 
 world, at times seeming to forget tliat this is not 
 our abiding place. Oh ! let us remember life is but 
 ^hort, our days are as tlie grass, which flourisheth in 
 tlie morning and in the evening it is cut down. Let 
 us try faithfully and constantly to do the will of 
 our Heavenly Father, and if we strive t* walk in 
 the way He has marked out for us, earnestly seek' 
 ing his aid and guidance and humbly asking for a 
 continuance of His favor, Ho is merciful to forgive 
 our shortcomings, blot out our transgressions and 
 lead us safely on through tlio dark and uneven jour- 
 ney of life, and at last give us a place in His king- 
 dom above. Thus, with soul refreshed by prayer 
 and meditation, even as the summer rain refresheth 
 the dry and thirsty earth, we go forth cheerfully to 
 the duties of the day with grateful heart and songs 
 r»f praise prt^pared alike for trials and for triumphs. 
 
MKKTCHKH AMI }'OKM». 
 
 75 
 
 EVENING MEDITATIONS. 
 
 When day lias passed and the .shades of oveiiiiijj; 
 lull around ua like a curtain, before retirinj^ to rest 
 for the night, we should devote at least a few nio- 
 luentsto meditation. While thus eiji^atjed we rannc)! 
 fail to recognize the Mratchful care of our all- wis*? 
 creator and guardian in bringing us safely to the 
 .close of another day — still in the enjoyment of 
 health and favorable <*ircum8tances. ( )h I what ;i 
 blessing to be able to aay it is well with us. Nu 
 bitter disappointment disturbs our thoughts ; iw 
 sudden grief filling the heart with sorrow, and no 
 new burden of care or trouble weighing heavily 
 upon the mind. Humbly thankful that we are 
 free from these great trials, we lay Jiside with feel- 
 ings of gratitude ones of less weight and shuttijjg 
 out the world from our thoughts for a time, quietly 
 reflect on the love and kindness of our Heavenly 
 Father, and the many blessings lie has bestowed 
 upon us, which we daily and hourly enjoy. Truly 
 the goodness and mercy of God has followed us all 
 the days of our lives even until the present moment, 
 yet how often do we prove unmindful of His favor.>. 
 The world and worldly things beloved our anxious 
 thoughts employ. How faint and cold is our love 
 
BiWn—PT 
 
 76 
 
 »KKT(!U£S AN1» FOJCMS. 
 
 
 to God iu return for his love so abuiwiant to us, and 
 how oftan, oh ! how often do we pray to and praise 
 Him with our h'ps, while our hearts are far from 
 liim. Oh ! let us solemnly remember that God will 
 v»X accept such sonlless prayers, for he requires those 
 V'lio >%orship Him to worship Him in spirit and in 
 truth. Therefore, let us consider our ways and 
 heed to our steps, lest we fall Und there be 
 to help UP iu the hour of need. Oh I let v-i 
 l|j '*^J::ve to live bo that each day as it passeth may be 
 *! L v^ ^-"u t4<»f's journey uearei heaven. By God's grace w^ 
 I^N,^- ■'^>»j^tv43eerrttrengthenftJ. in the hour of tcmptatio]i 
 I '' \^s^and tbi '• enabled to resist and overcome the temp- 
 Ifti. Had we depended on our' own strength il 
 wovll Kavo proved utterly insufficient, and weak 
 and ffetble we would havo fallen an early prey to 
 the fjii.'n;^ "^f our .^uuls. But He who says My 
 ^vtU-e is sufilcient: for you, hath delivered us from all 
 evil. How often in time past have we been shielded 
 
 
 
 from danger by the protecting arm of God Xot on 
 account of our own righteousness or worthiness were 
 we saved from sudden destruction, but because o^ 
 the compassionate forbearance and pitying love of 
 God he has spared us a little longer, that we may 
 »ee the error of our ways, and seek to be more 
 faithful in the service of our Lord and Master. By 
 
 I 
 
 I 
 
 il 
 
 \i 
 
 i I 
 
SKIXrHES AM]> FORMS. 
 
 77 
 
 the intinite goodness of God we have been provided 
 with food enough and to spare ; our daily bread is 
 supplied witii a bountiful hand, coir' and hunger are 
 privations of which we know nothing. We are shel- 
 tered iii a peaceful, pleasant home, surrounded by 
 many comforts, from which when we go forth we 
 ars warmly clad and covered from the told. We 
 dwell in a land of peace and plenty, undisturbed by 
 the din of battle and fearing no famine, because 
 the Lord has blessed the labor^^ of tho husbandman, 
 idling his barns with rich harvests. While the 
 daily aeeds of the body are thus being supplied, the 
 soul is also as abundantly provided for. We live 
 in an age and in a country glorious with the light 
 and liberty of the true Gospel of Jesus Christ. All 
 may enjoy th« privileges and blessings of Christian, 
 ity, worshipping God at home or in the sanctuary, 
 unmolested Riid without fear of persecution, betause 
 the precious fountain of God's love and pardon 
 iiows free to all, Truly ours is a goodly heritage. 
 When we consider what a favored lot is ours, the 
 hearts melts in fervent gratitude to God, the author 
 of our being, and all the advantages we every day 
 enjoy both temporal and spiritual. Thus with re" 
 newed confidence in the love and care of our Hea- 
 venly Father, we by prayer commit ourselves iit 
 
 I* 
 
 mm 
 

 ii : 
 
 78 
 
 SKKTCHES AND POEM«. 
 
 child-like faith to His keeping, theu retire to rest 
 and sweetly sleep at peace with God and iiiaii. 
 
 THE RUINED CITY. 
 
 The foHowhij^ P<xwn wa» composed after heariiiff u book leud en 
 titletl " Petni, or the Kocky City." The book coutains an interestinjf 
 dencriution of the ruins of an ancient and ouee uiaifnitloent city, the 
 cjipital of Idiinu^ in the Holy Land. 
 
 No more thy merry bolls send forth 
 
 Their joyous p«al at set of sun, 
 No more is heard th« sound of mirth 
 
 At all, \u thee deserted one. 
 
 No more the sound of revelry 
 
 Shall wake th« silence of thy halls, 
 
 No more shall scenes of gayety 
 
 Be witnessed by those crumbling walls. 
 
 A gloomy hush doth thee enshroud, 
 Thy pomp and grandeur gone for aye, 
 
 Homes of the rich, the gay, the proud, 
 Ar«* dowly sinking to decay. 
 
 Thy streets, where once the motley thronji; 
 
 Were seen to hurry to and fro, 
 Where stately chariots rolled aleug, 
 
 Are tilled with thorns and thistles now. 
 
 Thy noble mansions that once stood 
 
 In dazzling splendour to ochold, 
 Now seem to mourn in solitude ; 
 
 Like eaves, within are damp and cold. 
 
!l 
 
 »KET«"HF,S AND I'OKMS. 
 
 I'hy domes and spires are V)r()ken d«wii, 
 Thy pride lies humbled in the dust, 
 
 And ruined splendor all around 
 Sliows what in days before thou wast. 
 
 Through distant lands was heard tlry fame, 
 
 Thou noble city of the past, 
 Hither the wandering stranger camo, 
 
 Not then to say as now, alas I 
 
 But ru»w thou art left all alone, 
 In death-like silence to decay, 
 
 Scarcely a stone left on a stone, 
 Thy glory all has past away. 
 
 Alas ! 'tis thus, we know not why, 
 Yet we lament thy awful fate. 
 
 We turn from thee, but with a sigh. 
 And leave thee lone and desolate. 
 
 70 
 
 I 
 
 !S 
 
 THE ISLANDS OF THE BAY OF 
 
 FUNDY. 
 
 I ho Bay of i-'iindy cont«in«» three hundred and 
 sixty-five island.", includin*^ ({uite a number of rocks. 
 Those rocks or ledges are so various in size thai 
 while some are standing high out of the water, 
 many appear just above, and others level with tU 
 surface, making the bay very dangerous and difti- 
 cult to iiayigate. 80 much so that oven skillful 
 and experienced pilots do not always succeed i\] 
 
so 
 
 B KETCH Eft AND POEMS. 
 
 ! ! 
 
 getting vessels in or out of the Bay in safety. The 
 most prominent features of those islands are long, 
 sandy shores, coves and creeks, high cliffs and lofty 
 hills, with here and there a running hrook or buh- 
 hling Hi)riBg, affording a bounteous supply of clear, 
 pure water. Some of the islands are (juite large, 
 while others are very small. The trees grooving on 
 them are for the most ])art spruce and fir, with a 
 few pine, cedar and birch; tlierc are also gome hem- 
 lock and dogwood trees. The dogwood tree grows 
 as near the bank as it can safely stand, and in au- 
 tumn is heavily laden with large clusters of red 
 berries. Those after being touched with the first 
 light frost of early winter, are very pleasant to eat. 
 The soil produces a groat variety of wild berries, 
 such as strawberries, raspberries, cranberries and 
 many other berries too numerous to mention. Sonu* 
 of the outer islands are uninhabited, save bv the 
 feathered tribe. There, undisturbed, the crow, the 
 hawk and the eagle haVe their homes in the thick 
 woods, while the sea fowls collect in large numbers 
 on the shores, and make their nests in the bank. 
 On the beaches in different parts of the T^ay there 
 are some very Jarge and curiously shaped rocks ; 
 among the rest is one so closely resembling a man 
 with a hat and gown on, that it is called the Bishop. 
 
 . 
 
AKBTCHES AND POEM«. 
 
 81 
 
 w 
 
 lu 
 >. 
 
 Another is called the bull-dog, it being very much 
 like that animal in appearance. Strangers who 
 visit the island during the sumiaer seasons are de- 
 lighted with the freshness and beauty of the scen- 
 ery. There they escape tlie dust and heat of town 
 and city, and enjoy the cool sea breeze From the 
 summit of some of the loftier liills a line prospect is 
 presented to the eye, and a walk of a mile oi two 
 never fails to please and interest visitors. 
 
 The inhabitants of the Islands are as a rule an 
 industrious, cheerful, hospitable and intelligent 
 people. For a livelihood they depend chiefly on 
 tishing. Tlioee who can ailbrd to do so, keep what 
 lish they catch during the summer, and in the fall 
 take them to market altogether, taking up part of 
 the price they bring in trade and return home with 
 their winter's supply of groceries an«l hshing gear, 
 and in some cases a well HUed purse. 
 
 When a young man starts in life, or goes on his 
 own hook as they say, the first thing he gets is a 
 fishing boat and herring net or two. Some of the 
 more prosperous fishermen own a small vessel and 
 five or six nets; the average length of these nets are 
 abouf nxty fathoms and valued at tifty dollars. 
 The fi?.h houses, smoke houses and sheds in which 
 ' Hc^ fish are cured and stored for market, stand in 
 
 !i 
 
 vmi 
 
 ■ ft W HWJ W W 
 
 ,^ 
 
S2 
 
 SKETIHES A>'l) J'OBMS. 
 
 rows on thn .-^hor , i safe distance above high water 
 mark, and in summer tliese, together with tlie 
 scores of men and hoys engaged in taking care df 
 the tisli, present a lively appearance, 
 
 In the fall, at an appointed time, tliere is what is 
 called the race day. In the forenoon a lish fair is 
 held, in the afternoon there is a b»ai race, and in 
 the evening a supper is serv(Ml, after which the re- 
 mainder of the night is spent in dancing. At these 
 annual exhibitions there arc to be seen some very 
 line specimens of the different kinds of fish caught 
 in the bay, herrings, mackerel, crdtish, pollock and 
 liaddock. Those who win the prizes on their tish 
 or in the boat race ore highly gratitied. Almost 
 every married man owns the house he lives in, and 
 not less than two or three acres of land, raises his 
 own vegetables, keeps a cow, a few sheep, a pig and 
 some poultry. The- women, besides attending to 
 their household affnirs, milk the cows, spin the yarn, 
 and net the herring nets. When the wild berries are 
 in season they ^«» out in small parties and gather 
 them to preserve for winter use. The houses are 
 all frame buildings, some of them (^uite large and 
 pretty. Each village has its church and on Sunday 
 the people make a very respectable appearance. 
 There are but two sects, the Episcopal aiid Baptist. 
 
SKETCHES AND POIMS. 
 
 83 
 
 to 
 
 The Hay of Fundy M^as many years ago the rendez- 
 vous (»f a band of sea robbers, headed by the 
 fanioas pirate Captain Kidd, and a better pla«e for 
 concealment could hardly be found, for there some 
 of tlio harbors are so formed that a vessel might 
 sail up and by turning a bend bo completely hid- 
 den, while those unacciuaintcd with the navigation 
 of the bay would never suspect the hiaing place. 
 
 In a large cove on the south east side of the is- 
 land of Campobello there is what is said to be the 
 remains of a pirate ship. When the tide is out the 
 ends of the timbers are to be seen standing out of 
 the mud in whicli the hull is imbedded. The wreck 
 is probably resting on a rock and will there remain 
 perhaps for ages, as the wood of which the vessel 
 was built is oak. Near the same cove there is said 
 to be a hogshead of money buried. The money was 
 left by the pirates in the care of a man named 
 Dunbar. His wife taking advantage of his absence 
 for a day or two, buried the money. On his return 
 she refused to tell him where she had hidden it ; he 
 grew angry with her ; from words they came to 
 blows, until at last, he b(}ing the stronger of the 
 twii overpowered and killed her. Ho was arrested, 
 tried, condemned and was the first man hung in the 
 town of St. Andrew's, New Brunswick. The exact 
 
 m 
 
 ;1!! 
 
Hi 
 
 S4 
 
 KKKTOHEH AND POSMS. 
 
 I 
 
 ! 
 
 spot where the money was buried has never yet 
 been discovered. On another island called Casco 
 tliere is said to be a chest of money buried. The 
 spot is easily found, for every night from dark until 
 daylight, a bright ligHt is to be seen on the place 
 where the treasure is supposed to be hidden. More 
 than once the ground has been disturbed by parties 
 trying to got possession of it, but none as yet have 
 succeeded. 
 
 Tradition days that when Cnptain Kidd was about 
 to bury money lie always had one of his men killed 
 and laid beside the treasure to take care of it. One 
 moonlight night in summer, three men well known 
 to the writer, were digging for the money on Casco 
 island, silence being the order. After working for 
 some time one of their spades came in contact with 
 what was supposed to be the iron chest, but no one 
 spoke. After a short time the sound was repeated ; 
 still silence was maintained. In a few minutes more 
 
 » 
 
 when, for the third time the iron was struck, a 
 groaning was heard, accompanied by a strong smell 
 of sulphur. The chap who had charge of that 
 money was evidently beginning to fear he would be 
 overpowered, and was signaling for help, for just at 
 that moment a slight noise in the distance caused 
 the men to look up, when lo and behold ! a full 
 
 iMm 
 
 HUJU pw 
 
 ' V.if".'?*! WM'>"M*,M 
 
SKBTOHBS AND P«11CI. 
 
 85 
 
 rigged pirate ship was gliding swiftly round a head, 
 land of the island. When it came opposite the spot 
 where the men were tho anchor was dropped, and a 
 great noise was heard on board as if many men 
 were preparing to land. Our friends did not wait 
 to see whether they landed or not, but hastily leav- 
 ing the spot, quickly made their way to the boat 
 and hurried home. 
 
 The next day they told the stary of their adven- 
 ture, declaring it to be a fact. We do not for a mo* 
 nient doubt the veracity of those men, neither do we 
 presume to say they had no grounds for their 
 assertion, for it would not be an unusual occur- 
 rence for a vessel to drop anchor near the island, 
 while waiting for wind or tide, and should such 
 happen just at that time and place, it would be easy 
 for the already excited imagination of the men to 
 conjure even a small vessel into something more 
 formidable. A great deal of pirate money is sup- 
 posed to be buried on different islands of the Piay 
 of Fundy. Doubtless there is, but if Captain Kidd 
 takes as good care of it all as he does of the chest 
 on Casco Island, it would be of but little use to any 
 one to know where it is hidden. 
 
 it: 
 
 S I 
 
 m 
 
86 
 
 SKITCHES AKD POSMM. 
 
 ii: 
 
 ARTHUR TO NANCY. 
 
 Yes, well do I remember 
 
 The day when first we met; 
 Those scenes of youth's liright morning 
 
 I never can ferget. 
 Thy hair now white as silver, 
 
 Then fell in soft brown curls, 
 My little blue eyed Nancy 
 
 Reigned queen among the girls. 
 
 Thy cheeks now pale and furrowed, 
 
 Then bloomed like roses red, 
 And smiles of youthful gladness 
 
 O'er thy sweet face wjis shed. > 
 And oft in twilight hours 
 
 Through smiling fields we've strayed, 
 Or wandered by the woodland, 
 
 Beneath the silent shade. 
 
 The day I claimed thee, Nancy, 
 
 To be my happy bride, 
 They strewed the way with flowers, 
 
 1 looked on thee with pride. 
 With pride I saw them weaving 
 
 A crown for thy fair brow, 
 Of bright andtblooming roses. 
 
 But they are faded now. 
 
 Yet you and I , dear Nancy, 
 
 Still journey hand in hand, 
 We've seen our children's children 
 
 Around our hearthstone stand. 
 When other hearts did fail me 
 
 Thy counsel was my guide, 
 And dark would be life's journey 
 
 Without thee by my side. 
 
 ^MMni 
 
KKETCHKS AND TORMK. 
 
 87 
 
 THE DISCOMFITED LOVER. 
 
 Mr. I'rati was the new school master in the vil- 
 lage, hoaidini^' at the house of Mrs. Willos. One 
 iSmxlay afternoon Mrs. Willes wis accompanied 
 honui from (iliiirch by a widow lady, an acquaint- 
 ance o^ hers who lived a couple of miles from the 
 village. The widow was youn^', lively and pretty, 
 and so it was no wonder that ^Ir. Pratt, who was a 
 widower, was not slow to fall in love with her. In 
 the evening of the following day, as that gentleman 
 hat looking thoughtfully out of the window, appar- 
 ently engaged in the task of counting the loaves on 
 the trees growing in the front of the house. Mrs. 
 Willes asked him what he was thinking about, but 
 before he could answer she added, '* I bet my snuff 
 box you are thinking of the widow." 'You're right,' 
 said he. Well, said she, go and propose to her awd 
 let us have a wedding. I do not know that she 
 would have me, was his reply. Nor you never will 
 know, if you do not ask her, said Mrs. Willes, and 
 she added by way of encouragement, *'a faint heart 
 never won a fair lady." ** Exactly," said he, " I will 
 go and see her next Saturday." During the week 
 Mrs. Willes managed to see the widow and appraise 
 hei of the intended visit. Saturday came and with 
 it came Mr. 1 i.rit dressed in his best. He was shown 
 
 li 
 
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 IKETCHES AND FOEMS. 
 
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 into the parlor, where sat the widow and a Mrs. 
 Gray, a lady visitor. It was not long before he 
 discovered that Mrs. Gray was slightly dull of hear- 
 ing, and after a little time spent in general conver- 
 sation, he approached the subject uppermost in his 
 raind by saying, "It is quite an advantage, Mrs. 
 Gray being dull of hearing." '* Advantage," re- 
 peated the widow somewhat sharply, " Advantage, 
 I think it a great disadvantage." ** Ah, yes, to her 
 of course," said Mr. Pratt, his face turning as red 
 as a boiled lobster. " But — but," he continued, "I, 
 I — came to have a little private talk with you." 
 *' You need not say anything to me that you do not 
 wish Mrs. Gray to hear," said the widow. " But," 
 said the gentleman, much agitated and wiping the 
 perspiration from his brow with a large silk hand- 
 kerchief, *'I — I — came to ask you to be my wife." 
 " You might have saved yourself the trouble, for I 
 will not," was the decided answer of the widow. 
 Mr. Pratt arose, highly indignant,*and replied as he 
 hastily advanced towards the door, '* There is many 
 a lady as young and as pretty as you, who would 
 be glad of the offer you have rejected to-day," So 
 saying he closed the door with a bang, and hurried 
 from the house. He had not gone far when, to his 
 digmay, he discovered that in his excitement he had 
 
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8KETCHES AlTD POEMS. 
 
 89 
 
 come away without his hat. What should he do 
 He would not go back for it, if be had to go home 
 bare headed ; neither would he send for it if he 
 never got it, and what excuse could he make if any 
 one should ask him what had become of his hat. 
 While those perplexing thoughts were running 
 through his mind he had unconsciously slackened 
 his pace and was walking quite slow, when he 
 heard hasty footstep? behind him, and on looking 
 back he saw a little girl coming with his hat. He 
 waited for her to come up, seized the hat, and with- 
 out saying a word, placed it on his head with so 
 much force as to almost cause rim and crown id 
 part company, and resumed his walk with rapid 
 strides. On reaching home Mrs. Willes, pretend- 
 ing not to notice the look of disappointment plain - 
 ly visible on his countenance, asked him good 
 naturedly, " how he had succeeded." " Succeeded," 
 said he, ** I wish I had never seen her," 
 
 
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 90 
 
 SKETCHES AND POEMS. 
 
 THE ROSE. 
 
 The rosebud is gently unfolding its leaves, 
 
 Perfuming the air with its breath, 
 Now graceful it waves in the soft summer breeze, 
 
 But soon it will slumber in death. 
 
 Yes, short is thy stay on thy stem, blushing rose, 
 You will wave in the breeze but a day, 
 
 Ere the dew shall fall at the twilight's close, 
 Thy beauty shall vanish away. 
 
 Ere the sun shall sink in the far distant went. 
 
 Ere his last lingering ray has fled, 
 Thou queen of the flowers, thou fairest and best, 
 
 Thy leaves will be scattered and dead. 
 
 Thus man doth appear like the rose of to-day, 
 Time glides like a still flowing stream. 
 
 The years roll along and refuse to stay, 
 Man passes away like a dream. 
 
 A WELCOME TO SPRING. 
 
 Cold winter is gone with his ioe and his snow, 
 And hushed are the rude winds that fiercely did blow, 
 Fair spring has returned with her soft frequent gales ; 
 That steal o'er the mountains and sigh through the 
 vales. 
 
 How gladly we hail the return of the spring, 
 Fair prospects, gay sunshine, her presence doth bring ; 
 The ^elds are arrayed in their verdure once more, 
 Good bye to cold winter and rude tempests roar« 
 
SKK'^'^HEB AND POBMS. 
 
 91 
 
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 The streamlets go singing and murmuring on, 
 They seem to rejoice that the winter is gone ; 
 And nature has spread her soft carpet again 
 Of emerald green over valley and plain. 
 
 Away through the fields to the hill tops repair, 
 In the bright rosy ciorning, and breathe the fresh air, 
 And join with the birds in full chorus to gFeet 
 The beautiful spring time so balmy and sweet. 
 
 Fresh beauty is scattered profusely around, 
 All nature springs into new life at a bound ; 
 The lambs skip and sport in their frolicsome glee, 
 The birds and the beasts seem as happy as we. 
 
 The earth seems to smile and the sky looks so blue, 
 We feel as if life was beginning anew ; 
 The aged and young all rejoice to behold 
 The beautiful spring its rare treasures uniold. 
 
 A voice softly whispers be grateful to God, 
 Who pours out his blessings so freely abroad ; 
 Then gratitude flows from our hearts as ve siiig, 
 And hail with delight the bright beautiful spring. 
 
 MEMORY. 
 
 Memory paints pictures and hangs them in the 
 c'hambers of the mind ; time cannot eftace them. 
 It it were not so, life would be a void and cheer" 
 less. For how ©ften in after ^ears does the spirit 
 seem to wander through those chambers, lingering 
 
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 8KXT0HIS AND P0BM8. 
 
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 lovingly over the fair pictures of the past. None are 
 left out or unfinished, all are complete and in their 
 proper places. First, there are those of innocent 
 childhood, seen in a clear, soft, rosy light, the blithe 
 forms and smiling faces of playmates, merry Christ- 
 mas gatherings, and pretty toys, happy school days, 
 and beautiful spring time; little figures robed in 
 white, kneeling with hands clasped at mother's knee, 
 or by the trundle bed oflfering the evening prayer ; 
 holy Sabbath days and dear old grmdparents, long 
 since gone to their rest. All are faithfully painted 
 by memory. Then there are scenes of youth, forms 
 more noble and graceful, faces still smiling, but 
 more matured and wreathed with hopes, bright 
 flowers just opening into bloom, social gatherings 
 and pleasant walks, pleasing incidents and beautiful 
 prospects, the forming of new ties and acquaint- 
 ances, visits to foreign lands, and days of public 
 rejoicings, all these and many others are studied 
 with never flagging interest. And again there are 
 pictures more touchingly beautiful, deeds of kind- 
 ness, making glad the hearts of the needy, the re- 
 union of kindred after a long separation, a pleasant 
 home and the fair, innocent face, and white dimp- 
 led hands of an infant, a troop of noisy happy chil- 
 dren, the joy of seeing those children grow up to 
 
 
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 SKETCHES AND POEMS. 
 
 93 
 
 be useful and worthy members of society, the con- 
 veraion of a wife or husband, the reclaiming of sons 
 and daughters from the paths of sin and folly, by 
 those the spirit loves to linger, and forgetful of the 
 present seems to live again in the past. There are 
 also scenes of sadness, for in no case is memory 
 spared the task of painting those. Adversity and 
 disappointments, parting with loved ones and leav- 
 ing native country to dwell in a distant land among 
 strangers, a darling child placed in the coffin, a dear 
 sister or 1 T'other cold in death, a beloved father or 
 mother, pex 'laps both, laid low in the valley, or it 
 may be the chosen companion of youth gone on be- 
 fore. After gazing on these scenes with tear dim- 
 med eyes and saddened heart, the spirit draws a 
 curtain over them and turns away in mournful 
 silence. As the body advances in years memory 
 becomes less busy, the things of to-day are noticed 
 only to be forgotten by to-morrow, and as life 
 closes the p-.iicil drops from memory's hand, and 
 the spirit passes from earth to dwell in a world 
 where there is no past, no future, but one continual 
 present time swallowed up in eternity. 
 
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 SKBTCHS8 AND FOBMB. 
 
 HOW THE PASSAMAQUODY IN- 
 DIANS WIN THEIR BRIDES. 
 
 When a young man sees a young woman he 
 think? he would like as a partner for life, he 
 watches her for a time with a jealous eye, but never 
 ventures to speak to her, for the young men and 
 maidens of that tribe have no intercourse with each 
 other. When he is quite sure she is just the style 
 that suits, he goes to her guardian, her father if he 
 is living, and asks for her to be his wife. The person 
 thus applied to tells the maiden of the request and 
 by whom it has been made. A ball is immediately 
 gotten up, all interested in the affair are invited, 
 and at the appointed time the guests arrive, music 
 and dancing begins, and all goes merry as a mar- 
 riage bell. The music consists in rattling a handful 
 of shot in a powdor horn or ilask. Each dancer takes 
 one in his hand, and as they dance and sing the 
 shot is rattled to the tun«. After the amusement 
 is fairly begun, the young lover approaches the ob- 
 ject of his affection and with hope and fear striving 
 in his heart, asks her to dance with him. If she does 
 not wish to become his wife she signifies the same 
 by refusing to dance, and the poor fellow, disap- 
 pointed, hurries away from the place, and the 
 assembly disperse at an early hour. On the other 
 
i&STCBE8 AND POMMS. 
 
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 hand, if ba- finds favor in her eyea, she appears as 
 his partner in the dance. The happy couple are 
 immediately united in the holy bands ©f matrimony 
 and the merry-making is continued for several days. 
 
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 TO A FRIEND ABOUT TO CROSS 
 
 THE OCEAN, 
 
 You are going far away, 
 May you soon your haven gaia, 
 
 We will think of you each day 
 When you're out upon the main. 
 
 O'er the ocean, wide and deep, 
 May your bark in safety glide, 
 
 Wide awake or fast asleep 
 May no danger you betide. 
 
 May no stormy winds arise, 
 
 No dark threatening clouds hang low, 
 
 Fair above you be the skies, 
 And may gentle breezes blow. 
 
 Should the tempest wake the deep, 
 
 And the angry billows roar, 
 Heaven guard and safe you keep 
 
 From the storm-king's mighty power. 
 
 Well and safely may you land 
 On Brittania's sea- washed shore, 
 
 Fress again your native strand, 
 Tread ojid England's soil once more. 
 
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 96 
 
 SKETCHES AND POEMS. 
 
 There with friends and kindred dear, 
 May the time pass happily, 
 
 When remembering others here, 
 Will you kindly think of me. 
 
 MY MOTHER'S STORY ABOUT HER 
 • BIBLE. 
 
 (As related by Herself.) 
 
 My husband was of a very lively disposition and 
 extremely fond of company, and as is usual, it 
 caused him to be fond of the social glass. He was 
 not what might be called a drunkard, but he would 
 sometimes take one more than he could conveniently 
 carry. He was a sea-faring man, and was for some 
 time mate of a lai nip called the John and Mary, 
 belonging to Su^m^xland, a seaport town in the 
 north of England. The ship did not make long 
 voyages ; she often went no farther than London. 
 Once when my husband was about to sail for Lon- 
 don, I asked him if he would please go to the Bible 
 Society's rooms and buy me a nice sized Bible. I 
 told him he could get a large one there for the same 
 price he would have to give elsewhere for a small 
 one. He said he would try and think of it. I 
 thought no more on the subject until my husband 
 came home again. I then asked him if he had 
 
MKEIVIIKS A NO pot: MS. 
 
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 biouylit my bible. Mc ansvveied no, '*[ took isome 
 money iisliorci to buy yon one, but went the wrong 
 road " He said, " I met a friend and we bad a little 
 spree logetliei-." [ cannot express how bad 1 felt as 
 my dear youn<,' husband stood there, tellin^; me *' :i 
 ill' had taken the money which he had intended to 
 buy a bible with, to liave a litt.'e spree as lie called 
 it. My In art wjs so full that, leaning my liead 
 npon his shoulder, I wept. He also shed tears. After 
 a little while he said to me, "Why, what is tlie mat- 
 ter? I did not think you were such a baby. Never 
 mind_, if tlu* Lord spares me to go to London again 
 1 will Itring mu a bible." About a week after the 
 ship sailed for London, as my husband was going 
 out of the door, I whispered in his ear don't forget 
 your pronnse. He answered, " God helping m3 T 
 will not forget it." I put on my bonnet and went 
 down to see the ship leave the harbor I v/atched 
 her far out upon the water, then I returned home, 
 went up stairs and kneeling down by the side of 
 the bed, I prayed earuestly to my heavenly Father 
 that he would make my dear husbaii'l a good Chris- 
 tian man, and als(t give hiui grace and strength to 
 keep his promise. 
 
 It was usual for the John and Mary to be three 
 Weeks on a voyage to London and back, but she 
 
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 SKEH;ilE8 AND I'oEMS. 
 
 had been jj;onc (nily u liUl<'. ovit two wiioks when, 
 one evening I licard my luisljind's footsteps passing 
 the window. J hastened and met liim at the door, i 
 saitl " You have come before I {'Xi)ected you." He 
 answered, " waleli, for ye know not tlie (hiy or tlie 
 hour when tlie Son of ^Ean eometli." I was sur- 
 prised, knowing tliat in all liis worldly ways he 
 never scofled at religion. So I ask«d him what he 
 meant. He told me the Lonl had done great things 
 for him, He l\ad made him a new man. "Let us sit 
 down and I will tell you all about H." I noticed 
 that he had a parcel under his arm, whicl). ho laid 
 na the table, and we sat duwn by the cheerful coal 
 lire, he then began by saying, " Your feeling so hurt 
 at my not bringing your bible made mo very uneasy 
 whilst home, and as soon as wo arrived in London, 
 I heard there was a great revival going on in the 
 Primitive Method ist Ciiurch; so in the evening Mr. 
 Boyce and I went ashore and found the church. 
 The people had a glorious time, and I ventured up 
 amongst the rest to be prayed for. After we came 
 out of church we went on board our ship. I did 
 not sleep much that Kight; I got up several times 
 and knelt down, but could n»*t pray. The next day 
 I w^ent about my duty as usual, and in the evening 
 we went again to the church, and bless the Lord he 
 
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 SKETv'HEfl AND I'OKMS. 
 
 99 
 
 panlnncfl all my sins anil [ Jim a new oreature." 
 After I liiul expH'ssod my joy at tho j^rcat chanj^e 
 lliat luul talvLMi pla(;o in liiin, lio took thn parci4 
 from the talilc. ami aftor taking' off the wrai)[)er, ho 
 })rosent('(l to me my now Itible. It was a nice mo- 
 rocco bound book; the loaves wore gilt bilged. After 
 examinin'' and makin'' our commonts on the out- 
 side, we opened the book and fonn<l that it was 
 printed in a nice, clear tyj)'\ We tlien read ri yeral 
 chapters, each readin.L,' a verse by turn. T^ai night 
 my liusband erected the family altar, vvhieh was 
 never brokfv antil he was laid up by his list sick- 
 ness. The next week h(i joinod a temperance 
 society, called the liechabites, and as long as he 
 lived ho was a strict upholder of temperance princi- 
 ples. I have my bible yet ; I have had it forty 
 years. It is well worn and looks a little shabby, the 
 gilt is all gone from the edges, but I prize it, yes, I 
 prize it vt ly highly, and would not part with it for 
 the most costly one that could be purcVftsed. 
 
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 GOD SEEN IN ALL HIS WORKS, 
 
 How wond'rous are the works of God, 
 In wisdom hath he wrought them all, 
 Earth was created at His word, 
 
 Sun, moon and stars came at His call, 
 
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100 
 
 SKETCHES AND POEMS. 
 
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 When darkness was iipc a the earth 
 God spoke and said let there be light, 
 
 l^he light appeared, He called it day, 
 Also the darkness H e called night. 
 
 God spake again, the waters fled, 
 
 Apace from off the earth, then stayed ; 
 The mighty ocean knew its bounds, 
 
 Its Maker's mandate was obeyed. 
 God spoke and verdure clothed the fields. 
 
 The trees did yield abundant food. 
 He saw the works His word had wrought, 
 
 And blessed them and pronounced them good, 
 
 The birds, the beasts, the fishes all 
 
 Came in obedience to His word, 
 And were submissive to His will. 
 
 Each took their place and knew their- Lord, 
 When man God formed out of the dust, 
 
 In his own likeness man He made, 
 And placed him in fair Eden's bowers, 
 
 Where oft they met at evening shade 
 
 Oh ! who can sound the deep abyss, 
 
 Of such amazing power and skill, 
 Oh ! who can solve Gods mysteries 
 
 And understand His righteous will. 
 When nfortals pause awhile and think. 
 
 And contemplate the vast design, 
 Deep reverence doth possess the soul, 
 
 And awe and wonder fill the mind. 
 
 The Bun that rules as king of day. 
 The moon and stars that shine afar. 
 
 Their Maker's glory all show forth. 
 And they His wisdom do declare. 
 
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 SKETCHES AND PeWMS. 
 
 The tiny bladea of grass that form, 
 The rich green carpet of the earth, 
 
 These seem to softly whispering say, 
 'Twas tender goodness gave us birth. 
 
 The flowers that bloom in varied hues, 
 
 Adorning hill and dale and grove, 
 These all in silent eloquence 
 
 Proclaim to us that God is love. 
 Behold the giant forest trees, 
 
 Lika faithful sentinels they stand, 
 Their wild majestic beauty reigns. 
 
 Preserved and fostered by God's hand. 
 
 The birds in tuneful chorus join 
 
 To praise the Lord for blessings given, 
 Their music cheers man in his toil, 
 
 And upward turns his thoughts to heaven, 
 The bee, the butterflies, the ant. 
 
 Tell us ©f God's unfailing caro. 
 Each little shrub and every plant 
 
 Show us that God is everywhere. 
 
 The mountain and the prairie wide, 
 
 The lofty hill, the lowly dell, 
 The lake, the river and the brook, 
 
 Of their creator's goodness tell. 
 All upward look and seem to say, 
 
 God made us and his name we praise. 
 He doth supply our every need. 
 
 Bless Him, for wondrous are His ways. 
 
 Out on the ocean wide is seen, 
 
 God's miglity works upon the deep, 
 When gloomy darkness doth enshroud 
 
 And weary watcii the sailors keep 
 
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 102 
 
 SKETCHES AND POEMS. 
 
 When mountain billows fiercely foam, 
 And tempests rage with fearful power, 
 
 Man, trembling, bows his head and oivns 
 God's presence in that awful hour. 
 
 And when the storm has passed away, 
 
 The waves subdued, the tempest staid. 
 Stilled by a word from Him whose power 
 
 O'er all is then and there displayed. 
 Earth, sea and sky, all, all proclaim 
 
 Their Maker's wondrous love and skill, 
 And all unite to praise his name, 
 
 And each their mission do fulfil. 
 
 What wondrous love, a hat tender care, 
 Unerring wisdom, power •upreme, , . 
 
 Justice and judgment righteous pure, 
 In all the works of God are seen. 
 
 Join all the universe to sini? 
 
 His praise, wh» doeth all things well, 
 
 Join every creature here below, 
 
 Loud let the grateful anthem swell. 
 
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 FRETTING WITHOUT CAUSE. 
 
 There are individuals in almost every community 
 who, though they are surrounded with every com- 
 fort they can reasonably desire, yet their chief aim 
 in life seems to be to keep themselves and every 
 body around them as unhappy as possible. They 
 delight only in finding fault and fretting over it. 
 They are hard to please and easy to offend ; they 
 
SKETCHES AND POEMS. 
 
 103 
 
 cannot speak to a Jieighbor without recounting their 
 troubles past an. I present, and eyeu presuming to 
 borrow largely from the future. If a friend calls in 
 to spend a few minutes with thom they t^ike up the 
 whole time in telling their grievances ; in fact they 
 are always frc^ttim? over their troubles, their con- 
 staht complaining wearies those with whom they 
 associate. The conseqaence is their society is shunned 
 rather than sought after. They do not enjoy life 
 as they might, because they look only on the dark 
 side, positively refusing to see bright spots even 
 v^rhen they are pointed out to them. They receive 
 the good gifts of Providence with dissatistied feel- 
 ings, as though they thought the blessings bestowed 
 upon them did not by half make up for what they 
 were denied. 
 
 It may well be said of them they gather together 
 all the troubles within their reach, make them up 
 into one great burden and, bending their backs to 
 the self imposed task, take the burden on their 
 shoulders and move along the patlj of life at a slow 
 pace, wearing a dejected look and keeping up a 
 continual sing song about their troubles. They 
 expect the sympathy of every one, while they 
 themselves have but little or none for others. To 
 such as those we vvould say with rU due respect, 
 
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 SKETCHES AND POEMS 
 
 "Friend, lay down your burden and examine the con- 
 tents." We think on inspection you will find a great 
 T»art is nnde up of inraginary troubles. There are 
 also quite a number y >n have borrowed from i.ext 
 week or next month, and even next year ; leave all 
 those, take only those wiiich you are obliged to and 
 you will be astonished to find how much lighter 
 your burden is; so much so, that you wi 1 feci quite 
 happy; and what will help to keep it light is to re- 
 member that your troubles are bat small compared 
 with those of many others. Think of the invalid 
 enduring months ai.d years of sufl'ering ; think of 
 thuse who are^called upon by death to give up one 
 loved one after another, until the cup of grief run- 
 neth over; t'link «f the blind, the deaf mute and 
 the cripple; tliink of the poor and the needy, who 
 suffer cold and hunger; think of all those and then 
 consider your own favorable circumstances, and 
 ])our out ycur heart in thankfulness to God for the 
 manifold blessings you enjoy, Y;;ur general health 
 is good, you are surrounded by those who are n''ar 
 and dear to you, you have the full free use of all 
 vour faculties and limbs, vour daily foi»d is bounti- 
 fully supplied, and you sutler not f >r raiment; why 
 then grieve your Heavenly Fither -vith ingratitude 
 and ivAa your^^eU" inisei'able by fretting without a 
 
RKElOHEr^ AND POEMS. 
 
 10.1 
 
 cauvse. Do not anticipate trouble, leave things of 
 the future alone; the present only is yours; many of 
 those troubles seen at a distance will disappear alto- 
 gethers and others become much less should you 
 live to meet them. Do not fret over slight troubles 
 for they are strewn plentifully in the path of every 
 one, but daily experience teaches us that whining 
 and worrying will neither rtniove nor lessen them, 
 but only tends ta make them a great deal worse. C,o 
 through or around them as quietly as possible. Even 
 though it takes a little more time it will pay you in 
 the end, if you only succeed in preserving your 
 peace of mind and pleasant countenance. It will 
 be hard at first, but persevere ; each victory will 
 make the next easier, and as you gain ground you 
 will win the love and respect of all who know you, 
 so that should the hour of adversity come or you be 
 called to bow beneath the chastening rod ot afflic- 
 tion, you will find many sj'-mpathizing and true 
 friends. Do not depend on your own strength to 
 overcome your besetting sin, look to Him who says 
 '' My .ixrace is sufficient for you." Believe Him, 
 trust Him and all will be well," 
 
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 106 SKETCHES AM) POEMS. 
 
 SHAMMING INSANITY. 
 
 (Written by Mother.) 
 
 ^laiiy yeais ago I had an uncle who belongtui to 
 the British army. He was always allowed a man 
 servant, and I well reniember two of them. The 
 name of the hrst one was Tom Plant. I heard mv 
 uncle say it was ruwiorea that he belonged to a 
 wealthy family, but liad incurred their displeasure 
 by being very wild, and he had joined the army, 
 thinking it an easy way of getting a livelihood, but 
 as he was tired of it, he was then shamming in- 
 sanity for the purpose («f getting his discharge, and 
 he acted it well while lie was with my uncle. He 
 would go about stooping like an old man, though 
 he was quite a youth. 
 
 One day my aunt and [ happened to be in the 
 pantry when Tom brought in a dish of fish ho had 
 been cleaning, he placed 'the diah on the floor, 
 under a hook he intended to hang them on, and 
 liohling it there awhile he then took a few step? 
 backwards, ran at the tlish again and clutching it 
 with both hands, gave it a good shaking, he went 
 hrough this manoeuvre «everal times. When I said 
 " Tom, what are you shaking the dish so for," he 
 looked at me with a broad grin on his face and 
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SKKTCHES AND POEMJR. 
 
 107 
 
 make it sit firm." Aunty said she *' thought it 
 wouhl sit film enougli now," so lie took the fish and 
 hanging them on the hook stepped back as before. 
 After gazing at the fish awhile he spring at them 
 and clasping them around witli both hands, shook 
 them with such force that the string broke, and the 
 lish slipping from his grasp flew in all directioiis. 
 My aunt and 1 left the pantry laughing heartily ; 
 Tom laughted too, as I suppose, at seeing the fish 
 flying round him. He would act the same by 
 everything he used. If he had been sweeping he 
 would place the broom in a corner and hold it there, 
 giving it sundry jerks'? sometimes he woulu snatcli 
 it up and twirl it round and round over his liead, 
 then bringing it down, with a bounce he would 
 walk away backwards, shaking his fist at it. It 
 would take him half the forenoon to clean two or 
 three pair of shoes, for each shoe as it was finished 
 had to go through a course of sliakings before Tom 
 was satisfied it would sit firm. I used to like to 
 look at him, and very often laughed at his pranks, 
 but he didn't seem to care, for he never took any 
 notice of my laughing. At first it amused my 
 uncle and aunt, but they soon tired of it as he was 
 of but little service to them^ so my uncle sent him 
 away, and got another whdse name was Bradly, and 
 
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 SKETCIfEiS AND TOEMS. 
 
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 he was worse than T«m Plant ; for he was both lazy 
 and stubborn, he would do anly what he chose to 
 do, and that was very little. A day or two after 
 he came, my aunt's watch ^ad run down, she went 
 to tlie door and calling to Bradly, told him to go 
 into the kitchen and look at the time-piece and tell 
 her what o'clock ii was. He answ(n*ed, *' Thank 
 >ou, ma'am, I've been looking at the time-piece all 
 day, and would rather not look at it any longer, 
 thank you all the same." Aunty closed the door, 
 and laughing, said to me, '' I suppose the man does 
 not know how to tell the time, and that ridiculous 
 speech was made for an excuse." I thouglit I 
 would soon find out whether he could or not. So 
 the next morning I v ent into the kitchen and 
 found iJradly sitting cozily by the fire, turning the 
 spit, for my aunt had hung a piece of meat by the 
 fire to roast, and had to?d him to keep the spit 
 turned to prevent it burning. So I went up to him 
 and said, *' Please, Bradly, tell me what o'clock it 
 is," he looked up at the time-piece and told me the 
 exact time." Awhile after my aunt came in and 
 said to him, " You must clean the knives and forks 
 very nicely to-day, Bradly," he turned round quick- 
 ly, saying, " Thank you, ma'am, I've been cleaning 
 knives and forks all the morning and would rather 
 
100 
 
 SKETCHES AND P«HM8. 
 
 not ijlean any more to-day." Aunty said, " Why, 
 Bradly, you are telling a story, you have not cleaned 
 any knives and forks this morning, but yon must 
 clean them, for your master is going to bring com- 
 pany home to dinner." ITe answered, " Thank you 
 all the same, ma'am, but I would rather not clean 
 any more to-day." Nor did he, for my aunt could 
 neither coax or scold him to clean them. 
 
 It was customary at that time to drink ale at the 
 the dinner table, and my uncle used to buy a small 
 cask full at a time. One day he found the cask 
 was empty, for he had neglected to have it replen- 
 ished. So he took a pitcher and going to the door, 
 called Bradly and said to him, *' Go to Mr. Lips 
 comb's and get me a quart of the best ale," he re- 
 plied, " Thank you, sir, I've been drinking ale all 
 the morning, and would rather not drink any more 
 to-day." My uncle said, " Why, my good man, if 
 ydu have been drinking ale all the morning, I have 
 had none, and I want you to go and get me some." 
 He answered, " Thank you, all the same, sir, but I 
 would rather not drink any more ale to-day." 
 Aimty and I hearing the discussion, went to the 
 door, there stood my uncle holding out the pitcher 
 in one hand and the money in the other, and 
 Bradly shaking his head, declaring he would rather 
 
 i w 
 
 Hi 
 
no 
 
 SKITOHUSi ANl) POP.MK. 
 
 not drink arty more ale to-day." My aunt tried to 
 make him understand what was wanted, but she 
 failed to do so. At last my uncle got angry and 
 told him if he did net be oti' he would break the 
 pitcher over his head. They did not keep him 
 long after that, for ho wajs of no use whatever to 
 them. Whether those two men obtained their dis- 
 charge or not, I cannot say, for I never Feen or 
 heard anything of them after, but whenever I read 
 or hear tell of i>ersons who have committed any 
 crime, shamming insanity for the purpose of evad- 
 ing the penalty of the law, it always reminds me of 
 T©m Plant and Bradly. 
 
 fi 
 
 
 i 
 
 SET DOWN THAT GLASS. 
 
 Set down that glass,* taste n^t that wine, 
 
 Ere death o'ertakes you stop, 
 There's deadly poison in the cup. 
 
 Mingled with every drop. 
 8et down that glass and turn away, 
 
 Before it is too late, 
 Within its sparkling depth I see 
 
 The road to ruin's gate, 
 
 /lid down that road with rapid steps 
 
 Thousands are hurrying on, 
 Degi^ded and enslaved by rum, 
 
 Short is the race they run. 
 
SKSTCHI» AND POBMS. 
 
 Ill 
 
 ! 
 I 1 
 
 i ! 
 
 Brought to a level with the bruie, 
 
 Mocked by the passer-by. 
 In shame and misery they live, 
 
 And oft in sin they die. 
 
 <.)h. noble youth, with soul endowed, 
 
 Must this sad fate be thine, 
 Nay, rise, shake off the tyrant's chain, 
 
 And shun the sparkling wine. 
 Stand up and bruise the serpent's head, 
 
 'Tis thine the power to do. 
 Forsake the road your feet have trod. 
 
 And virtue's path pursue. 
 
 Go not with those who seek strong drink, 
 
 Stand net in sinners' way, 
 And should the tempter thee assail, 
 
 Fer grace and wisdom pray 
 That God who marks the sparrows fall 
 
 Will hear the feeble prayer 
 Of him who cries in faith lor help 
 
 To escape the tempter's snare. 
 
 ■ H] 
 
 * \ 
 
 1| 
 
 M 
 
 ; ! 
 
 !■ M 
 
 THE SLAVE'S LAMENT. 
 
 (Composed after Hearing a Slave Story read.) 
 
 They tore me trom my native home. 
 
 'Neath Afric's burning sky, 
 Where glad and free I used to roam. 
 
 How happy then was I 
 
 They bound me with a galling chain, 
 
 I sanK in dark despair, 
 1 mourned, I pleaded, but in rain. 
 
 No pitying eye was there. 
 
 I 
 
112 
 
 •RBTCHEH AND PORMS. 
 
 i 
 
 They bore me from my native home, 
 
 Across the oceaii ware, 
 Here in a foreign land I roam, 
 
 And toil — the white man's slave. 
 
 1 met and loved my Nellie here, 
 
 And she became my bride, 
 1 spent one short and happy yeai' 
 
 With Nellio by my side. 
 
 One evening as the last bright ray 
 
 Was fading in the west, 
 Poor Nellie passed from earth away, 
 
 And sweetly sank to rest, 
 
 And T was left alone to bear 
 
 My trials as before, 
 No one ray grief and j«>y to share, 
 
 I wished that life w^as o'er. 
 
 I long to lay me down to sleep, 
 
 'Neath yonder willow tree. 
 Where flowers bright will wave and weep 
 
 O'er Nellie dear and me. 
 
 MY GRANDFATHER. 
 
 1 am now going to tell you about my dear, old 
 grandfather, who long since passed away from earth 
 to dwell in that beautiful world on high. A finer 
 looking old gentleman you would not meet in a 
 day's journey, and he was just as kind hearted as he 
 was nice looking. He was loved and respected by 
 
AKlTi'HES AND POEMS. 
 
 lis 
 
 all who knew him. For ray part I thought him 
 the very best grandfathei in existence. I first re- 
 member seeing him seated in his large rocking chair 
 reading, Ifiis spectacles resting quietly on his nose, 
 looking as if they felt more at home there than in 
 any other place, and I guess they did, it being but 
 seldom they were anywhere else, for as grandpa was 
 hard of hearing, he spent a great part of his time in 
 reading. The few locks that remained around the 
 lower part of his head were silvery white, the upper 
 part being ([uite bald, but covered with a small, 
 black velvet cap, which he always wore, as I sup- 
 pose, to supply the want of the natural covering. 
 Grandpa would never lie down to take a nap 
 through the day, but would often fall asleep in his 
 chair while reading. Sometimes the book or news- 
 paper would drop from his hand ; if it was a paper 
 it would not be apt to wake him, but if a book the 
 sound would immediately arouse him, and he would 
 pick it up looking half sorry, half vexed, for he 
 took great care of books, and did not like to see 
 them made shabby by rough usage. I used to likd 
 to look at grandpa for ho had a pleasing counten- 
 ance, and when h© spoke there was a tone of ten- 
 derness in his voice. He had a smile and kind word 
 for all ; his manner was gentle and affectionate, yet 
 
 J' 
 
 1' 
 
114 
 
 SKJETCHBS AND POEMS. 
 
 K^ 
 
 if opposed he was firm and self-willed ; and it was 
 not impossible for him to be put out of temper, but 
 it was 8«on over, and the good natured look re- 
 turned, making his face appear brighter than ever, 
 like a summer sky after a storm. If I chanced to 
 go into grandpa's room when he was about to shave, 
 he would pretend not to see me until after he had 
 put the lather on his face, preparatory to using the 
 razor ; then with a knowing twinkle in his eye, he 
 would say, *' Good morning, my dear, come and kiss 
 me." Now, J always liked to kiss grandpa, but 
 this mode of procedure not only pleased me but 
 highly amused me. So I would go to him and be 
 very careful to kiss him fair and square on the lips, 
 so as to avoid getting the soap suds in my own 
 pretty little mouth, but which I did not always suc- 
 ceed in doing. This was what he called a barber's 
 kiss. Grandpa was fond of music, and used to play 
 very nicely on the flute. I also was fond of music, 
 and loved to listen to the soft, rich tones of the 
 instrument as they filled the room with sweet 
 melody, while grandpa played the dear old tunes he 
 once delighted to sing ; for in his younger days he 
 had been a good singer, but 4S he advanced in years 
 his voice failed, so that when he would refresh his 
 heart with music his flute was to him all in all. 
 
SKETCBSS AND POEMS. 
 
 115 
 
 1 it was 
 
 per, but 
 
 look re- 
 
 an ever. 
 
 need to 
 
 shave, 
 
 he had 
 
 sing the 
 
 eye, he 
 
 ind kisH 
 
 Ipa, but 
 
 me but 
 
 and be 
 
 be lips, 
 
 ny own 
 
 lys suc- 
 
 )arb©r's 
 
 to play 
 
 music, 
 
 of the 
 
 sweet 
 
 nes he 
 
 lys he 
 
 years 
 
 sh his 
 
 11. 
 
 ii^ 
 
 I will now give a brief sketch of my grandfather's 
 life. He was born on the 26th January, 1774, in 
 the City of Bristol, Englana. While yet a child, 
 death deprived him of his mother. As soon as old 
 enough he was placed at a boarding school, where 
 he remained about ten or twelve years ; when nine- 
 teen years of age he entered the British navy, and 
 duiing the French war served three years on board 
 His Majesty's ship Csetar (King George, the III., 
 being then on the thone of England), It was on 
 board of a man-of-war, and at the early age of 
 twenty, he experienced a change of heart. An ac- 
 count of his conversion is given in his own words 
 in a letter written to his father, of which the fol- 
 lowing is an extract] the original, though of distant 
 date, is still preserved in the family : — 
 
 On Board H. M. Ship Cesar, 
 Plymouth Harbor, January 27th, 1794. 
 
 My Dear Parent,— Be not oflFended at my not 
 writing before, but a particular reason withheld me 
 which you shall know in my next, which I hope 
 will shortly be. I hope, my dear father, you enjoy 
 still a good state of health. I am (Glory to God) 
 in health well, but in a spiritual state far fr©m ir, 
 
 I shall now open my mind to you. When first 
 
 jBMWBaMttaaBMgwugiiii .T-TOi I'iiiais 
 
IK) 
 
 SKETCHES AND POEMg. 
 
 I came on board a man-of-war, I hf>l some show of 
 outward religion, but none of inward; my ears were 
 saluted wit)^ ^orrents of oaths, execrations and curses 
 and soon (with horror now I speak it) I was able to 
 do the like myself. Though I was thus alienated 
 from God, his watchful Providence still was over 
 me. One day I saw a young man who appeared 
 very melancholy. I asked him what was the mat- 
 ter. He would not tell me at first, but as I stiJl 
 urged him he at last told me he had been very 
 wicked, and that frightful thoughts continually 
 troubled him. This began to rouse me and my con- 
 science, which was till now asleep, awakened, and 
 I began to see what I was myself. I mentioned 
 
 some texts of scripture, which had not till then 
 come into my mind to him, which I also applied to 
 myself. We now became constant companions. I 
 found that this young man in a voyage to the East 
 Indies, had been very intimate with a Roman Cath- 
 olic, who had so far drawn him over to a good 
 opinion of that persuasion as to kneel down on a 
 bible, and swear at the first port he made he would 
 embrace that religion. I knew not how to advise 
 him, but we were determined not to lead such a life 
 as our former past had been, God being our helper. 
 Our great Creator would not leave us, but sent us 
 
SKETCHES AMD P«1IM8. 
 
 117 
 
 i^ j];racious companion. About the middle of Oc- 
 tober we received a draft of men on board, in lieu 
 of some that were sick and gone to the hospital, 
 among whom was this man who had been pressed 
 into the service at Dublin, but I knew him not till 
 a month after. As I was walking the deck rather 
 melancholy upon a Sunday, I saw him sitting read- 
 ing a book which I thought to be a song book. 1 
 went and asked him if it was so, but to my great- 
 joy and surprise I found it to be Mr. Wesley's 
 hymns; then I asked him if he was a Methodist, he 
 made no answer, but turned to the title page, and 
 there I saw his ticket pinned to it, by which I 
 found he belonged to the society of Whitehaven, at 
 Avhich I could st'^y no longer, but flew to my former 
 companion and told the joyful news. We returned 
 together and spent that evening in such a manner 
 as we had not since we had been in the ship. 
 
 Since that time we have been inseparable com- 
 panions, and we have found him very beneficial to 
 us. He has a small but valuable library, contain- 
 ing a Bible, one volume of Mr. Wesley's sermons, a 
 hymn book and an explanation of some chapters in 
 Ezekiel. In th« reading of these we spend most part 
 of our leisure time. Oh ! my dear father, piay for 
 me, for I now see what a state I am in. Oh ! mav 
 
 7 ft/ 
 
 Ifji 
 
118 
 
 SKETORlf AND POEMS. 
 
 the blessed God gire me more and more, not only 
 to see but to feel and sorrow for the lost state I am 
 in; but praised be his name, I am not now without 
 hope, but that ere long I shall be enabled (through 
 the blood of the ever blessed Jesus) to rejoice in a 
 sense of His pardoning love. These scriptures give 
 great comfort to me. "Surely the Lord's hand is not 
 shortened that he cannot love." *' Whoever cometh 
 to me I will in no wise cast out." ** Never saw I 
 the righteous forsaken or his seed begging their 
 bread." 
 
 LETTER 
 
 Written by my Grandfather to his Father, when about to sail in de- 
 encc of his country. 
 
 St. Hellen's Roads, 
 On Board H. M. Ship CiESAR, 
 April* 18th, 1794. 
 Honored Father, — What an unspeakable bless- 
 ing it is that God has bestowed upon ly? that, 
 though we at a great distance separated, yet are 
 enabled as it were to converse together. 
 
 An opportunity offering, I have embraced it, sin- 
 cerely hoping it may find you in perfect health, as 
 this through the blessing of God leaves me. I 
 should hare sent you a letter by Mi-s. Williams, 
 
SiLBTCHES AND POKMS. 
 
 119 
 
 but we were unexpectedly ordered to sea. We ac- 
 cordipgly sailed the next morning. We are now in 
 company with Lord Howe's fleet, lying at St. Hel- 
 len'ai waiting for a wind; we have made two fruitless 
 attempts to go out. 
 
 How eagerly do I wish, my father, that peace 
 may be established again on our Isle. How 
 wretched is a life on board a man-of-war, where 
 nothing is heard but the language of hell. 
 
 Oh I may the devouring sword cease, and the 
 thundering cannon be heard no more, that I ma;y 
 once more fly to the arms, that under God, was the 
 protection of my infant days. How cautious would 
 T be again to leave thom ; but though my present 
 situation is so unhappy, yet I will n©t repine at the 
 providence of God, who has placed me in it, but 
 patiently wait the Lord's pleasure. 
 
 We are now about to sail in defence of our coun- 
 try, and in it perhaps I shall fall a sacrifice, but 
 should this be my lot I will strive to meet it with 
 fortitude and resignation, trusting in Him alone 
 who is the disposer of all events. But ere I con- 
 clude I must bid you farewell for the present, hop- 
 ing again to see you; but should the case be other- 
 wise, farewell forever, and should we never meet on 
 earth, oh! may we meet in heaven, where the wicked 
 
120 
 
 MKBTCHES AND POBMI. 
 
 I 
 
 -4'?.% 
 
 cease from troubling, and the weary be at rest. 
 
 May this be the happy lot where I shall pay nature 
 
 debt of 
 
 Your Affectionate and Dutiful Son. 
 
 While on board a man-of-war my grandfather 
 was in several engagements, one battle in particular 
 he always spoke of with much pride. It was fought 
 on the 1st day of June, 1794, and known as Lord 
 Howe's glorious victory, an account of which is 
 given by my grandfather in » letter written to his 
 father tw© days after the battle, of whicli the fol- 
 lowing is a cepy : — 
 
 H. M. Ship C^esau, June 3rd, 1794. 
 Honored Father, — Assist me to praise and 
 glorify Almighty God, for the wonderful protection 
 He has vouchsafed to beatow on me, unworthy as 1 
 am. We left St. Hellen's on May the 2nd, but I 
 shall not recount the whole of our cruise. Suffice 
 it to say that May the 28th, we fell in with the 
 French fleet. They being to wind^rard we could 
 not bring them to action till 8 o'clock at night, and 
 then only a few ships engaged. The 29th we formed 
 the line twenty-five ships in each, and our ship 
 leading the van. But we being so far to leeward, 
 0' / eUvan ship*, came up, who engaged the whole 
 
SKJBTCHEi AND POEMS. 
 
 121 
 
 of the French line, our ship enj^aged one of her own 
 force for two hours. We afterwards passed the wliole 
 of the enemy's line, receiving the fire of every ship 
 in order to bring the rest of our ships in action, 
 which we did, and broke the enemy's line and 
 drove them to leeward. At about six in the even- 
 ing the two fleets separated, the action liaving lasted 
 about seven or eight hours. We had two men 
 killed and thirteen wounded, but heaven preserved 
 me. We did not see our enemies again till Satur- 
 day, the 30th, at 2 o'clock in the afternoon, by 
 reason of a thick focj during the interval. We 
 came up wi;h them about 8 o'clock at night, but 
 did not come to action till Sunday, June the 1st; 
 about nine o'clock we began and about twelve it 
 ended, We sunk two line of battle ships in action, 
 dismasted ten, and eight of them we took prisoners. 
 Six are now on their passage with us to England, 
 and two more sunk since the action. We had 
 about ten killed and thirty wounded. But thanks 
 bo to God who gave us the victory, I am still alive 
 and unhurt. This is a short but faithful account. 
 Our shipping being sadly shattered, and our Ad- 
 miral wishing the glorious news should reach Eng- 
 land sooner than we could bring it, has dispatched 
 a frigate^ by her I found nieans to send this jetter, 
 
' 
 
 122 
 
 SKETCHES AND POEMS. 
 
 which I hope will find you in good health. Please 
 exouse the writing, things not being at sea as it is 
 on shore, and I having so short a notice. My next 
 shall be more precise. 
 
 I remain, • ""'* 
 
 Your Dutiful and Affectionate Son. 
 
 My grandfather lived to be eighty-four years of 
 age, but he never forgot the glorious ls( of June. 
 In 1796 he left the navv, and in 1797 was married 
 at Plymouth, a town in the west of England, where 
 he residea for many years, carrying r>n the business 
 of a wine merchant. In 1822 he, with his wife and 
 their live youngest children, came to America, land- 
 ing at St. Andrew's, New Brunswick, where ho 
 immediately obtained a situation as teacher of a 
 grammar school. He had been in America but six 
 years, when he was called to mourn the loss of his 
 beloved wife. He never married again, though 
 gome of his children were quite young when their 
 mother died, giving as a reason his wish to train hi^ 
 children himself, which he did, and in after years 
 had the satisfaction of seeing them become profess- 
 ing Christians and worthy membeis of society. 
 
 In 1849 he received a silver medal, sent him by 
 the Queen, he being then 75 years of age, and onfv 
 
SKETCHES AND POEMS. 
 
 123 
 
 of the only two of Her Majesty's subjects then 
 known to be living, who was in the battle of the 
 Ist of June. In 1857 he, with one son and two 
 daughters and their families, left New Brunswick, 
 and came to Ontario. His yourgest daughter, with 
 whom he had always resided, settled in Colchester, 
 where, in 1858, after a short illness, my grandfather 
 died and was buried. His end was peace. 
 
 CONTENTION BETWEEN THE LIFE 
 AND DEATH ANGEL. 
 
 LIFE ANGEL. 
 
 Oh, thou with ebon wings and iay hands, 
 Spare this dear object of fond parent's love, 
 Break not the silver chord of life so soon. 
 Haste not from earth this spirit to remove ; 
 Go to some aged one, weary of v^arth, 
 Who waits with longing heart to welcome thee. 
 Who fain would quit the feeble, wasting frame ; 
 Go thou and set that captive spirit free. 
 
 DEATH ANGEL. 
 
 Nay ! speak not thus, do thou not know that I 
 Am sent by One who is too wise to err ; 
 Too kind to be unjust, in mercy now 
 H« bids me end this spirit's sojourn here. 
 And now behold ! this spirit I release. 
 That it may mount to realms of endless day, 
 E'er earth's alluring charms entice the soul 
 From virtue's path and wisdom's pleasant way. 
 
1^4 
 
 SKETCHES AND POEM8. 
 
 LIFE ANGKL. 
 
 Oh spare this one so fondly cherished liere, 
 Why must thou pluck this tender bud so soon, 
 Ere it unfolds in youth's fair opening spring, 
 Ere it's rare worth and loveliness ar» known. 
 Why must this one thus early pass away ? 
 Why one so young be numbered with the dead ? 
 Withhold thy hand till age has dimmed these eyes, 
 And from those cheeks the bloom of youth has tied. 
 
 DEATH ANGEL. 
 
 [ cannot pass her by, now is the time, 
 Eve sin atid'folly doth ensnare the soul; 
 Ere she hath trod the path to hoary age, 
 Angels may weep that she from grace did fall. 
 And iow behold ! I pluck this tender bud, 
 And angel spirits wait to bear it hence, 
 To a celestial bower, where it may bloom 
 In beauty there and holy innocence. 
 
 LIFE ANGEL. 
 
 Oh, let her tarry yet awhile on earth, 
 A guardian angel will her steps attend, 
 To shield her from the subtle tempter's snare, 
 And guard and £!uide her safely to the end ; 
 Oh, stay thy hand, hush not this prattling voice, 
 Take her not from a mother's fond embrace. 
 Oh, let the rose of health return again, 
 No other on this earth can fill her place. 
 
 DEATH ANGEL. 
 
 Nay, He who gave this gentle creature being, 
 Now kindly takes her from the ills to come, 
 And shining ones around her bed do wait, 
 To waft the spirit to its heavenly home ; 
 
flKITCHES AxNb POteMS. 
 
 125 
 
 On earth a guardian angel hath not povrer, 
 To keep the soul secure from every sin. 
 Life is a battle with a deadly foe, 
 And many fight, but few there be that win 
 
 LIFE ANOBL. 
 
 Oh, must this form low in the dust be laid, 
 This heart no more to taste the joys of earth. 
 Must this fair brow be shaded by the grave, 
 No more to wear the smiles of childish mirth ; 
 Behold those mourners who surround her couch, 
 Their eyes suffused with tears of heartfelt gi'ief, 
 Oh, wilt thou break the tender ties of love. 
 And of their darling those fond hearts bereave. 
 
 DEATH ANOBL. 
 
 Their mourning will endure but for awhile, 
 The parting scenes of earth will soon be o'er, 
 Ere long I shall be sent to summon them, 
 To meet again where partings are no more ; 
 Then in that land where saints and angels dwell, 
 This one they loved so dearly here below 
 Will, at the portal of that blest abode 
 Welcome each one as from this world they go. 
 
 LIFE ANGEL. 
 
 Oh, must thou then remeve this dear one now, 
 Oh, must the feeble pulse now cease to beat. 
 And must thou take her to thy cold embrace. 
 And bear her to the tomb, thy dark retreat ; 
 Oh, must 1 now resign my precious charge, 
 Relentless one, in vain I plead with thee, 
 Already now I feel thy chilling breath, 
 And from thy awful presence I must flee. 
 
12() 
 
 SKKTOHEh AND POEM.s. 
 
 < 4 
 
 DEATH ANGEL. 
 
 What thoujE^h this form must moulder in the tomb / 
 
 The liappy soul shall upw.ards wing its way, 
 
 To dwell forever in a world of bliss, • ' 
 
 Where all is fair, and nothing can decay ; 
 
 I must fulfil my mission on the earth, 
 
 I but obey the master's mandate now, 
 
 He gently calls the spirit I release. 
 
 And sets my seal upon this infant brow. 
 
 ' ' s 
 
 > V ■ I 
 
 / 1 ■ 
 
 :\ » 
 
 j». 
 
 LU KE ANSON. 
 
 IN TWO CHAPTERS. 
 
 Chapter I.— Misplaced Confiden<je. 
 
 Mr. Vane was an old gentleman, who for many 
 years had l>een confined to his room, and at times 
 was unable even to rise from liis bed without assis- 
 tance. He had a corafortable home and monoy 
 more than sufficient to support him in easy inde- 
 pendence the remainoer of his days. Bui the old 
 man must hare often fell very lonely, for he had no 
 relatives that any of his lieighbors knew of, his wife 
 having died before reaching middle age, and he had 
 no children to cheer and comfort him in his de- 
 clining years. His home was kept in order and he 
 
SKETCHES AND POEMS. 
 
 127 
 
 I" 
 
 
 was waitoc] on by a liired honsekftf^per, a kind, quiet, 
 elderly woman. Mr. Vane, after first becoming un- 
 able to leave bis room, bad engaged a barber at a" 
 stated salary to come to bis bouse every morning, 
 ioT tbe purpose of sbavingf and wasbing bira, and 
 assist in arranging bis toilet for tbe day. 
 
 One morning a])out tbo time our story begins, bis 
 barber informeil liim tint be intended leaving tbe 
 tow.i, and recommended to bis sei'vioo a young man 
 ramed Anson, wbo, if ^fr. Vane was willing, be 
 would send to bim tbe next morning. 
 
 Mr. Vane consented, at tbe same time expressing 
 bis regret at baving to part witb bis old friend, for 
 as be said be bad become accustomed to bia ways, 
 and be would misi bim very mucb. Tbe otbor con- 
 soled tbe old gentleman by telling bim be bad no 
 doubt but tbat be would soon learn to like ycmng 
 Anson quite as well, as be knew bim to be i very 
 nice young man. Mr. Vane said be boped it would 
 be so and tbe two friends pnrted. Tbe next morn- 
 ing Luke Anson rapped at tbe door of Mr. Vane's 
 bouse and was admitted by tbe bousekeeper, wbo 
 sbowed bim t» tbe room wbere be found Mr. Vane, 
 wbo received bim kindly, and after arranging mat- 
 ters to tbe satisfaction of botb parties, Luke im- 
 mediately entered upon bis duty, and by tbe time 
 
 * 
 
128 
 
 8KET0MBS AND POKMS. 
 
 he had complctod hia morning task Mr. Vane had 
 formed an opinion qiute in favor of the young man, 
 #an opinion which further acquaintance served only 
 to strengthen. Luke was a person of prepossessing 
 appearance, easy and agreeable in manner, with a 
 frank open countenance ; and as time passed Mr. 
 Vane became more and more attached to him, and 
 now looked forward to his coming with pleasure, 
 especially when he had promised to bring something 
 to read that he knew would interest him. Now and 
 then, Mr. Vane would invite him to spend an 
 hour or two with him on a Sunday afternoon, and 
 sometimes of an evening, Luke would call in to 
 have a chat with his old friend. Thus matters 
 stood, when one evening, as Luke was about to 
 wish him good night, Mr. Vane took from beneath 
 his pillow a key, and banding it to Luke, told him 
 to go to the bureau which stood in one corner of the 
 room and bring him a box which he would fiiid in 
 the top drawer. Luke did as he was desired, and 
 placed the box on a stand near the bed. Mr. Vane 
 raised the lid of the box, took out a large leather 
 purse, and unclasping it poured the contents out on 
 the bed. It was gold. "This is mine," he said to 
 Luke, as he stirred the glittering heap with his ling- 
 ers, "all my own, but I shall notlivelongenoughto 
 
SKETCHES AND POEMS. 
 
 129 
 
 need bit little of it. You have been very kind to 
 me and if you continue so, when I die I will leave 
 the greater part of this gold to you; the rest I must 
 give to my housekeeper, who has also shown me 
 great kindness. 
 
 Luke thanked Mr. Vane, saying that what he 
 had done more than was his duty had only been a 
 pleasure for him to do, and was not deserving sw 
 great a reward. 
 
 " Yes. yes, it shall be as I say," said Mr. Vane, 
 *' it shall be as I say." He then gathered up the 
 shining vioin, put them back ia the purse, and clasp- 
 ing it laid it in the box, closed the lid, and request- 
 ed Luke to put it where he had found it, who did 
 so, and after locking the drawer returned the key 
 to Mr. Vane and bade him good night. After this 
 Mr. Vane would often ask Luke to bring his money 
 and count it for him, and as often did he repeat his 
 promise to leave the greater part of his gold to him. 
 Little did he think of the great temptation ho was 
 laying in the path of that young man. Little did 
 he know what would be the result of his misplaced 
 confidence. 
 
180 
 
 SKKT^'HKS AND P(»KMS. 
 
 (.'HAl'TFK fl. 
 
 I 
 
 ii 
 
 THK (!RIME DISCOVERED ANT) CONFESSEn. 
 
 Due iine morning in 8unimer, tlic neighbors no- 
 ticed that Mr. A^ane's honse remained closed nnus- 
 ually late, bnt ?io one thought wiucli about it until, 
 as the day advaiujed and there was no sign of life 
 in or about the house, they began to wonder what 
 could be the matter, but nothing serious was sus- 
 pected, and night closed in without the cause being 
 ^hscoyered. The next morning, as soon as the peo- 
 ple were astir, all eyes were turned in the direction 
 of Mr. Vane's house, but not a door or window was 
 open to let in the pure air and the warm sunlight. 
 By noon (juite a number of people were collected in 
 front of the house, for the authorities of the town 
 had been informeci of the circumstance and detec- 
 tives sent to make an investigation, and, who had 
 just made their appearance on the spot. One of 
 them mounted the steps and knocked loudly at the 
 door, but received no answer. After repeated 
 knockings and no response, the door was forced 
 open and • hat a ghastly sight was there. On the 
 floor lay the body of the poor, old housekeeper ; 
 near her lav a brass candlestick covered with blood, 
 evidently the weapon with which she had been 
 
r. 
 
 SKKTCHEH AND FOEMS. 
 
 131 
 
 • 
 
 1* * 
 
 murdered. The walls and Hour were also spattered 
 with blood. After giving orders for the body to be 
 attended to, the detectives passed upstairs and into 
 the room of Mr. Vane — the walls and floor or 
 which were also spattered with blood. On the 
 bed lay the corpse of the old man. On the floor 
 Jay a lath-hammer covered with blood, plainly 
 showing it to be the instrument used in taking the 
 life of Mr. Vane. Both bodies were carefully at- 
 'anded to, and a coroner's inquest held. Their ver- 
 dict was, that those two inoffensive old people had 
 come to their death by being cruelly nmrdered by 
 some person or persons unknown. 
 
 For some weeks this dark deed remained shroud- 
 ed in mystery, but at last suspicion fell on young 
 Anson, who had suddenly and unaccountably be- 
 c©me flush of money. He was therefore arrested, 
 as was ?lso his father, who was suspected of being 
 an . D plice to his son's guilt. When charged of 
 the c>;;<»^ ,, both father and son pleaded innocent^ 
 but whvix brought before the bar of justice and 
 tried, they were found guilty. A young man who 
 had been an mtimate acquaintance of young Anson, 
 gave his evidence as follows : — 
 
 **I was at the home of Anson on the evening of 
 ih«^ wurder. About tight o'clock young Ansoii 
 
132 
 
 SKETCHES AI^D POEMS. 
 
 i 
 
 ; I 
 
 went out, saying he would go and bring some oranges 
 He was gone a long time, it being atter nine 
 o'clock when he returned. When he came in he 
 appeared much agitated. His hands, face and 
 clothing were covered with blood. He said that he 
 had met some ruffians who laid hands on him, and 
 that he had had a hard struggle with them, barely 
 escaping with his life. His r mother told him he had 
 better go and wash, and chai his clothes. He 
 then went upstairs, followed by his father. Im- 
 mediately on entering his room I distinctly heard a 
 sound as if a large quantity of money had been 
 thrown on the bed, but I didn't think anything of 
 it at the time. In about half an hour young An- 
 son came down again, looking very pale. I then 
 left the house." 
 
 Other witnesses were called and examined, and 
 the testimony of all went to prove the guilt of both 
 father and son, who claimed they were innocent 
 even after the sentence of death had been pro- 
 nounced on one, and banishment for life on the 
 other. They were then remanded to jail — the 
 younger Anson to remain there till the day of his 
 execution, and the elder Anson to stay there until 
 brought forth to be placed on board the ship which 
 was to bear him from home and friends forever. 
 
 I H 
 
1 
 
 SKETCHES AND POEMS. 
 
 133 
 
 About twe've o'clock one'night, while in prison, 
 the elder Anson was aroused by a slight noise in 
 his cell, and looking up he saw a tail liguro clothed 
 in white, who said to him in a sepulchral tone of 
 voice, " Anson, Anson, tell the truth," and after 
 pronouncing these words, slowly and solemnly the 
 figure noiselessly withdrew. In the morning An- 
 son desired that a minister might be sent for, say- 
 ing that his mind had been so troubled during the 
 night that he wished to confess without further de- 
 lay. As soon as the minister arrived, Anson, pale 
 and trembling, told the whole truth. 
 
 I will not harrow the feelings of my readers with 
 the horrible details of his confession. Suffice it to 
 say, that though he himself had no hand in murder- 
 ing Mr. Vane and his housekeeper, yet he was fullv 
 aware of his son's intentions to commit the crime, 
 in order to gain possession of the money he knew 
 to be in Mr. Vane's house. After the dreadful deed 
 was done and the gold obtained, and fearing to keep 
 it in the house, the father and son together went 
 and buried it. "And now," said he in conclusion, 
 "if you will take me where I shall direct you I will 
 show you where the money is hidden." A cab was 
 tnen brought, and Anson, handcuffed acd closely 
 guarded was placed in it and driven off in the di- 
 
134 
 
 AKBTCHB» AND POEMK. 
 
 il 
 
 rection pointed out by him. The way led them 
 acme distance beyond the limits of the town 
 through a thick wood. On arriving at an opening 
 by the road side, at a word from Anson the cab was 
 stopped and the prisoner and guards alighted and 
 entered the opening. A.nson then pointed out a 
 large tree, at the foot of which, after removing the 
 sod and an inch or two of earth, the box containing 
 Mr. Yane's pui*se of gold was discovered and taken 
 charge of. They then re-entered the cab, drove 
 back to town, and Anson was returned to his c?ll. 
 
 The spirii he supposed he had seen was no other 
 than the turnkey of the jail who had adopted this 
 plan to draw him into a confession, and which, as 
 is already known, proved a success. Not maay 
 days after his confession Anson, with a number of 
 other convicts, left his native country for Van Die- 
 lii-a's Land, but before the ship had reached her 
 destination he fell sick and died, and was buried in 
 the sea. 
 
 The younger Anson, who maintained a sullen sil- 
 ence to the last, at the appointed time suffered the 
 penalty of the law. Thus, in shame and misery, 
 ended those two lives. " What does it profit a 
 man if he gains the whole world, and loses his own 
 •eul 
 
SKETCHES AND POEMS. 
 
 BLIGHTED FLOWERS. 
 
 See the last fair flowers of summer, 
 
 Blighted by the autumn blast, 
 Faintly now their fragrance raiseth, 
 
 As an infant breathes its last. 
 See the faded leaves now scattered. 
 
 On the ground they scentless lay, 
 Leaves that filled the air with perfume 
 
 On the last bright summer day. 
 
 Then the gentle breezes sighing. 
 
 Bore their fragrance through the vale, 
 Each and every radiant blossom 
 
 Lends its odour to the gales. 
 All their bright and gorgeous colours, 
 
 Then appeared so fresh and gay, 
 But their beauty has departed 
 
 Since the last bright summer day. 
 
 Frost has nipped the fairest flowers, 
 
 Autumn winds have laid them l«w, 
 Tender buds not yet unfolded 
 
 Perish ere their worth we know. 
 None escape the ruthless tempest, 
 
 As it hurries on its way. 
 Blighting by its breath the. blossoms 
 
 Of the last bright summer day. 
 
 135 
 
 SWEET CONTENT, 
 On heabino a poor man singing at his work. 
 
 I am poor, yet I am cheerful, 
 
 Happy as the bird that sings; 
 Never sad, nor never fearful, 
 
 Sweet content each moment brings. 
 
136 
 
 •KETCHES IlSD POEfifS. 
 
 ■: ,1 
 
 I am poor, yet life is pleasant, 
 Humble though my lot may be ; 
 
 Sweet content is ever present. 
 Making earth a heaven to me. 
 
 I am poor, yet 1 am healthy, 
 This is all the boon I crave; 
 
 I never envy those who are wealthy. 
 While my health and strength I have. 
 
 I am poor, yet I will never 
 Sigh for earthly treasures vain, 
 
 Sweet content smiles on me ever, 
 Never will my heart complain. 
 
 I am poor, yet by my labor, 
 
 Food and raiment are supplied ; 
 
 1, less worthy than my neighbor, 
 Must not boast nor speak with pride. 
 
 I am poor, yet without number 
 Heaven's blessings rest on me ; 
 
 Labor brings refreshing slumber, 
 I'm contented, glad and free. 
 
 THE EVENING BEERZE. 
 
 Soft sighs the gentle breezes 
 
 From the distant hills, 
 Sweet is the breath of evening, 
 
 Through the vale it steals, 
 On through the smiling meadSwa, 
 
 Whispering in the trees. 
 Rich with the breath of roses, 
 
 Oom«s the evening breeze. 
 
SKBTCHBS AND FOBMS. 
 
 U7 
 
 
 How like a laughing fairy 
 
 Doth the zephyr play, 
 Kissing sweet buds and blossoms, 
 
 Fragrant and gay. 
 Onwards it steals but softly, 
 
 Sighing in the trees, 
 Low is the gentle murmur, 
 
 Of the evening breeze. 
 
 A CONVERSION IN A BARBER SHOP, 
 
 The following story was once told me by my 
 mother, which I will give in her own words: — 
 
 One fine summer morning, a long time ago, T was 
 walking very leisurely through Newcastle market. 
 As I was sauntering along I observed a lady walk- 
 ing a little ahead of me, whom I knew must be an 
 old and highly esteemed friend of mine, for although 
 I had not seen her for ten years I recognized her 
 figure; so quickening my steps I was so«n by her 
 her side and said, " Good morning, Mrs. Smith." 
 She turned towards me and replieil "Good morning, 
 Miss. You have the advantage of me, I do not 
 know you." I asked her if she did not recollect the 
 little girl who was staying with her whilst she lived 
 at Portsmouth. She said, "Yes, I d©, but it cannot 
 be possible that you are her." I said I am the same. 
 She f xprtssed much joy at our n\<»eting so unex- 
 
1S8 
 
 «KBT(^HK» AND POBMki. 
 
 liectedly, and said yuu iBUst go home with rae, for 
 Mr. 8inith would be exceedingly glad to see y©u. As 
 N.'(^ were walking along she asked me if I had come 
 to Newcastle on business, I told her no, I was mar- 
 ried, and my husband was mate of a ship then ly- 
 ing at one of the docks. 
 
 We soon reached the house, and Mr. Smith wai^ 
 indeed glad to see his little girl, as he called me, 
 and laughed heartily at the idea as he said of my 
 being a 'married woman.' As I knew my husband 
 could not leave his ship till the evening I remained 
 with them all day. 
 
 In the afternoon Mr. Smith went out to take a 
 walk. Soon after he was gone Mrs. Smith asked me 
 if I had not observed a change in Mr. Smith's man- 
 ner. I answered I had, a very great change for the 
 better. She said *' Yes, he is a good Christian man 
 now. I will tell you about his conversion." She 
 asked me if I did not remember what a profane 
 man he was, and how grieved she used to be at 
 hearing him swear so badly 1 I told her I did, and 
 how earnestly she prayed for his conversion. She 
 said "Yes, I did, and I knew then that my Heavenly 
 Father heard my prayers and would answer them 
 in His own good time." She then said, " When we 
 came to Newcastle to live'and had settled down, in 
 
WtETr'HES AND POR«f>». 
 
 1.^9 
 
 a quiet way, T joined the Methodist Church. Al 
 tirst I used to ask Mr. Smith to go to church with 
 nie. but he always refused, making some frivohius 
 pxcuse. One morning he went out to go to the l)ar- 
 hor shop to get shared. When he came liomo 
 again ht sat down by the hre, and leaning his el- 
 bow i)n his knee, held his handkercliief up to his 
 face, and I knew he was crying. Such an unusual 
 occurrence alarmed me, so I went to him and asked 
 him to tell me what had happened. He rose from 
 his seat and said, "Dorothy, dear, I know you have 
 prayed for my conversion these many years and 
 yuur prayers have been answered this mornini^. 
 When T got to the barber shop there was no one in 
 but the young apprentice. As 1 never let any on^ 
 shave me but the master, I asked him how long it 
 would be before his master returned, and he said he 
 did not expect him in till the afternoon, but, he ad- 
 ded, '1 can shave you, sir.' Now, as he knew I 
 never let him shave me it riled my temper, and I 
 began cursing and swearing and calling him very 
 bad names. In the midst of it all the poor boy fell 
 on his knees by the barber's chair and offered up n. 
 fervent prayer for m« — oh, so fervent that it touch- 
 ed my heart — and I, too, fell on my knees by the 
 side ef the chair and told him to keep on praying 
 
uo 
 
 •uttrvfm AKn rnnift. 
 
 
 i 
 
 until his pmyt^rft wcri* au8>yorod, ami ho did. H^ 
 rri^ti and pniyovl, luul I rrioil iiiui )^n)an(^«i. At 
 length tho string o( my tonguo was loosod, and I, 
 t»M>, oould pi ay, and wo hoth jM'ay^d togothor. 
 l\w poor lad fairly shonU^ci with joy whon In^ IkmuhI 
 nio prayiuj:. In a little whiK) wo aros(\ from oxw 
 knoos. and aftor shaking; hands 1 loft him standir.js; 
 th»m« bUtsingand |»raising t JoU for so groat a salvii 
 tioii." 
 
 MrvS Smith was silont, and W(« wiped tho trars 
 from onr i\V0v<!. Aftor a fow minntcs sho said to mo, 
 *• My dear, young frioml, I havo nt»t words to ox 
 pr^sfi the joy I ♦^xperiiMiced that morn," hut, sho ad- 
 ded, '• I thought wdiiit must ho t]i« rojoioing among 
 thn angels." She thwn said it happoned on a Thurs 
 day, and in the ovening there was service in the 
 oljuroh that 1 attondetl. -1 diil not havo to ask Mr. 
 Suiith to go with me for he was voady and waiting 
 long before 1 was. He paid great, attention to the 
 sf»rmon, and has ever since been a consistent mem- 
 ber of the Alethodist church, and he has never let 
 «ny<9ne share him but the young apprentice. 
 
LEARNING TO DIVE. 
 
 UI 
 
 f I •* ■'■'"">• "•III, |,ov„ 
 
 "«'■ «" « rubbe,. bain "''"'" '" ""* '"^f*-. 
 
 «^-l' bank .,e ' rJ Ik '^ """'*" "» '" « 
 
 "^me „p agai„. ^ ' "'''' '«t go .f th.« and 
 
 "nd down he went ol ""'"« *"'° ""' '^«t«r 
 
 %« t, c.„„tone:two :h;r"';f ';• """- ^e 
 
 k-P from breathing SZ ^*''^^''«<l^ork t. 
 
 queer, hut he would '"Jku '^'^""'"^ *« ^-1 
 
 ^o-. five, th. wal UwtlT *' *'• •"^• 
 
 "'**^ .oU ho. mouth aad 
 
142 
 
 XKBTOHER ASJi l»OBM». 
 
 I Ji 
 
 notrils, and lie kwew no more until he found him- 
 self wrapped in a c©at, and lying on the hank with 
 a man kneeling beside him. doinyj all he could to 
 restore him to consciousness. " Where am I," 
 .•i<^ked Jvjhnuy as soon as he couU speak. " You 
 are all right, nww, 1 guess," said the maa, " but if 
 you had stayed down there awhile longer, you 
 •v'>uld never have seeu daylight again." "But how 
 uid you know I was down there," asked Johnny, 
 who saw by the man's wet clothes that it was he 
 who had saved him frf>ra drowning. " I saw you 
 spring into the water with those stones in your 
 hands, Init had not time to warn you of the danger, 
 for T knew if you were left alone you would not 
 comp np again alive, so 1 ran as quickly as T could 
 and taking otf my hat and coat, phinged into the 
 water, dived dowm, and brought you up in timn to 
 save your life." » 
 
 " And now," said the man, " let mp warn you 
 never to take stones or anything that is heavy in 
 your hands when you are going into the water. 
 Johnnv, who bv thi* time had so far recovered as 
 t* be ablo to walk, said he thought he would be apt 
 to remember the warning. The man then accom" 
 panied him home, and after receiving the thanks of 
 Johnny and his friends, bade him good bye. 
 
SKETCHES AND POEMS. 
 
 143 
 
 Joluiuy gave up learning to dive, but h« nertr for- 
 got thiit djiy'a adventure. 
 
 lin 
 as 
 
 pt 
 
 of 
 re. 
 
 TO THE MEMORY OF LITTLE ROSA. 
 
 The following lines were coiiiDOHeel for a family of eight children, on 
 the death of their little sister, a sweet ehiUl of two and a half ycaiit, 
 whose delicate constitution and rare baauty made her th« pet of th« 
 household : — 
 
 The angels came and bore away 
 
 One of our little band ; 
 We know our little sister lives 
 
 Up in the better land. 
 Her little body we have laid 
 
 Down in the silent grave, " 
 And when another spring shall coni«, 
 
 Sweet flowers will o'er her wave. 
 
 Oh I how wo loved her when on earth 
 
 She used to live with us, 
 Fair as the lilies, s])otless bell, 
 
 Our little Rosay was, 
 And now we think of her abort, 
 
 Among the cherubs there. 
 More beautiful than when on eartli — 
 
 An angel bright and fair. 
 
 She has a little harp of gold. 
 
 And wears a robe of white , 
 She sings the song that angels know, 
 
 And dwells in glory bright. 
 She never will be sick a^ain. 
 
 Nor suffer any more, 
 Sht's safe in the good Shepherd 'i fold 
 
 From ©very ill secure. 
 
 i 
 
r 1 
 
 it 
 
 144 tKETCHBK ▲ITD POIMK. 
 
 We have a brother and sister there, 
 
 Whe with the angel's roam, 
 Perhaps they were with those who came, 
 
 To take our Rosay home. 
 Now those three cherubs hand in hand. 
 
 Wander amidst the flowers, 
 Tliat bloom in that bright world above, 
 
 In the celestial bowers. 
 
 We would not call her back to earth, 
 
 She is so happy there ; 
 But when we fondly think of her. 
 
 There falls the silent tear, 
 She has escaped the sin and snares 
 
 Of earth's alluring charms. 
 And now our little Ro!«ay rests 
 
 In the good Shepherd's arms. 
 
 She never will return to us, 
 
 But we may go to her. 
 And there no parting tears shall fall, 
 
 Death cannot enter there. 
 Then let us all prepare to meet 
 
 Her in that world above. 
 Where saints and angels all unite 
 
 To sing redeeming love. 
 
 
 
 It' 
 
SKETCHES AND POEMS. 
 
 146 
 
 ANNIE BOWDEN. 
 
 The last words of the marriage ceremony were 
 pronouuced and Albort Blake and Annie Bowden 
 were man and wife, and would have been as happy 
 as any other new married couple if Albert had not 
 to go away so soon and for so long a time. It hap- 
 pened thus Albert had come to the town of B a 
 stranger seeking employment, and not caring where 
 he went, had several weeks previous to his marriage 
 taken a situation as captain's steward on board of 
 H man-of-war then preparing for a three years' cruis« 
 and would now be ready to sail in one month. 
 8ince his accrual a ta nee and engagement with Annie 
 he had several times expressed a wish that he had 
 not joined the ship, but always tended by saying 
 as if thinking aloud, **It is just as ell, I suppose, 
 just as well," 
 
 That month passed quickly and pleasan tly oway, 
 and when the day arrived on which the ship was to 
 «ail Annie bade her husband good-bye with a sad 
 heart, and standing on the pier watched the ship 
 j'ail away with tear-dimmed eyes. Poor Annie; 
 could she have seen the dark cloud which was «ven 
 then rising in her sky and which would so soon 
 burst in a storm of sorrow on her head, she would 
 
 
 h 
 
 SSSS^SSS^^' ■•**■ 
 
146 
 
 IKKTCHSS AND POEMS. 
 
 have been teniptefl to have plunged into the deep 
 bhie water and hidden herself from its fury in the 
 c()l<i bosom of the ocean. But a kind providence 
 has wisely veiled the future from mortal sight, and 
 with a sense of loneliness she had never before 
 known Annie walked slowly back to her father's 
 house, for it had been arranged that she should re- 
 main with her parents until her husband's return. 
 Vim morninoj, about three months after her hus- 
 band's departure, as she lay on the bed resting after 
 a long walk, her mother came into the room and 
 told her there was a strange lady down stairs in 
 the parlor who wished to see her. Annie arose, 
 and wondering who the lady could be and what her 
 business was with her, went down stairs, followed 
 by her mother. As soon as she entered the room the 
 lady arose, and advancing towards her said, '*Is this 
 Mrs. Albert Blake V Annie bowing, replied *'yes." 
 Then, said the lady, "I am sorry for you; Heaven 
 help you to bear what T have to tell you. Albert 
 Blake was a married man, and I am his \'ife." 
 Annie heard the last words as if in a dream and 
 staggering back, fell fainting in the arms of her 
 mother, who, assisted by the lady, laid her on the 
 sofa. Some time elapsed before she could be re- 
 stored to consciousness, and when she at last open- 
 
 ., 
 
 
 . ! 
 
 I 
 
SKBTCHBS AND POBMK. 
 
 147 
 
 . 
 
 ed her eyes their brightness was all gone, and in 
 them there was a look of hopeless despair. For a 
 lonj^ while she did not move or speak hut seemed 
 as it' stunned by the blow. Cuuld she have wept 
 it W'juld have been well for her, but no tears came 
 to her relief; and it was weeks before she recovered 
 from the lit of illness into which the terrible shock 
 had thrown her. When her father heard the news 
 his rage knew no bounds; he immediately wrote to 
 Blake, informing him that his villainy had been dis- 
 covered, and threatening to shoot him if he ever 
 made his appearance again in that town. 
 
 Blake, however, died in the East Indies shortly 
 after receiving the letter. Before dying he wrote 
 to Annie, confessing the whole tiuth, and by way 
 of excusing himself told the following story : — 
 " When nineteen years of age I was forced into a 
 marriage with Harriet Lee by my own and her par- 
 ents to gratify a wish long cherished by them, they 
 being old and intimate friends, and each possessing 
 a small fortune. Their object in bringing about a 
 marriage between their only children, Harriet and 
 myself, was to unite their fortunes. And so, though 
 much against my will, we were married — for I never 
 did nor T never could like Harriet, her cold nature 
 aad overbeaiiiog vaa^wMir r»p»Udd m^ — a^d #ft«r 
 
 111 
 
 I 
 
 h 
 
 :V 
 
 t 
 
'i 
 
 148 
 
 SKETOHES AND POEMI. 
 
 dragging through five years of miserable existence T 
 left her, but with the intention of not marrying 
 again so long as I knew she was living. Nor should 
 I have done so had I not met and loved you." An- 
 nie read the letter, of which the foregoing is an ex- 
 tract, witii feelings that cannot be described, but 
 after a tit of passionate weeping she grew more calm, 
 and as time wore on became more reconciled to her 
 fate, but never regained lier happy spirits and blithe 
 manner. The sparkle never returned to her eye nor 
 the rose to her cheek. She never spoke of her sor- 
 row, but an expression of settled sadness on her 
 pale face told how great had been the mental suf- 
 fering she had endured. 
 
 THE SONG OF THE INDIAN. 
 
 When brightly shines the rising sun, 
 To chase away the morning dew ; 
 
 With cheerful heart and merry song, 
 I push from shore my light canoe. 
 
 When soft winds gently steal along. 
 
 O'er rippling waters deep and blue ; 
 . Then loud I sing my morning song, 
 JkM »wi£Uy glides uy light oattoe. 
 
 J 
 
SKETCHES AUD POEMS. ^ 
 
 The white man's wealth I envy not, 
 For stately halls and honor too, 
 
 I'd never exchange my humble lot, 
 I'm happy in my light canoe. 
 
 The white men love their glittering gold, 
 Their gallant ships they proudly view ; 
 
 I'd rather roam thus free and bold, 
 And gladly own my light canoe. 
 
 From early dawn till close of day, 
 ■ I wander on the ocean blue ; 
 Till twilight gathers o'er my way, 
 Then homeward glides my light canoe. 
 
 uo 
 
 THE BIRDS. 
 
 I often think the birds are part of creation that 
 did not come under the curse in the fall of man. 
 They always seem to bo a little bit of paradise left 
 to remind us of what a happy lot ours would have 
 been had not sin robbed us of innocence and sweet 
 peace of mind. The birds orijoy life as no other 
 creatures do. Insects are always either hard at 
 work or hurrying aimlessly from one place to an-' 
 other. The beasts are over eagerly searching for 
 food, and are satisfied only when they are eating. 
 ICveji mux is pruae t«» waudwr, and how oft«ji is th^ 
 
160 
 
 SKETCHES AND POEM A. 
 
 11 : 
 
 ri 
 
 I i 
 
 mind disturbed by fretting, doubting and fearinj?. 
 It would be well if we could lay to heart the les 
 son taught us by the birds. They receive and en- 
 joy present blessings with apparent gratitude and 
 trust heaven for the future, The result is they 
 alone are really happy. Their little hearts seem al- 
 ways full of gladness; they snig alike when the sun 
 is shining and when the rain is falling; in the morn- 
 ing they warble out their hymns of praise, and in 
 the evening they fill the air with sweet melody. — 
 Yea, all day long they wing their flight from tree 
 to tree, or rest in the cool shade of the leafy branch- 
 es. Their happy twitter and merry song may be 
 heard even when darkness vales the earth; they are 
 not all silent ever and anon; the pensive song of the 
 night bird falls on the ear, cheering the belated and 
 way worn traveller like Che swoet notes of a silver 
 boll. Who can walk through the woods on a fine 
 summer morning and listen to the thousand and 
 and one voices of the feathered songsters, without 
 the heart being stirred with feelings of gratitude to 
 Him who taught the dear birds to sing, and thongh 
 tiibre are so many, yet not a discordant sound 6r 
 feeble strain is heard. All join heart and voice in 
 ^ full and complete chorus. 
 
 ■ 
 
8KBTCBEU AND POEMS. 
 
 151 
 
 LINES ON THE DEATH OF A 
 FRIEND. 
 
 A dear loved one has been removed 
 
 From earth's encumbering care ; 
 The Saviour beckoned her away, 
 
 Etex-nal joys to share. 
 H er gentle spirit took its flight 
 
 On angel pinions borne ; 
 Up to the world of endless blisa, 
 
 And heaven's eternal morn. 
 
 . 
 
 Ere she had gained the shining shore, 
 
 The pearly gates appeared ; 
 And when cold Jordan's stream was crossed, 
 
 The heavenly armies cheered. 
 Yes, then the heavenly arches rang, 
 
 With one triumphant song ; 
 As her bright spirit entered in. 
 
 And joined the glorious throng. 
 
 Her angel form is now arrayed 
 
 In robes of spotless white ; 
 The victor's crown and palm are hers. 
 
 And endless glory bright. 
 Sickness no more can waste her fram«, 
 
 Death cannot enter there; 
 Mer spirit rests in sweet release, 
 
 From sorrow sin and care. 
 
 And would we call her from that land, 
 
 Of such exquisite bliss ; 
 And wish her to return again, 
 
 To such » world as this ? 
 
152 
 
 HKETCHEN AND POEMS. 
 
 it 
 
 I 
 
 Nay, blessed are the dead who die 
 With all their sins forgiven ; 
 
 And from this vale of tears arise 
 T«» join the host of heaven. 
 
 Yea, mourning ones, no longer weep, 
 
 J^'or her you fondly loved ; 
 But a short time she's gone before. 
 
 And waits for you above. 
 Think not upon the mouldering dust 
 
 That lies in yonder tomb ; 
 Her spirit is not there, but past 
 
 Beyond it chilling gloom. 
 
 Prepare to meet her in that land, 
 
 Whore all is bright and fair ; 
 That when the toils of life are o'er, 
 
 You may her gladness share. 
 Life is but short — a troubled dream, 
 
 Our days are as the grass ; 
 But heavenly joys can never fade, 
 
 They will forever last 
 
SKETCHES AND POEMS. 
 
 163 
 
 THE CHILD'S PRAYER. 
 
 On hearing uf a little girl who, one atormy night after saying her 
 eveninjf prayers, fnidetl u few words asking God to take care of the 
 sailors, then with Arm faith that her prayer was heard and would be 
 answered, she laid her head on the pillow and fell into a sweet and 
 peaceful sleep. 
 
 'Twas on a dark and dreary night, 
 
 When stormy winds blew fierce and loud ; 
 Ere resting on her downy bed, 
 
 A little maiden form was bowed. 
 Her soft sweet voice in prayer aroce, 
 
 For wanderers on the mighty deep ; 
 With tearful eyes she pleads to (iod, 
 
 The sailor's life to safely keep. 
 
 Oh, God, I hear the tempest roar, 
 
 In faith I do draw near to Thee ; 
 Oh, please take care of those who now 
 
 Are out upon the stormy sea. 
 I know that Thou alone can save. 
 
 For fearful is the night and dark ; 
 Oh. let one little star appear. 
 
 To guide the frail and tossing bark. 
 
 Her prayer arose on wings of faith, 
 
 And now the gentle maiden slept ; 
 The storm still raged in fuiy wild, 
 
 As o'er the land and sea it swept. 
 But who can tell a hat that sweet prayer 
 
 And childlike faith had done to save 
 Some A anderer on the ocean wide. 
 
 From sinking in a watery grave. 
 
 That prayer for one bright little star. 
 Perchance was answered from above ; 
 
154 
 
 8KKTCHBS AND POEMS. 
 
 And to the sailor's heart it proved 
 A messenger of hope and love. 
 
 And guided by its feeble ray, 
 Some safe retreat the wanderer found ; 
 
 Until the angry storm had ceased, 
 And morning shed its glory round. 
 
 THE SCOFFER CONVERTED. 
 
 " There is a younj^ lady going to preach in the 
 llanter's church this evening," said James Turner to 
 liis two compdnions, " let us go and have a little 
 sport at her expense." *' Agreed," said they, and 
 ttway they went. On arrivi.ig at the church, not- 
 withstan ling the i^ervice had already begun, they, 
 with no little noise entered, took a seat near the 
 door, and commenced talking in loud whispers to 
 I he great annoyance of the congregation, but when 
 the second hymn was concluded, and Miss Harding, 
 the young lady who was to preach arose, and in a 
 clear hrm voice gave out the text and began lier 
 discourse, the attention of every one was arrested. 
 Even the three young men near the door ceased 
 their whispering, and all listened attentively as the 
 speaker proceeded. She grew more und more ear- 
 nest and eloquent, solemnly wirning sinners of their 
 danger and kindly inviting them to the Saviour 
 
ftKBTCHBS AND POBM«. 
 
 155 
 
 assuring them of peace and pardon throuj:jh faith in 
 Him, At the close of the sermon an invitation was 
 extended to tliose who felt tlienis dves sinn'^rs, and 
 wished to be saved to come tor ward, and amonnr tlni 
 first to kneel at the penitent seat was James Turner, 
 The arrow of conviction had pierced his heart, ami 
 he rested not until he found peace in believiui^'. 
 
 From that time he regularly attended the meet 
 ings and eventually becime a member of the cimrch, 
 nor was this all; after once seeing and speaking with 
 Miss Harding, he could not forget the pleasing 
 countpnance and engaging manner of that youpg 
 lady, and so it camn to pass that in just five weeks 
 fro II the evening on which he went to make sport 
 of her preaching, she became his wife. His parents, 
 who were wealthv people of the world, at first ob- 
 jected to their only son marrying a poor, religious 
 fanatic as they termed Miss Harding, but on fur- 
 ther acquaintance with her they changeri their 
 minds, and were quite reconciled to the union, tha 
 result of which was that she, under God. was the 
 means of bringing the whole family into the fold of 
 the good Shepherd. 
 
156 
 
 SKETCHES AND FOEMS. 
 
 THE BLESSINGS OF THE SABBATH 
 
 • 
 
 After a week of work and worry, as Saturday 
 evening draws near, with what a sense of thankful 
 ness do we realize that the Sabbath is at hand. This 
 day's duty dona then for awhile the tired brain and 
 limbs may rest, the busy mind raase planning, and 
 a soul refreshing season may be enjoyed Vjy those 
 who are interested in their eternal welfare. Oh I 
 what a blessing that one day in seven is set aside 
 on which we may shake off the many worldly cares 
 that have clustered around the heart during the 
 ^ast week, and turn the thoughts heavenward to 
 where a sweeter and more lasting rest awaits all 
 those who hold out to the end of the Christian 
 journey. As the weary traveller stops to rest under 
 a tree by the road side, and is refreshed by eating 
 the fruit from its branches and drinking from the 
 clear spring that bursts from the ground at his feet, 
 then with strength and courage renewed, goes on 
 his way prepared to surmount all the difficulties 
 that may lay in his path ; si a Sabbath well spent 
 prepares us the more easily to overcome all tho 
 trials and temptations of the ensuing week, and 
 while we refrain as far as possible from all that is 
 p| ft wofldlj fibtiiret aad strive to be like the bt^ 
 
 
KKETCHES AND POKMS. 
 
 16T 
 
 Joved disciple John, in the spirit on the Lord's day, 
 we cannot fail to be hcnefttted l)vjth temporally and 
 spiritually. < Jod in tender mercy and loving kind- 
 ness gave us the Sabbath on which to rest and 
 meditate. Not only the rich, but even the very 
 poorest may avail themselves of the privileges, and 
 enjoy the blessings of the day, but oh ! how many 
 there are who, instead of imi)roving tlie time, waste 
 the }>reci()us hours in idleness or in pleasure seeking 
 and by so doing disobey the c(^mmantl of (Jod, and 
 treat his kindness with ingratitude. For without, 
 the Sabbath life would be a perpetual round of toil, 
 a dreary waste, a continual drudgery, and the hours 
 of rest so limited that it would be next to impos 
 sible for man to attend lo the welfare of his im- 
 mortal soul. But witli Miat blessed day comes rest 
 for the body, and the influence of all that is good 
 and pure to the mind. 
 
 Again, without the Sabbath life wou'u be robbed 
 of much that is bright and lieautiful. For on a fin« 
 Sunday morning in summer does not all nature 
 seem to rejoice; the flowers appear more fail, the 
 birds sing sweeter, the children i>re less boisterous, 
 the parents less impatient, and a i appy quiet rests 
 on everybody and everything. Surely earth is 
 nearer bouveu on a Sabbath than at any utber tiute, 
 
168 
 
 SKETCHES AND POEMS. 
 
 Then as the day closes and the deepening shades of 
 niglit fall softly around us, in tlie tranquility of 
 that hour we seem to hear tlie rustle of angels' 
 wings, and catch a faint echo of celestial music. 
 Thus passes away a Sabbath well spent, leaving a 
 holy joy in the soul and a sweet peace in the heart. 
 
 LINES ON THE DEATH OF A 
 FRIEND. 
 
 We have mingled our tears o'er the silent dead. 
 We have laid her to rest in her narrow bed ; 
 And we mourn that our friend in the morn of her day. 
 Has been called from our midst in the tomb to lay. 
 
 Yes, Amanda, though young, has been summoned 
 
 to go, 
 And leave those who fondly she loved here below ; 
 Through the valley and shadow of death she hath trod, 
 And entered the portal of angels' abode. 
 
 Ah, well we remember the days that are gone, 
 When her voice in sweet harmony joined with our 
 
 own, 
 In the songs that we sang when our hearts were as free 
 As the soft sighing zephyr that floats o'er the sea. 
 
 That voice is now silent, that young heart is still, 
 The place that is vacant no other can fill ; 
 Oh, we miss the dear one that has passed to the tomb, 
 But we tsxmb 6ka Imw9 found i^ sao^ ^oriau» kom^. 
 
' 1 
 
 SKETCHES AND POEMS. 
 
 159 
 
 Farewell, dear Amanda, we bid thee adieu, 
 Fond memory will weave a sweet garland for you 
 Thy trials and sorrows on eartn are all o'er, 
 Farewell till we meet on the heavenly shore. 
 
 I 
 
 MY ISLAND HOME. 
 
 The following lines were composed for a lady who spent th« early 
 part of her life at a lighthouse in the Bay of Fundy. 
 
 I remember the home of my childhood, 
 
 The cot by the blue ocean side ; 
 Where the breeze from the far distant meadoiTB 
 
 Swept by with the murmuring tide ; 
 Where the dash of tlie spray woke the morning, 
 
 And danced in the sun's golden light, 
 As he rose in his majestic splendor, 
 
 And chased back the shadows of night. 
 
 I remember how oft with my sister, 
 
 I've roamed on the rude rocky shore, 
 And gathered bright shells of the ocean, 
 
 Or iiatened to dark billows roar, 
 Oft we've gazed on the wide spreading waters, 
 
 When twilight had faded away» 
 When the mo ^n shed her beams en the billows, 
 
 And silvered the high dashing spray. 
 
 1 remember the bed of sweet flowers, 
 That bloomed on our lone little ib!«3, 
 
 That ladened the air with their fragrance, 
 And welcomed the sunbeam's bright tinile, 
 
160 
 
 SKETCHES AND POEMS. 
 
 And the sweet little bird, our canary, 
 Without him the days would have long, 
 
 In his own pretty caj/e in the window, 
 i i e cheered our lone C'»t with his song. 
 
 1 remember those scenes of my girlhood, 
 
 in fancy I see my old home, 
 The lone little isle and the cottage, 
 
 Encircled by dashing white foam. 
 But dearer than all I remember 
 
 The friends that I parted with there, 
 ThouL'h far from those loved ones I've wandered, 
 
 One haven of rest we shall share. 
 
 Oh blest be the bonds of affection, 
 
 A chain of pure gold is the love 
 Which binds kindred spirits together, 
 
 Though severed our bodies may rove. 
 Though prirted on earth \v3 remember, 
 
 Above in our heavenly home, 
 We will soon be there re -united, » 
 
 No more from each other to roam. 
 
 THE DYING CHILD. 
 
 On hearing of a little jjirl thirteen years of afje, who, when about to 
 die, sought to comfort her weeping mother by assuring her that all 
 was well. 
 
 I am going home to heaven, 
 
 Mother, wipe away thy tears, 
 For the pearly gates are opened, 
 
 And an angel band appears ; 
 1 am going to join their number, . 
 
 In a land of love and light, 
 Soon within the golden city 
 
 I shall walk in spotless whit«. 
 
SKETCHES AND POEMS. 
 
 161 
 
 Grieve not for me, dearest mother, 
 
 Smile upon me ere I go, 
 See the path to heaven shining 
 
 Brighter than the sun below; 
 See the angel band approaching, 
 
 Hear the rustle of their wings. 
 Nearer, nearer, they are coming, 
 
 Peace and joy their presence brings. 
 
 When the stars are shining, mother, 
 
 Brightly in the azure sky. 
 Think your darling is an angel 
 
 Fairei" than the stars on high ; 
 Hark, I hear a soft low whisper, 
 
 Calling me to come away 
 From a world of sin and sorrow, 
 
 To the realms of endless day. 
 
 When you sink to slumber, mother, 
 
 I will come and softly sing. 
 To thy heart n©w torn and bleeding, 
 
 I will peace and comfort bring. 
 When on wings of faith your spirit 
 
 Mounts to join the good and blest, 
 I will meet thee at the portal, 
 
 Kiss me now, then let mc rest 
 
 EVENING CHARMS. 
 
 T love to wander in the shady grove, 
 
 Just as the last bright ray is fading in the wont 
 When all is beautiful around me and above, 
 
 And weary nature gently sinks to rest 
 
 \ 
 

 :• I 
 
 I 
 
 162 
 
 SKETCHES AM) POEMS 
 
 
 Then sweetly from the distant wood-crown'd hill, 
 The wild bird's evening song falls on my listening 
 ear., 
 
 And mingled with the murmur of the gushing rill, 
 With soft low nmsic fills the balmy air. 
 
 i. 
 
 I love to listen to the evening breeze, 
 
 That steals along so softly thro' the woody dell; 
 And sighs and whispers as it floats among the trees, 
 
 And hushes nature with its soothing spell. 
 The rose that but a few short hours before 
 
 Had waved so graceful in the gentle summer gale, 
 Then drops its velvet leaves, its transient life is o'er, 
 
 And with its parting breath perfumes the vale. 
 
 THE END. 
 
 •-y 
 
ma 
 
 3r.