THE DEATH OF CLEOPATRA.

———

BY W. GILMORE SIMMS, AUTHOR OF “GUY RIVERS,” “THE YEMASSEE,” “RICHARD HURDIS,” &c.

———

Guard.What work is here? Charmian, is this well done?Charmian.It is well done, and fitting for a princess,Descended of so many royal kings.Shakspeare.

Guard.What work is here? Charmian, is this well done?

Charmian.It is well done, and fitting for a princess,

Descended of so many royal kings.

Shakspeare.

Augustus Cæsar.Dolabella.

Augustus.Dead! say’st thou? Cleopatra?

Dolabella.She sleeps fast—

Will answer nothing more—hath no more lusts

For passion to persuade—nor art to breed

Any more combats. I have seen her laid⁠—

As for a bridal—in a pomp of charms,

That mocked the flashing jewels in her crown

With beauty never theirs. Her bridegroom one

Who conquers more than Cæsar—a grim lord

Now in the fullest possession of his prize,

Who riots on her sweets; seals with close kiss

The precious caskets of her eyes, that late

Held—baiting fond desire with hope of spoil⁠—

Most glorious gems of life; and, on her cheek,

Soft still with downy ripeness—not so pale,

As sudden gush of fancy in the heart

Might bring to virgin consciousness—he lays

His icy lip, that fails to cause her shrink

From the unknown soliciting. Her sleep

Dreams nothing of the embrace, the very last

Her eager and luxurious form may know,

Of that dread ravisher.

Augustus.If it be true,

She still hath baffled me. My conquest sure⁠—

My triumph incomplete! I had borne her else,

The proudest trophy of a myriad spoil,

In royal state to Rome. Give me to know

The manner of her death.

Dolabella.By her own hands,

That conscious still, commended to her breast

The fatal kiss of Nile’s envenomed asp;

That subtle adder, that from slime and heat

Receives a gift of poison, whose least touch

Is a sure stoppage of the living tides.

Augustus.Her death commends her more than all her life!

’Twas like a queen—fit finish to a state,

That, in its worst excess, passionate and wild,

Had still a pomp of majesty, too proud

For mortal subjugation! She had lusts

Most profligate of harm—but with a will,

That, under laws of more restraint, had raised

Her passions into powers, which might have borne

Best fruits for the possessor. They have wrought

Much evil to her nature; but her heart

Cherished within a yearning sense of love

That did not always fail; and where she set

The eye of her affections, her fast faith

Kept the close bond of obligation sure.

This still should serve, when censure grows most free,

To sanctify her fault. In common things

Majestic, as in matters of more state,

She had besides the feminine arts to make

Her very lusts seem grateful; and with charms

That mocked all mortal rivalry, she knew

To dress the profligate graces in her gift⁠—

Generous to very wantonness, and free

Of bounty, where Desert might nothing claim⁠—

That Virtue’s self might doubt of her own shape,

So lovely grew her counterfeit. O’er all,

Her splendor, and her soul’s magnificence.

The pomp that crowned her state—luxurious shows

Where Beauty, grown subservient to a sway

That made Art her first vassal—these, so twinned

With her voluptuous weakness, did become

Her well, and took from her the hideous hues

That else had made men loathe!

That else had made men loathe!I would have seen

This princess ere she died! How looks she now?

Dol.As one who lives but sleeps; no change to move

The doubts of him who sees, yet nothing knows,

Of that sly, subtle enemy, which still

Keeps harbor round her heart. Charmian, her maid,

Had, ere I entered, lidded up the eyes,

That had no longer office; and she lay,

With each sweet feature harmonizing still

As truly with the nature as at first,

When Beauty’s wide-world wonder she went forth

Spelling both art and worship! Never did sleep

More slumberous, more infant-like, give forth

Its delicate breathings. You might see the hair

Wave in stray ringlets as the downy breath

Lapsed through the parted lips, and dream the leaf

Torn from the rose and laid upon her mouth

Was lifted by that zephyr of the soul

That still kept watch within—waiting on life

In ever anxious ministry. Lips and brow⁠—

The one most sweetly parted as for song⁠—

The other smooth and bright, even as the pearls

That, woven in fruit-like clusters, hung above,

Starring the raven curtains of her hair⁠—

Declared such calm of happiness, as never

Her passionate life had known. No show of pain⁠—

No writhed muscle—no distorted cheek,

Deformed the beautiful picture of repose,

Or spoke th’ unequal struggle, when fond life

Strives with its dread antipathy. Her limbs

Lay pliant, with composure, on the couch,

Whose draperies loosely fell about her form,

With gentle flow, and natural fold on fold,

Proof of no difficult conflict. There had been,

Perchance, one pang of terror, when she gave

Free access to her terrible enemy;

Or in the moment when the venomous chill

Went sudden to her heart; for from her neck

The silken robes had parted. The white breast

Lay half revealed, save where the affluent hair

Streamed over it in thick disheveled folds,

That asked no further care. Oh! to behold,

With eye still piercing to the sweet recess,

Where rose each gentle slope, that seemed to swell

Beneath mine eye, as conscious of my gaze,

And throbbing with emotion soft as strange,

Of love akin to fear. Thus dwelling still,

Like little billows on some happy sea,

They sudden seemed to freeze, as if the life

Grew cold when all was loveliest. One blue vein

Skirted the white curl of each heaving wave,

A tint from some sweet sunbow, such as life

Flings ever on the cold domain of death;

And, at their equal heights, two ruby crests⁠—

Two yet unopened buds from the same flower⁠—

Borne upward by the billows, rising yet,

Grew into petrified gems, with each an eye

Eloquent pleading to the passionate heart

For all of love it knows! Alas! the mock!

That Death should mask himself with loveliness,

And Beauty have no voice, in such an hour,

To warn its eager worshiper. I saw⁠—

And straight forgot, in joy of what I saw,

What still I knew—that Death was in my sight,

And what was seeming beautiful, was but

The twilight—the brief interval—betwixt

The glorious day and darkness. I had kissed

The wooing bliss before me, but that then

Crawled forth the venomous reptile from the folds

Where still it harbored—crawled across that shrine

Of Beauty’s best perfections, which, meseemed,

To shrink and shudder ’neath its loathly march,

Instinct with all the horrors at my heart.

Augustus.Thus Guilt and Shame deform the Beautiful!

THE FAIRIES’ SONG.

———

BY HEINRICH.

———

Stars are twinkling bright above us,Music calls us on;Shades of eve that guard and love us,Veil the hallowed lawn;Hand in hand,All the band,Dance we till the breaking dawn!Hark! the gently swelling measure!Twine the magic rings!Dance, while lasts our nightly pleasure,While the bluebells ring;And above,’Mid the grove,Nightingales in chorus sing.Far away all human voices!Spirits far away!Naught but Fairy Elf rejoicesWhere the Fairies play;Play and dance,’Neath the glanceOf the moon’s reflected ray!Faster! Faster! Night is waning;All must end with night.Russet clouds of morn are stainingPhœbe’s silvery light;Sisters, hark!’Twas the lark!Fairies! Fairies! Take to flight.

Stars are twinkling bright above us,Music calls us on;Shades of eve that guard and love us,Veil the hallowed lawn;Hand in hand,All the band,Dance we till the breaking dawn!

Stars are twinkling bright above us,

Music calls us on;

Shades of eve that guard and love us,

Veil the hallowed lawn;

Hand in hand,

All the band,

Dance we till the breaking dawn!

Hark! the gently swelling measure!Twine the magic rings!Dance, while lasts our nightly pleasure,While the bluebells ring;And above,’Mid the grove,Nightingales in chorus sing.

Hark! the gently swelling measure!

Twine the magic rings!

Dance, while lasts our nightly pleasure,

While the bluebells ring;

And above,

’Mid the grove,

Nightingales in chorus sing.

Far away all human voices!Spirits far away!Naught but Fairy Elf rejoicesWhere the Fairies play;Play and dance,’Neath the glanceOf the moon’s reflected ray!

Far away all human voices!

Spirits far away!

Naught but Fairy Elf rejoices

Where the Fairies play;

Play and dance,

’Neath the glance

Of the moon’s reflected ray!

Faster! Faster! Night is waning;All must end with night.Russet clouds of morn are stainingPhœbe’s silvery light;Sisters, hark!’Twas the lark!Fairies! Fairies! Take to flight.

Faster! Faster! Night is waning;

All must end with night.

Russet clouds of morn are staining

Phœbe’s silvery light;

Sisters, hark!

’Twas the lark!

Fairies! Fairies! Take to flight.

THE TWO COUSINS;

A MAS-SA-SANGA LEGEND OF WESTERN CANADA.

———

BY G. COPWAY, OR KAH-GE-GA-GAH-BOWH.

———

There lived among the hills of the North two most intimate friends, who appeared to have loved each other from the hour of their earliest childhood. In summer they lived by a beautiful lake, in autumn on the banks of a noble river. In appearance they were nearly similar, apparently of the same age as they were of the same size. In their early days a good old Indian woman attended to their wants, and cared for their wigwam. Together they strolled among the green woods and shared the results of their ramblings. Years passed by, and manhood came. They used larger bows and arrows. One day the old lady took them by her side and said—“The nation to which we belong fasts, and now I want you to fast, that you may become great hunters.” So they fasted.

As spring advanced they killed a great many wild ducks, and kept the old woman of the wigwam busy. In the latter part of the year they killed large numbers of beavers, with the furs of which they clothed their grandmother and themselves. In their journey one day they made an agreement, to the effect, that if when they fasted the gods were kindly disposed toward one, he would inform the other.

In the fall they were far from the rivers, but yet moved toward the north, where, as they knew, the bears most resorted.

During that winter they killed a great many, as also during the month of March ensuing.

At the close of one of their hunting expeditions, they turned their feet toward their home, at which they arrived at a late hour. As they approached, they heard the sound of several voices besides that of their grandmother. They listened. They knew that strangers were in the wigwam, and entering beheld two young and beautiful damsels, seated in that part of the room in which they generally rested during the night. To the young hunters the young women appeared very strange and modest. At length the old lady said to the young men⁠—

“Nosesetook—my children—I have called these two young women from the south, that they may aid me in taking care of all the meat and venison you bring home, for I am getting old and weak, and cannot do as much as I used to. I have put them by your sides that they may be your companions.”

When the last words were spoken they looked upon each other, and soon left to wander by themselves in the forest around. They consulted together as to whether they should comply with her request. One said he should leave the wigwam. The other said that if they left there would be no one to supply their aged grandmother. And they finally agreed to remain in the wigwam and pay no regard to the new-comers.

They slept side by side every night, and agreed that if either should begin to love one of the young strangers they would inform the other, and would then separate forever. In February they obtained a vast amount of game, as the bears having retired to their winter-quarters were easily found and captured.

It was observed one evening that one of the young men gazed very intently at one of the strangers, and the next morning as they went out he asked the other whether he did not begin to love the young damsel who sat on his side of the birchen fire. He replied negatively.

It was observed that one of the cousins appeared to be deeply absorbed in thought every evening, and that his manners were very reserved. After a fortunate hunting-day, as they were wending their way home with their heavy burden of bear and deer, one accused the other of loving the young woman. Tell me, said he, and if you do, I will leave you to yourselves. If you have a wife I cannot take the same delight with you as I did when we followed the chase.

His cousin sighed and said, “I will tell you to-night as we lie side by side.” At night they reasoned together and agreed to hunt. If they did not meet with success, they must separate.

The next morning they went to the woods. They were not far distant from each other. The one who was in love shot only five, while the other returned with the tongues of twenty bears. The former was all the time thinking of the damsel at home, while the latter sought out his game with nothing else to divert his mind.

On their return home the lucky man informed his grandmother that he should leave the next day, and that what he should kill on the morrow must be searched after, as he should not return to tell them where he had killed the game. His cousin was grieved to find that his mind was made up to leave, and began to expostulate with him to change his determination, but he would not be persuaded to do so.

The next day, the young man who was to leave bound a rabbit-skin about his neck, to keep it warm, and having painted himself with red and yellow paints he left; his cousin following just behind, entreating him not to go. “I will go,” said he, “and live in the north, where I shall see but four persons, and when you look that way you will see me.”

They walked side by side until he began to ascend, and as he did so, the other wept the more bitterly, and entreated him more perseveringly not to leave him. The cousin ascended to the skies, and is now seen in the north, Ke-wa-din Ah-nung (North Star,) still hunting the polar bear; while the other wept himself tonaught before he could arrive home, and now he answers and mocks everywhere everybody. He lives in craggy rocks, and his name is Bah-swa-nay (Echo.)

The young maidens lived for a long time in the south under ambrosial bowers, awaiting the return of their lovers, until one fell in love with mankind, and the other yet lives in that country, awaiting the return of her lover, where

——“she looks as clearAs morning roses, newly washed in dew.”

——“she looks as clear

As morning roses, newly washed in dew.”

UNFADING FLOWERS.

———

BY T. S. ARTHUR.

———

Thirty years ago, a small, barefooted boy, paused to admire the flowers in a well cultivated garden. The child was an orphan, and had already felt how hard the orphan’s lot. The owner of the garden, who was trimming a border, noticed the lad, and spoke to him kindly.

“Do you love flowers?” said he.

The boy replied, “Oh yes. We used to have beautiful flowers in our garden.”

The man laid down his knife, and gathering a few flowers, took them to the fence, through thepanels of which the boy was looking, and handing them to him, said as he did so,

“Here’s a nice little bunch for you.”

A flush went over the child’s face as he took the flowers. He did not make any reply, but in his large eyes, as he lifted them to the face of the man, was an expression of thankfulness, to be read as plainly as words in a book.

The act, on the part of the man, was one of spontaneous kindness, and scarcely thought of again; but, by the child, it was never forgotten.

Years went by, and through toil, privation and suffering, both in body and mind, the boy grew up to manhood. From ordeals like this, come forth our most effective men. If kept free from vicious associates, the lad of feeling and mental activity becomes ambitious, and rises in society above the common level. So it proved in the case of this orphan boy. He had few advantages of education, but such as offered were well improved. It happened that his lot was cast in a printing office; and the young compositor soon became interested in his work. He did not set the types as a mere mechanic, but went beyond the duties of his calling, entering into the ideas to which he was giving verbal expression, and making them his own. At twenty-one he was a young man of more than ordinary intelligence and force of character. At thirty-five he was the conductor of a widely-circulated and profitable newspaper, and as a man, respected and esteemed by all who knew him.

During the earnest struggle that all men enter into who are ambitious to rise in the world, the thoughts do not often go back and rest, meditatively, upon the earlier time of life. But after success has crowned each well-directed effort, and the gaining of a desired position, no longer remains a subject of doubt, the mind often brings up from the far-off past most vivid recollections of incidents and impressions that were painful or pleasurable at the time, and which are now seen to have had an influence, more or less decided, upon the whole after life. In this state of reflection sat one day the man we have here introduced. After musing for a long time, deeply abstracted, he took up his pen and wrote hastily—and these were the sentences he traced upon the paper that lay before him.

“Howindelibly does a little act of kindness, performed at the right moment, impress itself upon the mind. We meet, as we pass through the world, so much of rude selfishness, that we guard ourselves against it, and scarcely feel its effects. But spontaneous kindness comes so rarely, that we are surprised when it appears, and delighted and refreshed as by the perfume of flowers in the dreary winter. When we were a small boy, an orphan, and with the memory of a home forever lost too vivid in our young heart, a man, into whose beautiful garden we stood looking, pulled a few flowers, and handed them through the fence, speaking a kind word as he did so. He did not know, and perhaps never will know, how deeply we were touched by his act. From a little boy we loved the flowers, and ere that heaviest affliction a child ever knows—the loss of parents—fell upon us, we almost lived among them. But death separated between us and all those tender associations and affections that, to the hearts of children, are like dew to the tender grass. We entered the dwelling of a stranger, and were treated thenceforth as if we had, or ought to have, no feelings, no hopes, no weaknesses. The harsh command came daily and almost hourly to our ears; and not even for work well done, or faithful service, were we cheered by words of commendation.

“One day—we were not more than eleven years old—something turned our thoughts back upon the earlier and happier time when we had a true home, andwere loved and cared for. We were once more in the garden and among the sweet blossoms, as of old, and the mother, on whose bosom we had slept, sat under the grape arbor while we filled her lap with flowers. There was a smile of love on her dear face, and her lips were parting with some word of affection, when, to scatter into nothing these dear images of the lonely boy, came the sharp command of a master, and in obedience we started forth to perform some needed service. Our way was by the garden of which we have spoken; and it was on this occasion, and while the suddenly dissipated image of our mother among the flowers was re-forming itself in our young imagination, that the incident to which we have alluded occurred. We can never forget the grateful perfume of those flowers, nor the strength and comfort which the kind words and manner of the giver imparted toour fainting spirit. We took them home, and kept them fresh as long as water would preserve their life and beauty; and when they faded, and the leaves fell, pale and withered, upon the ground, we grieved for their loss as if a real friend had been taken away.

“It is a long, long time since that incident occurred; but the flowers which there sprung up in our bosom, are fresh and beautiful still. They have neither faded nor withered—they cannot, for they are unfading flowers. We never looked upon the man who gave them to us that our heart did not grow warm toward him. We know not now whether he be living or dead. Twenty years ago we lost sight of him; but, if still among the dwellers of earth, and in need of a friend, we would divide with him our last morsel.”

An old man, with hair whitened by the snows of many winters, was sitting in a room that was poorly supplied with furniture, his head bowed down, and gaze cast dreamily upon the floor. A pale young girl came in while he thus sat musing. Lifting his eyes to her face, he said, while he tried to look cheerful,

“Ellen, dear, you must not go out to-day.”

“I feel a great deal better, grandpa,” returned the girl, forcing a smile. “I am able to go to work again.”

“No, child, you are not,” said the old man, firmly; “and you must not think of such a thing.”

“Don’t be so positive, grandpa.” And as she uttered this little sentence, in a half playful voice, she laid her hand among the thin gray locks on the old man’s head, and smoothed them caressingly. “You know that I must not be idle.”

“Wait, child, until your strength returns.”

“Our wants will not wait, grandpa.” As the girl said this, her face became sober. The old man’s eyes again fell to the floor, and a heavy sigh came forth from his bosom.

“I will be very careful and not overwork myself again,” resumed Ellen, after a pause.

“You must not go to-day,” said the old man, arousing himself. “It is murder. Wait at least until to-morrow. You will be stronger then.”

“If I do not go back to-day, I may lose my place. You know I have been home for three days.”

“You were sick.”

“Work will not wait. The last time I was kept away by sickness, a customer was disappointed; and there was a good deal of trouble about it.”

Another sigh came heavily from the old man’s heart.

“I will go,” said the girl. “Perhaps they will let me off for a day longer. If so, I will come back. But I must not lose the place.”

No further resistance was made by the old man. In a little while he was alone. Hours went by, but Ellen did not return. She had gone to work. Her employer would not let her go away, feeble as she was, without a forfeiture of her place.

About mid-day, finding that Ellen did not come back, the old man, after taking some food, went out. The pressure of seventy years was upon him, and his steps were slow and carefully taken.

“I must get something to do. I can work still,” he muttered to himself, as he moved along the streets. “The dear child is killing herself, and all for me.”

But what could he do? Who wanted the services of an old man like him, whose mind had lost its clearness, whose step faltered, and whose hand was no longer steady? In vain he made application for employment. Younger and more vigorous men filled all the places, and he was pushed aside. Discouraged and drooping in spirit, he went back to his home, and there awaited the fall of evening, which was to bring the return of the only being left on earth to love him. At night-fall Ellen came in. Her face, so pale in the morning, was now slightly flushed; and her eyes were brighter than when she went out. The grandfather was not deceived by this; he knew it as the sign of disease. He took her hand—it was hot; and when he bent to kiss her gentle lips, he found them burning with fever.

“Ellen, my child, why did you go to work to-day? I knew it would make you sick,” the old man said, in a voice of anguish.

Ellen tried to smile and to appear not so very ill; but nature was too much oppressed.

“I brought home some work, and will not go out to-morrow,” she remarked. “I think the walk fatigued me more than any thing else. I will feel better in the morning, after a good night’s sleep.”

But the girl’s hope failed in this. The morning found her so weak that she could not rise from bed; and when her grandfather came into her room to learn how she had passed the night, he found her weeping on her pillow. She had endeavored to get up, but her head, which was aching terribly, grew dizzy, and she fell back under a despairing consciousness that her strength was gone.

The day passed, but Ellen did not grow better. The fever still kept her body prostrate. Once or twice, when her grandfather was out of the room, she took the work she had brought home, and tried to do some of it while sitting up in bed. But ere a minute had passed, she became faint, while all grew dark around her. She was no better when night came. If her mind could have rested—if she had been free from anxious and distressing thoughts, nature would have had some power to react, but as it was, the pressure upon her was too great. She could not forget that they had scarcely so much money as a dollar left, and that her old grandfather was too feeble to work. Upon her rested all the burden of their support, and she was now helpless.

On the next morning Ellen was better. She could sit up without feeling dizzy, though her head still ached, and the fever had only slightly abated. But the old man would not permit her to leave the bed, though she begged him earnestly to let her do so.

The bundle of work that Ellen had brought home, was wrapped in a newspaper, and this her grandfather took up to read some time during the day.

“This is Mr. T——’s newspaper,” said he, as he opened it, and saw the title. “I knew T—— when he was a poor little orphan boy. But, of course, he don’t remember me. He’s prospered wonderfully.”

And then his eyes went along the columns of the paper, and he read aloud to Ellen such things as he thought would interest her. Among others was a reminiscenceby the editor—the same that we have just given. The old man’s voice faltered as he read. The little incident, so feelingly described, had long since been hidden in his memory under the gathering dust of time. But now the dust was swept away, and he saw his own beautiful garden. He was in it and among the flowers; and wishfully looking through the fence stood the orphan boy. He remembered having felt pity for him, and he remembered now as distinctly as if it were but yesterday, though thirty years had intervened, the light that went over the child’s face as he handed him a few flowers that were to fade and wither in a day.

Yes, the old man’s voice faltered while he read; and when he came to the last sentence, the paper dropped upon the floor, and clasping his hands together, he lifted his dim eyes upward, while his lips moved in whispered words of thankfulness.

“What ails you, grandpa?” asked Ellen, in surprise.

But the old man did not seem to hear her voice.

“Dear grandpa,” repeated the girl, “why do you look so strangely?” She had risen in bed, and was bending toward him.

“Ellen, child,” said the old man, a light breaking over his countenance, as though a sunbeam had suddenly come into the room, “it was your old grandfather who gave the flowers to that poor little boy. Did you hear what he said?—he would divide his last morsel.”

The old man moved about the room with his unsteady steps, talking in a wandering way, so overjoyed at the prospect of relief for his child, that he was nearly beside himself. But there yet lingered some embers of pride in his heart; and from these the ashes were blown away, and they became bright and glowing. The thought of asking a favor as a return for that little act, which was to him, at the time, a pleasure, came with a feeling of reluctance. But when he looked at the pale young girl who lay with her eyes closed and her face half buried in the pillow, he murmured to himself, “It is for you—for you!” And taking up his staff, he went tottering forth into the open air.

The editor was sitting in his office, writing, when he heard the door open, and turning, he saw before him an old man with bent form and snowy head. Something in the visiter’s countenance struck him as familiar; but he did not recognize him as one whom he had seen before.

“Is Mr. T—— in?” inquired the old man.

“My name is T——,” replied the editor.

“You?” There was a slight expression of surprise in the old man’s voice.

“Yes, I am T——, my friend,” was kindly said. “Can I do any thing for you? Take this chair.”

The offered seat was accepted; and as the old man sunk into it, his countenance and manner betrayed his emotion.

“I have come,” said he, and his voice was unsteady, “to do what I could not do for myself alone. But I cannot see my poor, sick grandchild wear out and die under the weight of burdens that are too heavy to be borne. For her sake I have conquered my own pride.”

There was a pause.

“Go on,” said T——, who was looking at the old man earnestly, and endeavoring to fix his identity in his mind.

“You don’t know me?”

“Your face is not entirely strange,” said T——. “It must have been a long time since we met.”

“Long? Oh yes! It is a long, long time. You were a boy, and I unbent by age.”

“Markland!” exclaimed T——, with sudden energy, springing to his feet as the truth flashed upon him. “Say—is it so?”

“My name is Markland.”

“And do we meet again thus!” said T——, with emotion, as he grasped the old man’s hand. “Ah, sir, I have never forgotten you. When a sad-hearted boy, you spoke to me kindly, and the words comforted me when I had no other comfort. The bunch of flowers you gave me—you remember it, no doubt—are still fresh in my heart. Not a leaf has faded. They are as bright and green, and full of perfume as when I first hid them there; and there they will bloom forever—the unfading flowers of gratitude. I am glad you have come, though grieved that your declining years are made heavier by misfortune. Heaven has smiled on my efforts in the world. I have enough, and to spare.”

“I have not come for charity,” returned Markland. “I have hands, and they would not be idle, though it is not much that they can accomplish.”

“Be not troubled on that account, my friend,” was kindly answered. “I will find something for you to do. But first tell me all about yourself.”

Thus encouraged, the old man told his story. It was the common history of loss of property and friends, and the approach of want with declining years. T—— saw that pride and native independence were still strong in Markland’s bosom, feeble as he was, and really unable to enter upon any serious employment; and his first impulse was to save his feelings at the same time that he extended to him entire and permanent relief. This he found no difficulty in doing, and the old man was soon after placed in a situation where but little application was necessary, while the income was all-sufficient for the comfortable support of himself and grandchild.

The flowers offered with a purely humane feeling, proved to be fadeless flowers; and their beauty and perfume came back to the senses of the giver when all other flowers were dead or dying on his dark and dreary way.

WILD-BIRDS OF AMERICA.

———

BY PROFESSOR FROST.

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We have already remarked that there are but two species of the true Auk. The Puffin belongs to the sub-genus Fratercula. Of the singular figure of this bird our engraving gives a true representation; of its habits, Selby gives the following account, which is corroborated by other writers who have described it.

“Although the Puffin is found in very high latitudes, and its distribution through the Arctic Circle is extensive, it is only known to us as a summer visitant, and that from the south, making its first appearance in the vicinity of its breeding stations, about the middle of April, and regularly departing between the 10th and the 20th of August. Many resort to the islands, selecting such as are covered with a stratum of vegetable mould; and here they dig their own burrows, from there not being any rabbits to dispossess upon the particular islets they frequent. They commence this operation about the first week in May, and the hole is generally excavated to the depth of three feet, often in a curving direction, and occasionally with two entrances. When engaged in digging, which is principally performed by the males, they are sometimes so intent on their work as to admit of being taken by hand, and the same may also be done during incubation. At this period I have frequently obtained specimens, by thrusting my arm into the burrow, though at the risk of receiving a severe bite from the powerful and sharp edged bill of the old bird. At the farther end of this hole the single egg is deposited, which in size nearly equals that of a pullet, and, as Pennant observes, varies in form; in some instances one end being acute, and in others equally obtuse. Its color when first laid is white, but it becomes soiled and dirty from its immediate contact with the earth: no materials being collected for a nest at the end of the burrow. The young are hatched after a month’s incubation, and are then covered with a long blackish down above, which gradually gives place to the feathered plumage, so that at the end of a month or five weeks they are able to quit the burrow, and follow their parents to the open sea. Soon after this time, or about the second week in August, the whole leave our coasts, commencing their equatorial migration. At an early age the bill of this bird is small and narrow, scarcely exceeding that of the young Razor-bill at the same period of life; and not till after the second year does this member acquire its full development, both as to depth, color, and its transverse furrows.

“In rocky places, they deposit their single egg in the holes and crevices. The length of the bird is about twelve inches. The half of the bill nearest the head is bluish; the rest red. The corners of the mouth are puckered into a kind of star. The legs and feet are orange. The plumage is black and white, with the exception of the cheeks and chin, which are sometimes gray. The young, pickled with spices, are sometimes considered dainties.”

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