THE MOUNTAIN SPRING.

———

BY MISS MARY MACLEAN.

———

[SEE ENGRAVING.]

Ona sultry noon in summer,When the very air was still,Young Jessie from her cottageCame, sighing, to the rill:—Her graceless lover, Donald,With his laird, Sir Vasavour,And a troop of gallant gentlemen.Were hunting on the moor;And many a day and night had passedSince he had sought her door.But when the simple maidenDrew slowly toward the spring—So heavy with her loneliness,She had not heart to sing—She saw a stranger kneeling,And paused, with modest fears,But the cadence of her footstepHad reached his eager ears—And Jessie lay in Donald’s arms,While he kissed away her tears.

Ona sultry noon in summer,

When the very air was still,

Young Jessie from her cottage

Came, sighing, to the rill:—

Her graceless lover, Donald,

With his laird, Sir Vasavour,

And a troop of gallant gentlemen.

Were hunting on the moor;

And many a day and night had passed

Since he had sought her door.

But when the simple maidenDrew slowly toward the spring—So heavy with her loneliness,She had not heart to sing—She saw a stranger kneeling,And paused, with modest fears,But the cadence of her footstepHad reached his eager ears—And Jessie lay in Donald’s arms,While he kissed away her tears.

But when the simple maiden

Drew slowly toward the spring—

So heavy with her loneliness,

She had not heart to sing—

She saw a stranger kneeling,

And paused, with modest fears,

But the cadence of her footstep

Had reached his eager ears—

And Jessie lay in Donald’s arms,

While he kissed away her tears.

THE MOUNTAIN SPRING.Engraved expressly for Graham’s Magazine by G. J. Anderson

HAPPINESS—A SONNET.

———

BY RICHARD COX, JR.

———

Thougilded phantom of the cheated brain,Through days and nights of long-successive yearsWe follow thee—through sunshine and through tears,With beating hearts and eager eyes, in vainWe wait thy coming! now thou art anear,And now afar-off straying, and againDost give as something of thy bliss to feel,That we, contrasting thy sweet self and pain,Might know thee worthy all our woes to heal.Thou art the essence of a joy supreme,Too pure to dwell upon this earthly clod —The real presence of the Christian’s dream;Thy dwelling is where mortal never trod,Thy home is Heaven! and thy creator—God!

Thougilded phantom of the cheated brain,

Through days and nights of long-successive years

We follow thee—through sunshine and through tears,

With beating hearts and eager eyes, in vain

We wait thy coming! now thou art anear,

And now afar-off straying, and again

Dost give as something of thy bliss to feel,

That we, contrasting thy sweet self and pain,

Might know thee worthy all our woes to heal.

Thou art the essence of a joy supreme,

Too pure to dwell upon this earthly clod —

The real presence of the Christian’s dream;

Thy dwelling is where mortal never trod,

Thy home is Heaven! and thy creator—God!

HOME: OR A VISIT TO THE CITY.

A SOUTHERN STORY OF REAL LIFE.

———

BY THE AUTHOR OF “THE GOLD BEADS.”

———

Far from the mad’ning crowds ignoble strifeTheir sober wishes never learned to stray,Along the cool sequestered vale of lifeThey kept the even tenor of their way.Gray’s Elegy.

Far from the mad’ning crowds ignoble strife

Their sober wishes never learned to stray,

Along the cool sequestered vale of life

They kept the even tenor of their way.

Gray’s Elegy.

Aboutthirty miles from Savannah, on the banks of the river of that name, is a pretty little village, which, with its small white houses nestled away in the thick green woods, is something like a hail-stone which has fallen in a cluster of green leaves. Scarce a quarter of a mile from the village is the modest residence of Mrs. Delmont, which is in itself a little paradise of beauty. Shaded by the stately sycamore, the magnolia, with its deep green leaves, the catalpa, with its silver blossoms, and the luxuriant orange-tree, it stands unrivaled for the romance of its situation for miles around; while the cape-jessamine, the japonica, the oleander, and many other rare and beautiful flowers lend their radiant hues to ornament the latticed piazza, which is covered over with the fragrant honeysuckle, together with jessamines of every hue. In this beautiful and peaceful retreat Mrs. Delmont had resided since the death of her husband, which had taken place when her children, of whom she had three, were very young.

William, her only son, was a sunny faced boy of eight years old. Rosa, two years older, had the blue eyes and golden hair of her mother; while Clara had her father’s dark eyes and shining hair, which clustered in dark brown ringlets around her fair face.

Clara had just completed her eighteenth year, and was a tall, graceful and beautiful girl; she had been carefully trained by her affectionate mother, and well did she repay that mother’s anxious care, for in her bereavement she was her comforter and assistant in many things, and in nothing more than in undertaking the education of her little brother and sister, a useful, although we cannot agree with the poet in styling it a “delightful task,” yet one that Clara was well qualified to perform, as she had herself received a finished education, although she had never left her native village: and she was thus occupied one morning, when Mrs. Delmont entered the room with an open letter in her hand, and addressed our heroine in the following manner:

“My dear Clara, your cousin Mrs. Cleveland writes that she, with Mr. Cleveland and their three children, will be here next Wednesday evening, to spend a fortnight with us, after which they wish you to accompany them to their city residence, and remain there for this winter.”

“Oh, mamma, that would be delightful,” exclaimed Clara. “I know I will enjoy my time with cousin Florence; and then, you know, the city is so gay a place. I would be too happy to go.”

“So I think, my dear,” replied her mother, “and therefore if you wish it I have no possible objection; but how can you leave Mr. Seymour?” added she, archly.

“Why, ma,” exclaimed Clara, blushing deeply, “what is Mr. Seymour to me?”

“Ah, Clara,” replied Mrs. Delmont, “I know what he is to you, better than you are willing to acknowledge to yourself. But seriously, my dear child, you must decide at once, so that I may write an answer to your cousin’s letter.”

“Of course, mamma, I should be delighted to go.” And Mrs. Delmont retired to write the letter, while Clara indulged herself in a long walk, in order to meditate on the news, and to anticipate the delights of a visit to the city.

On the appointed day, after assisting the cook to make a rich plum-cake, and some delicate tarts, she repaired to the parlor, which she had taken great care and pains to assist her mother in furnishing as handsomely as their circumstances would allow, and arranged with faultless taste the brilliant flowers which her little brother and sister, who were now entirely in the spirit of preparation, had gathered, and placed the nuts they had cracked in a silver basket on the carefully polished table, fastened back the snowy curtains, with white chrysanthemums interspersed with their rich green leaves, adjusting them so as to throw the most advantageous light on a beautiful painting which she herself had executed. From the parlor Clara proceeded to the apartment which she intended for her cousin: it opened on a grove in which were several rustic seats and boxes of flowers, and through an opening in the trees the broad river was seen to glide calmly on through banks now dressed in the brightest colors of an American autumn. The furniture of this room was Clara’s peculiar taste, and it well accorded with the simplicity and purity of her own mind. The counterpane, curtains and toilet were white as a snow-drift; the curtains being on this occasion looped up with crimson roses, and the toilet beautifully embroidered by Clara’s own hand, and on it were laid a handsome Bible and Prayer-Book; and she finished her preparations by taking a rich and antique China vase, frosted with silver, which she prized not a little, and placing it on the table, filled it with the choicest flowers the garden afforded.

“Oh, mamma,” cried Clara, “come here;” and throwing open the parlor-door, she exhibited the apartment; “come here and see how you like my arrangements for cousin Florence; are not those flowers beautiful?”

“And will not Cousin Florence admire our new carpet, mamma?” said little Rosa.

“I dare say,” said Clara, “it is handsomer than Cousin Florence’s, as it is in all probability so much newer.”

“Yes, my dears,” said Mrs. Delmont, smiling at the simplicity of the young girls, while she was careful not to destroy their pleasant anticipations by undeceiving them. “Yes, my dears, every thing looks very sweet and pretty; those flowers are really beautiful, and I give you a great deal of credit for your good taste. Come, daughters, and show me your cousin’s room.”

“Here, mamma,” said Clara, opening the door, “does it not look quiet and beautiful?”

“Oh, ma!” exclaimed Rosa, “look at those roses on the window-curtains. Sister Clara, how did you fasten them so prettily?”

“Really, my dear Clara,” said Mrs. Delmont, “I congratulate you on your success. I do not think you will see a prettier room in Savannah. Recollect, Rosa, to have some plates in the parlor to eat those nuts in, as I fear the children will soil the carpet with them.”

“Oh, Cousin Florence would not let them soil our pretty carpet, I do not think, mamma,” said little Rosa, as she tripped off for the plates.

The sound of wheels was now heard in the distance, and Clara and her mother hastened to meet their cousin, whom they had not seen for several years.

It was late in October, and the soft breath of summer was chilled, but not frightened away by the coming winter, and the vines that draped the windows still perfumed the air with the rich fragrance of their clustering blossoms. A gentle melancholy, peculiar to autumn, overspread the scene, which seemed the very habitation of beauty and happiness: when Mr. and Mrs. Cleveland drove up the long avenue, and alighted at the gate of Primrose Cottage, as Clara had called Mrs. Delmont’s house, in memory of one of her favorite books, the dear old Vicar of Wakefield.

Mrs. Cleveland was the wife of a flourishing merchant in the city of Savannah, where she had resided since her marriage, which had taken place about five years previous to the commencement of our story; and was an amiable though an exceedingly indolent woman, and indulged her children to such an extent that they were, in consequence, extremely annoying to every one by whom they were surrounded. As soon as Mrs. Cleveland entered the house complaining of excessive fatigue, she was ushered by Clara into her neat apartment, which, however, we are sorry to say, did not long remain so, for the lady immediately threw herself on the bed, caused her trunk to be unpacked, insisted upon the children’s dresses being changed, while the mother, the children, and their nurse, seemed to vie with each other in the attempt to fill every chair and vacant place with such articles as were not in immediate requisition, which gave to the room so disorderly and careless an appearance, that it would never have been recognized as the same sweet looking apartment which Clara had prepared that morning for their reception.

“Ma, I want something to eat,” whined George, the eldest boy.

“Well, my darling,” replied his mother, “Cousin Clara will get you some bread and honey;” and Clara immediately left the room in quest of refreshments for the children, who, when they were obtained, immediately placed them upon the new settee, which Clara had re-covered expressly for this occasion, an arrangement which did not tend greatly to improve its appearance.

“George,” said Mrs. Cleveland, “little Lucy has been teasing for flowers the whole evening, give her those on the table;” and the child, in his haste to hand the flowers, turned the honey over on the settee, and what was still more annoying, threw down Clara’s beautiful vase and broke it into twenty pieces. Tears filled the eyes of our unphilosophizing heroine at this unfortunate accident, but her cousin only remarked:

“There, now, you careless boy, you have broken the pretty vase, but don’t cry now pet; come kiss your mother; Martha, (to the maid) take up those pieces of broken china, I am afraid they will hurt the children’s feet; Cousin Clara, do you recollect who it is that says, ‘Crystal and hearts are only valuable for their fragility,’ quite true.”

Tea was now announced, after which the whole party adjourned to the parlor, where the children commenced throwing the nuts over the floor; regardless of the plates, a proceeding at which little Rosa was greatly scandalized; particularly as Mrs. Cleveland, instead of admiring the carpet, merely remarked, “Really, Johnny, it is well your aunt’s carpet is not a very elegant one, or you would soon spoil it.”

“How much better it is, Cousin Clara, to have a plain carpet, children are so ruinous, and yet they are so sweet one cannot scold them.” Clara thought that if the sweetness of such spoiled children, as they were, was their only protection, it was a coin that would not pass current with every one.

We will not linger over the remainder of Mrs. Cleveland’s visit to Primrose Cottage, nor describe the many annoyances to which her children subjected Clara and her mother, nor will we tire the reader with the many pleasant anticipations which the former entertained of her visit to the city, which, in her simplicity, she imagined to be the most delightful place in the known world.

——

I remember its waking sigh,We roamed in a verdant spotAnd he culled for me, a cluster brightOf the purple forget-me-not.Ballad.

I remember its waking sigh,

We roamed in a verdant spot

And he culled for me, a cluster bright

Of the purple forget-me-not.

Ballad.

It was the last evening of Mrs. Cleveland’s stay; and Clara was dressed with peculiar taste. An observing eye could also have discovered, that the freshest and rarest flowers decked the flower-pots; and that Clara from time to time looked anxiously from the window; who could she be expecting. But the mystery was soon solved, by the appearance of a very handsome young man, who invited Clara to join him in a walk, a request which she readily granted;and, accordingly, they soon left the domestic circle, for a quiet stroll on the banks of the placid Savannah.

It was a lovely evening, the sun was setting in autumnal splendor; the broad river, gilded by its last rays, rolled majestically on; the tinkle of a bell was heard in the distance; the ground was carpeted with leaves of the brightest colors; and through the now nearly bare trees a beautiful view was obtained of the various windings of the river, and of the little village, with its small white houses and their latticed porches, shaded by magnificent sycamore, cypress, and magnolia trees. When we are happy, autumn brings no melancholy to our hearts, but the mournful sound of the wind, the fading leaves, and the hazy beauty of the landscape, is fraught with sadness to one already anxious and dejected; and on this evening Edward Seymour’s handsome countenance was clouded with apprehension; for in addition to his grief at parting with Clara, he could not banish from his mind the gloomy possibility, that every bright hope he had cherished through the balmy gales of spring, and the sunny hours of summer, would vanish with the flowers and leaves of autumn. But, the reader will inquire, did not Clara sympathize with his feelings, and soothe his fears? To a degree, she did; but although Clara loved him, and would not have given him, or any other friend, up for the whole city of Savannah, yet, like a giddy girl, she was so much dazzled by its perspective gayeties that she could not be so deeply affected at leaving him as she would have been under other circumstances.

They returned to the house just as the stars began to appear; and sat alone in the moonlit piazza; for Mrs. Delmont, with a mother’s judicious care, had so arranged things that the children could pursue their boisterous sports in the back yard, while she sat with Mrs. Cleveland in her own room. An hour passed delightfully away, and when Edward regretfully arose to take his departure, he gave to Clara a fresh bouquet of orange flowers, which he had brought for her, and as he did so, kissed the little hand that trembled in his own. A tear sparkled in Clara’s eye at this token of his affection, but her feelings of sadness were quickly dissipated by the bustle of packing for her journey, in which she was engaged, as soon as Mr. Seymour had taken his departure.

The next day was cold and rainy, and it was late when the travelers arrived at the place of their destination, and Clara retired to her apartment much fatigued with her ride, as she had carried Johnny, a troublesome child of three years old, in her lap the whole way, not because there was no room for him elsewhere, but merely because the “little darling” wouldn’t ride any where but with “Cousin Clara,” whose new riding-dress he also chose to daub with molasses candy.

The next morning, when Clara arose, she was informed by a servant that breakfast was ready, who at the same time requested her to excuse “master and missus, as they were too much fatigued with their journey to come down.” Accordingly, Clara descended to an elegantly furnished breakfast-room, which, however, was extremely cold, on account of the very small fire; and the handsome furniture seemed much tarnished by the children, and the breakfast-table was much disordered, as is always the case when, as they did on this occasion, any members of the family take their breakfast in their own room.

No one was at the breakfast-table but the two eldest children, whose company was not very agreeable, as they did nothing but quarrel with each other, and call fretfully to the servants for articles which were not on the table; and during her solitary meal Clara could but compare the pleasant breakfast-room at Primrose Cottage, with its neat carpet of domestic manufacture, its snowy curtains, and its blazing fire, with the cold and comfortless apartment in which she now sat; nor could she avoid drawing a like comparison between her own dear mother’s quiet and cheerful neatness, and the sweet-tempered voices of her little brother and sister, with her cousin’s careless self-indulgence, and the fretful ill temper of her children; yet, while Clara made these comparisons, not very flattering to her cousin, she also reflected that Mrs. Cleveland had just returned from a journey; and it was natural to suppose that the house would be in some confusion, and the children tired, and in consequence fretful, immediately upon their return.

——

But I was a gay and a thoughtless girl,And I cast them all away,And gathered the dandelion buds,And the wild grapes gadding spray.Ballad.

But I was a gay and a thoughtless girl,

And I cast them all away,

And gathered the dandelion buds,

And the wild grapes gadding spray.

Ballad.

“Clara, my love,” said Mrs. Cleveland one morning to our heroine, “you have now been here for some weeks, and have received several calls, not half so many though as you would have, had I the industry to return visits that I owe to some of the most agreeable of my acquaintances; however, we will to-morrow return those which have been paid; and do, my dear, wear the new silk which you thought me so extravagant in making you purchase, merely because, like a little country girl that you are, you thought that it did not accord with your means.”

To this proposal Clara readily acceded, but could not avoid thinking that her cousin might have exerted herself sufficiently to return the calls she mentioned, if it were only on her account. Accordingly, on the following morning Clara, dressed with much care, descended to the parlor, looking beautifully.

“Dear me, Clara,” exclaimed Mrs. Cleveland, “how charmingly you are dressed, are you going out?”

“Why, my dear Florence, have you forgotten our arrangement to make calls this morning.”

“Calls! how provoking that I should have forgotten all about it; and what is still more so, have sent the carriage driver into the country, to purchase some necessary articles for family use; which, however, I could easily have done without, had I recollected our intended excursion. Never mind, Clara, my dear, you shall not be disappointed, for after dinner we will go shopping, for I have some purchases to make which you shall assist me to select.”

But the walk did not afford much pleasure to Clara, for it was nothing more than a continued search for articles in which Mrs. Cleveland was too fastidious to be pleased, and they returned home in the evening,Mrs. Cleveland much fatigued, where they found that Mr. Cleveland had just arrived before them.

“Well, Clara,” observed he, as they took their places at the tea-table, “you have me to thank that after your long walk, you have not to be kept up to-night till ten o’clock with company: Mr. Hambden and Mr. Lester asked leave to call, but I saw you and Florence out, and concluded that you would be too much fatigued to see them this evening; so I made some excuse. They are very fine young men, by the way, and you must attempt a conquest the first time you happen in company with them.”

Now, although Clara had no idea of attempting a conquest, yet naturally fond of company, she would have been glad to have seen the gentlemen mentioned, and wished that Mr. Cleveland had not been so solicitous for her comfort; she therefore made no answer, but Mrs. Cleveland exclaimed,

“Why, Cousin Clara! don’t you recollect the very handsome anddistinguélooking young man you met this evening, and admired so much; well, that was Mr. Lester; I have no doubt the impression was returned. Henry, why didn’t you let them call?”

“Why, my dear, I thought that you and Cousin Clara were so happy in each other’s company, that I disliked to introduce any one else into our quiet circle; I think, now that Cousin Clara is with us, we ought to be quite sufficient for our own happiness: for when I am engaged in business I feel assured that my Florence is not alone, and I hope that her cousin will become so much attached to the city, that she will hereafter spend every winter with us.”

“Indeed I perfectly agree with you, my dearest Henry, and I now see that you were quite right in acting as you did, for I am quite sure that Cousin Clara enjoys herself with us. As for me, her company is such an acquisition that I shall scarcely leave the house this winter, but shall reserve all my dissipation for the time when I shall be compelled to lose her, and seek for amusement abroad. Clara, my dear, whenever you wish to retire Mildred will give you a candle; I am going now to sit in my own room, you know the dear children will never go to sleep without mamma;” and so saying, she retired to her own room, accompanied by her husband, after which Clara went to her apartment, which was rendered chilly, by the small fire having nearly gone out; as it had been hastily kindled by a careless servant.

“After all,” soliloquized Clara, throwing herself on a chair in her cheerless apartment, “after all, it is not so very delightful in the city as I anticipated. Dear Cousin Florence is very kind and affectionate, and yet it seems to me, that she is a little thoughtless, and although I would not mention it to any one, yet I think she considers my comfort and amusement very little, and is so domestic herself, that she thinks I ought to be so too, never considering for a moment that she has a husband and children to interest and occupy her mind, while I am left to my own resources. Dull as my cousin seems to consider my own home, I am beginning to wish I had never left it; there every one studied my tastes, and sought to promote my happiness; here I am completely thrown into the shade. But one thing I have learned, and that is, that whoever has a happy home should never sigh for the gayeties of a city life, for they may feel assured, that they will enjoy more true happiness at their own home, in partaking of the pleasures which it affords, and performing the duties which it enjoins.” As our heroine pronounced these words her eyes fell on an open drawer, where, crushed and faded, were carelessly thrown the bouquet of orange flowers which Edward had given her, and while her now fast falling tears dropped over the neglected token, how bitterly did she chide herself for the light value which she had attached to her last precious interview withhimto whom, however she might strive to conceal them even from herself, she now felt that she must ever cherish sentiments of the sincerest affection.

——

In early youth when Hope is new,The heart expands with love and joy,Each prospect wears a brighter hue,And pleasure seems without alloy.E. M. B.

In early youth when Hope is new,

The heart expands with love and joy,

Each prospect wears a brighter hue,

And pleasure seems without alloy.

E. M. B.

“My dear Florence,” said Mr. Cleveland, as he entered the room, some days after the circumstances related in the preceding chapter; “Mr. Preston is in the parlor, and if you and Cousin Clara wish to see him I will take you out.”

“Certainly, Henry,” replied Mrs. Cleveland, “I will go as soon as I can change my dress. Wait for me, dearest Clara, I am always so terribly afraid of Mr. Preston.”

Clara’s heart beat tumultuously at the thought of meeting Mr. Preston, who was an eminent literary character, and nearly related to Edward Seymour, and Clara knew that the latter would not only be pleased to hear from his cousin and early instructor, whom he had not seen for a considerable length of time, but had expressed an anxious wish that she should see and become acquainted with him. Meanwhile Mrs. Cleveland, accompanied by Clara, went to her own room and proceeded to arrange her dress, a task in which she, indeed, seemed desirous to be expeditious, but which she in reality, loitered over for such a length of time, as almost to exhaust our heroine’s patience. At length, when the last ribbon had been fastened, and the last ornament arranged, Mrs. Cleveland said, “Well, Cousin Clara, I am ready; yet, stop one moment, and let me pacify my little Lucy, she is so fretful.” But the one “moment” was extended to several, and as Mrs. Cleveland turned to the door, her husband entered it and informed her that Mr. Preston had just gone, as he was compelled to leave the city that day, and the boat was just starting.

“Really, my dear,” added he, “it is a pity you did not make more haste, I never saw Mr. Preston so agreeable.” Without waiting to hear Mr. Cleveland’s comments, or Mrs. Cleveland’s regrets, poor Clara turned, disappointed, to the window to catch a glimpse of one so nearly connected with her lover.

Thus the winter passed fleetly away, and although Clara certainly spent some portions of her time agreeably, and made some very pleasant acquaintances, yet, on the whole, she was much disappointed with her visit to the city; during which she was not onlydeprived of many novel and amusing scenes, highly interesting to young persons, by her cousin’s indolence and want of thought, but was, by the same culpable negligence, prevented from seeing many of the curiosities of the place, from a view of which she had promised herself much amusement, as her residence in the country had hitherto precluded her from any thing of the kind; while Mr. and Mrs. Cleveland erroneously imagined that whatever was stale to them must necessarily be so to our heroine. Besides these sources of vexation, Clara had one, which Mrs. Cleveland, habitually careless in money matters, could not sympathize with more than she did with her other annoyances, and this was the state of her purse, as Mrs. Cleveland, with characteristic thoughtlessness insisted upon Clara’s purchasing whatever was handsome or fashionable, without regard to expense.

In accordance with this habit, Mrs. Cleveland one morning addressed Clara in the following manner:

“At last, my dear cousin, we are to have an excellent performance by the Thalian Association; and I have been anxious for you to see one, ever since you have been with us; you know there has been only one this winter, and then I could not go because the children were so cross, but the little rogues shall not prevent our going this time. By the way, my dear Clara, Mrs. Dawson has some elegant head-dresses, and we must go down this evening and get one for you.”

“But, Cousin Florence, you don’t recollect that I have several already, and one that I have never worn.”

“La, Clara, you wore that to Mrs. Armand’s party.”

“But the wreath of white roses, cousin.”

“Oh, Clara, that is too simple altogether.”

“To tell you the truth, Cousin Florence, the sum of money mamma gave me when I left home was, I thought, much more than I should need, but I now find that it is nearly expended, and if I purchase these superfluities I must exceed that sum, and you know that our circumstances are limited.”

“Pshaw, child, what of that? you can get all you want from your mother’s business man.”

Now, our heroine ought to have had moral courage enough to have firmly declined making the unnecessary purchase, but it must be recollected that she was very young, and being always accustomed to depend on her mother in such matters, it will not be wondered at if she quietly gave up the point.

As soon as the head-dress, which was a very handsome one for six dollars, was purchased Mrs. Cleveland turned to a ribbon-box, and selecting a very pretty piece insisted upon Clara’s purchasing it: “Yes, Clara,” said she, “it is only four dollars.”

“Really, I do not think I need it, Cousin Florence,” replied our heroine.

But Mrs. Cleveland would hear no objections, so the sash was purchased, and Clara with her cousin left the shop. When they returned home the sash was much admired by every one; but Mrs. Cleveland discovered that it was too long, and cutting off the superfluity, saying that, “it would make beautiful pin-cushions for the fair which Clara expected would take place shortly after her return home.”

But Mrs. Cleveland might have spared herself the trouble of assigning any use to the ribbon, for Johnny having risen in haste from the dinner-table, his hands were in such a state as, after having possessed himself of the ribbon, soon to render it unfit for pin-cushions or any other purpose. “Johnny! you mischief,” exclaimed his mother, “Cousin Clara’ll whip you.” She would have been mortified had she known that Clara felt very much inclined to do so.

The evening at length arrived, which Clara hoped so much to enjoy; but here again our heroine was destined to disappointment, for immediately after tea, Mrs. Cleveland observed,

“Really, my dear Clara, I am very sorry, but Mr. Cleveland has gone to the Odd Fellows Lodge, he expressed his intention before I said any thing about the performance; and though he would willingly have staid and gone with us, yet I did so much dislike to disconcert, even the least of his arrangements, that I said nothing about it. Never mind, my love, there will be many more performances before you leave Savannah.”

Clara knew that she must shortly return home, and that it was probable there would not be another performance before she left town, and when she thought that she could not gratify her little brother and sister, as she had promised, with an account of the many beautiful things which she expected to see there, and thought—shall we confess it—of her new sash and head-dress, she retired to her own room, and indulged in a girlish burst of tears.

In a few moments a knock was heard at the door, and hastily drying her tears, she opened the door, when a servant entered and gave her a letter from her mother, which informed her that, Mr. B—, an old friend of the family, would visit Savannah in the course of a few days, and that if Clara felt disposed, it would be an opportunity for her to return home; at the same time, she desired her to consult her own inclinations on the subject. Clara’s eyes sparkled at the thoughts of again being with the dear ones at Primrose Cottage, and she retired to rest, determined to accept Mr. B—’s protection home.

On the following morning, when Clara entered the breakfast-room, Mrs. Cleveland exclaimed, “My dear Clara, what do you think, Mrs. Wellwood’s ball, that has been so much talked of, comes off next Wednesday evening, and cards have just been left for us; now I will tell you what we will do this very morning, we will go to Dawson’s, and you shall get one of those beautiful robes, they are just twelve dollars, and how sweet you will look, for I will tell you, Clara, what I never did before, that there are few girls in Savannah with half your attractions. Now, will it not be delightful?” Clara hesitated a moment, but considered that the enjoyment of the ball would not be adequate to the expense, besides preventing her return home with Mr. B—, she therefore replied:

“In consequence of a letter I last night received from mamma, I shall find it necessary, my dear cousin, to return home before that time.”

“Oh, Clara!” exclaimed Mrs. Cleveland, “how can you leave the city for that dull place?” AndMr. and Mrs. Cleveland added many arguments and entreaties to prevail on her to remain; but Clara had made her decision, she therefore affectionately but firmly insisted upon adhering to it; and the few remaining days of her stay were spent in taking leave of her friends, and making preparations for her journey.

——

The wild rose, eglantine and broomScattered around their rich perfume.Scott.Sweet is the hour that brings us home.Quoted from recollection.

The wild rose, eglantine and broom

Scattered around their rich perfume.Scott.

Sweet is the hour that brings us home.

Quoted from recollection.

It was a bright and beautiful morning in March, when Clara, after taking an affectionate leave of her cousin, whom, despite her little foibles, she tenderly loved, was seated by her old friend and commenced her homeward journey.

March, in our southern clime, is not always rude and boisterous, but has many a gentle day, when Nature is dressed in as lovely a garb as she wears at any season of the year, and such a day was the one of which we speak; the woods were covered with fresh green leaves, the marshes and banks of the streams were gay with the yellow jessamine, the dew-drops sparkled like diamonds in the morning sun, and the cooing of the turtle-dove, the cheerful notes of the mockingbird, and the fresh country air that fanned her cheek, were to Clara like friends of her early days. The sun was just setting when from a winding in the road Clara obtained a glance of Primrose Cottage, as it stood imbosomed in trees arrayed in the freshest green—of the river, whose banks, where she had pursued her childish sports, were now decked with wild flowers of every hue, and finally, of the group of expecting friends, who at the sound of wheels had hastened into the piazza, and Clara’s heart beat high as she recognized Edward, the foremost of the party.

Clara was soon out of the carriage, and in the arms of her mother, nor did Edward neglect to press her hand very tenderly, as he handed her from the carriage, after which she was conducted into the house.

“And, now, which do you like best,Homeor theCity, sister?” asked little Rosa, when Clara had reached her own room, and was removing her traveling dress, and arranging her hair.

“Home, my dear Rosa,” replied our heroine, “there I enjoy myself much more than I ever have during my visit to the city, and yet, mamma,” added she, “if I had a house in Savannah, I would have young ladies to visit me, and I know I would make these visits delightful.”

They now returned to the parlor, where they had left Mr. Seymour, and after tea, Clara sat once more with Edward in the fragrant vine-covered piazza, before mentioned, where the moonbeams sparkled on the seat they occupied, through a richly blossoming mass of yellow jessamine—that dear seat, which seemed intended for the very use of which it was made, namely, that of Edward’s offering his hand, and of Clara’s accepting the offer, which was sealed by—no matter what it was sealed by, gentle reader, only accept that patient lover, whom you have been so long trifling with, and you will soon find out for yourself.

SPRING SNIPE SHOOTING OF 1850.

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BY HENRY WILLIAM HERBERT, AUTHOR OF “WARWICK WOODLANDS,” “MY SHOOTING BOX,” ETC.

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Itis a singular thing, and one which elucidates the great research necessary, and the extreme difficulties encountered, in the attempt to establish facts of natural history with regard to birds of passage, that this beautiful little bird, the general favorite of the sportsman and the epicure, well known to all classes of men, and a visitant, in some one of its closely allied varieties, of every known nation, is still a mystery, as regards some of its habits, and continues to baffle the inquiries of the most learned and inquisitive ornithologists.

Its habits, the nature of its food, and therefore the necessities of its existence, render it an inhabitant of temperate climates, and of regions in which the moist and loamy soil, from which it derives its sustenance of small worms, insects, and the like, is not frozen during the period of its visitations so hard as to preclude its boring with its delicate and sensitive bill for its semi-aquatic prey of worms and larvæ.

Still, as extreme cold prevents it from obtaining subsistence, extreme heat would appear to be still less congenial to its tastes or temperament; for, whereas it lingers in the north until autumnal frosts seal up the marshes and the soft stream margins against its probing bill, it flies from its winter quarters in the rice-fields of Carolina and Georgia, and the farther morasses of Texas and New Mexico, the instant that opening spring admits of its return to the fresh meadows and pure rivulets of the north-east.

The winter quarters of this bird, then, are fairly ascertained, ranging from Carolina southward until almost the northern limits of the Tropics; thence, so soon as the blue-bird begins to pipe in the apple-trees, the shad to appear in the rivers, the willow-buds to turn yellow, and the frogs to croak and chirrup, with us to the northward, the snipe is seen everywhere, hurrying, according to the progress of the season, singly, in whisps of ten or twelve, or in huge flights, ever, ever, northwardly. In Maryland, in Delaware, in southern Pennsylvania and New Jersey, he is wont to appear from the 1st to the 20th of March; in New York and New Jersey northward, from the 15th of March to the 20th of April, remaining for a longer or shorter period according to the steadiness of the weather, the state of the ground as regards wet or drought, and the geniality of the season. In mild, soft, temperate, moist seasons, with a prevalence of westerly weather, he will linger with us into the lap of June; and in such seasons, more or less, he woos his mate, nidificates and rears his young among us, from the Raritan and the Passaic northward and eastward to the Great Lakes, and throughout Michigan, Wisconsin probably, and Canada west, up far into the Arctic Circles.

Still, those which breed with us in the United States,and even in the Canadas, are but as drops of water to an ocean, to those which rush on the untiring pinions moved by amatory instinct to the far breeding grounds of Labrador, Symsonia, and Boothia Felix, where it issupposedthey resort to rear their young in hyperborean solitude, thence to reissue, in the summer and the earlier autumn, and re-populate our midland meadows.

In the neighborhood ofAmherstburg, Canada west, they appear very early; often in February of mild seasons, always in March; and there may breed, and remain until banished by severe cold. I shot one there myself last autumn, the last bird of the season, very late in November, I believe on the 28th or 29th; and with the plover, the Hudsonian godwit, and the Esquimaux curlew, they were seen there this spring in the first days of March.

Around Quebec, I have shot English snipe on the uplands, in fallow fields and rushy pastures—for the grass in the morasses does not begin to shoot in those far northern latitudes, so as to afford them shelter, until much later in the year—in the end of April and the beginning of May; but they arrive there only by small scattered whisps, or single birds, tarry a few short days, and flit onward to their unknown destination.

This, then, is their mystery—that in no known land are they perennial; in no ascertained region—so far as I can learn—are they positively known to breed in the vast concourses which must breed somewhere, in order to supply the prodigious flights which issue yearly from the northern regions of three continents, Europe, America, and Asia, to fill the warmer countries, and to be slaughtered literally by myriads, season after season, without undergoing much if any visible diminution of numbers.

Ever, in all places, in all countries, in all continents, which they visit in spring, they are seen pressing northward still, from March until May; no one being able to say here ends their tide of emigration, this is their chosen resting place.

Their breeding season is from the middle of May to the beginning of July; on the 4th of which month I have shot young birds, with the pin-feathers undeveloped, as large as the parents—these birds having been hatched on the ground whereon I killed them. Indeed, it is my opinion, that all birds which tarry in our latitudes beyond the 10th of May, eitherdobreed with us, or would do so but for the persecution of the pot-hunter—all which intend to steer farther north having departed ere that time.

About the 15th of July the returning hordes, young birds and old together, full grown and in fine condition, begin to reappear in the marshes of Quebec and its vicinity, which may be said to be the extremest northern point from which we have continuous and authentic annual information of their appearance. At that time the slaughter of the snipe on the marshes of Chateau Richer, and of the islands farther down the St. Lawrence, is prodigious. There they linger until the frosts become so severe as to drive them from their feeding-grounds, which generally takes place early in September, from which time, throughout that month, all October, and a portion—more or less according to the season—of November, and even December, every likely swamp, morass, and feeding-ground of Canada west, of the western, midland, and eastern states, from which they are not persecuted and banished by the incessant banging of pot-hunters and idle village boys, swarms with them, in quantities sufficient to afford sport to hundreds, and a delicacy to thousands of our inhabitants, if they were protected from useless and unmeaning persecution, by which alone they are prevented from being as numerous among us as at any former period.

For I am well assured, that, unlike the woodcock, which, breeding in our midst, and dwelling with us for months at a time, is annually slaughtered while breeding, hatching, or immature, and is thus in rapid progress toward extirpation—the snipe, unmolested in its breeding-grounds, is not diminished in its numerical production, but is rendered scarcer in thickly settled districts, nigh to large towns, by incessantharassing, which drives it to remoter and securer feeding-grounds.

I do not mean by this, however, to assert that the abolition of spring snipe-shooting would not be an advantage—on the contrary, I am convinced that it would; although well assured that no such measure can be hoped at the hands of our legislators; for, as the snipe ordinarily lays four eggs, the destruction of each one of the breeders on their way northward, of course diminishes the stock of the coming season by five birds.

So much for the times and places of the snipe’s migrations. Of his appearance or characteristics—so well is he known—it is almost useless to speak! It may, however, be well to observe that although commonly termed theEnglish Snipe, our bird is a thoroughnative American, differing from the bird of Europe in being about one inch smaller in every way, and in having two more feathers, sixteen instead of fourteen, in the tail. In other minute, but stillpermanent, and therefore characteristic distinctions, it differs from the Asiatic and Antarctic snipes; although in their rapid, zigzag flight and shrill squeak when flushed; in their irregular soaring through the air in gloomy weather; in their perpendicular towering and plumb descent, their drumming with the wing-feathers, and bleating with the voice, during the breeding-season, all the species or varieties so closely resemble each other that they are far more easily confounded than distinguished by the unscientific sportsman.

The American bird has, however, two or three habits, during early spring-shooting, which I have never observed in the European species, nor seen noticed in any work of natural history; the first of these is frequenting underwood and bushy covert abounding in springs and intersected by cattle-tracks, and occasionally even high woods, during wild, stormy, and dark weather, especially when snow-squalls are driving; and this is a habit of the bird meriting the attention of the sportsman, as in such weather, when he finds no birds on the open and unsheltered marshes, he will do well to beat the neighboring underwoods, if any, and if not, the nearest swampy woodlands; by doing which he will oftentimes fill his bag when he despairs of any sport. The second habit is that of alighting, not unfrequently, on rail-fences, or stumps, and even on high trees, which I think I can safely assert that the European birdnever does; and the third is the utterance, when in the act of skimming over the meadows, after soaring, bleating, and drumming for an hour at a stretch in mid air, of “a sharp reiterated chatter, consisting of a quick, jarring repetition of the syllables,kek-kek-kek-kek-kek, many times in succession, with a rising and falling inflection, like that of a hen which has just laid an egg.”[5]

There is noJack Snipein America, though many persons ignorantly and obstinately assert the reverse; the true Jack Snipe being a northern bird of Europe and Asia, visiting the milder climates during the hard weather. It is an exact counterpart of the English Snipe, only about one-half smaller; it never utters any cry on rising, and rarely flies above one hundred yards, often dropping within fifty feet of the muzzle of a gun just discharged at it, although unwounded. The bird which is here confounded with it, is thePectoral Sandpiper, a bird about one-third smaller than the snipe, of a lighter brown, with a short, arched bill, and a feeble, quavering whistle. It isfound indiscriminately on the sea-shore, and in upland marshes; I have shot it from Lake Huron to the Penobscot, and the Capes of the Delaware; it lies well before dogs, which will point it, and is a good bird on the table. It is known in Long Island as the “Meadow Snipe” and the “Short Neck,” in New Jersey, and thence westward, as the “Fat Bird,” or “Jack Snipe” indiscriminately. It is not a snipe at all, but a Sandpiper,Tringa Pectoralis.

The only other true snipe ascertained to exist in America, is theRed Breasted Snipe,Scolopax Noveboracensis, better known as the “Dowitcher,” an unmeaning name, adopted and persevered in by the Baymen, or as the “Quail Snipe.” At Egg Harbor the gunners call it the “Brown-back.” It is found only on the salt marshes, and is never hunted with dogs but shot from ambush over decoys.

It appears, then, that the coming and stay of the common snipe in our districts, in spring, is very uncertain, and dependent on the state and steadiness of the weather. Some seasons, they will stay for weeks on the moist, muddy flats among the young and succulent herbage, growing fat and lazy, lying well to the dog, and affording great sport. Sometimes they will merely alight, feed, rest, and resume their flight, never giving the sportsman a chance even of knowing that they have been, and are gone, except by their chalkings and borings where they have fed. Again, at other seasons, they will lie singly, or in scattered whisps on the uplands, in fallow fields, even among stunted brushwood, lurkingperduall day, and resorting to the marshes by night, leaving the traces of their presence in multitudes, to perplex the sportsman, who, perhaps, beats the ground for them, day after day, only to find that they were, but are not.

This variance in the habit of the snipe it is, which makes him so hard a bird to kill; for, although he is perplexing from his rapid and twisting flight to a novice, I consider him, to a cool old hand, as easy a bird to kill as any that flies. The snipe invariably rises against or across wind, and in doing so hangs for an instant on the air before he can gather his way; that instant is the time in which to shoot him, and that trick of rising against wind is his bane with the accomplished shot and sportsman, for by beatingdown the wind, keeping his brace of dogs quartering the ground before him,across the wind, so that they will still have the air in their noses, he compels the bird to rise before him, and cross to the right on the left hand, affording him a clear and close shot, instead of whistling straight away up wind, dead ahead of him, exposing the smallest surface to his aim, and frequently getting off without a shot, as it will constantly do, if the shooter beatsup wind, even with the best and steadiest dogs in the world. Theknackof shooting snipe, as some people who can’t do it choose to call it, is no other than the knack of shooting quick, shooting straight, and shooting well ahead of cross shots—this done with a gun that will throw its charge close at 40 to 50 yards, with 1½ oz. of No. 8 shot, equal measures of shot and of Brough’s diamond-grain powder will fetch three snipe out of every five, which is great work, in spite of what the cockneys say, who pick their shots, never firing at a hard bird, or one over twenty paces away, and then boast of killing twenty shots in succession.Verbum sap.

The great difference of the grounds to be beaten in different weathers; the difficulty in determining which ground to assign to which day; the immense extent of country to be traversed, if birds are scarce or wild, or if there are many varieties of soil, covert, and feeding in one range, and the sportsman fail in his two or three first beats in finding game, and therefore have to persevere till he do find them, these, and the hardness of the walking in rotten quagmires and deep morasses, affording no sure foot-hold, and often knee-deep in water, these it is which make successful snipe-shooting one of the greatest feats in the art, and the crack snipe-finder and snipe-killer—for the two are one, or rather the second depends mainly on the first—one of the first, if not the first artist in the line.

It is from this necessity of beating, oftentimes, very extensive tracts of land before finding birds, and therefore of beating very rapidly if you would find birds betimes, that I so greatly prefer and recommend the use of very fast, very highly-bred, and very far-ranging setters, to that of any pointer in the world, for snipe-shooting in the open—apart from their great superiority over the pointer in hardihood, endurance of cold, powers of retrieving, beauty and good-nature.

Of course, speaking of dogs, whether setter, pointer, dropper, or cocking-spaniel, it is understood that we speak of dogs of equal qualities of nose, staunchness to the point, and steadiness at coming to the charge the instant a shot is fired. No dog which does not do all these things habitually, and of course, is worth the rope that should hang him; and no man is worthy the name of a shot or a sportsman, who cannot, and does not, keep his dogs, whether setters, pointers, or cockers, under such command that he can turn them to the right or left, bring them to heel, stop them, or down charge them, at two hundred yards distance if it be needful.

If these things, then, be equal, as they can be made equal, though I admit a setter to be more difficultly kept in discipline than a pointer—the fastest setter you can get, is the best dog for snipe-shooting; his superiority, in other points, infinitely counterbalancing the greater trouble it requires to break and control him. I am well aware that it has been said, and that by authorities, that the best dog over which to shoot snipe, is an old, slow, broken-down, staunch pointer, who crawls along at a foot’s pace, and never misses, overruns, or flushes a bird.

And so, in two cases, he is; but in one case, no dog is just as good as he is, and in the other, the argument is one of incapacity to use what is best, and therefore is no argument.

If birds are so thick on the grounds, and so tame that you can fill your bag in walking over one or two acres at a foot’s pace, a very slow pointerisbetter than fast setters—but no dog at all, your walking up your birds yourself, which you can do just as quickly as the dog can, is better than the slow pointer. Indeed, on very small grounds, very thickly stocked, it is by far the most killing way to use no dog, but to walk up the birds.

If a man is so weak and infirm of purpose, or so ignorant of the first principles of his art, as to be unable to control his setters, he must, I suppose, use a slow pointer; but it cannot matter what dog such a man uses, he never can be a sportsman.

If there be a hundred birds lying, and lying well on one acre of feeding-ground, the birds can be killed without a dog, or with a slow dog, as you will; any man who can pull a trigger must fill his bag.

If there be a hundred birds scattered, wild, over five hundred acres of ground, where are you with your slow dog, or your no dog? Just no where. While you are painfully picking up your three or four birds with your slow pointer, your true sportsman, and slashing walker, with his racing up-head and down-stern setters, will have found fifty, and bagged twenty-five or thirty.

There are ten days in a season when birds are wild and sparse, for one when they are congregated and lie hard; and the argument comes to this, that when birds can be killed with ease, even without a dog at all, a slow pointer is the best; when they are difficult to find, and hard to kill,even by a crack shot, the slow pointer is no where, and of no use, while the racing setters will fill the bag to a certainty.

For my own part, I can say to a certainty, that I have had more sport, and killed more birds, by many, many times, when birds have been widely scattered, and difficult to find, and when I have walked half or a quarter of a mile between every shot fired, than I ever have when birds have lain close, and jumped up at every pace under my feet; and for a simple reason, that the places in which birds so rise and lie, are rare and of small extent, and the days on which they do so few and far apart.

Therefore I say,friend—for all true sportsmen I hold friends—choose well thy day, when the air is soft and genial, the wind south-westerly, the meadows green with succulent and tender grasses, and moist with the deposit of subsiding waters—select thy grounds carefully; in such a time as I have named, the wide and open marsh meadows; but if the wind be from the eastward, cold, squally and snow laden, then try the bushy, briary brakes, where cattle poach the soil, and the marsh waters creep, or the verge of the meadows, under the lea of the maple swamp, or at the worst the very grounds where you would beat for woodcock in July—begin from the farthest windward point of thy beat, casting thy brace ofsettersoff from thy heel, to the right and left, and so often as they have diverged one hundred yards, taming them with a whistle and a wave of the hand, so that they shall cross continually before thy face, down wind of thee, at some thirty paces distant; and so persevere—if birds be plenty and lie well, walking not to exceed two miles the hour; if they be rare and wild, four miles, or by ’r lady! five, if thou mayest compass it. If one dog stand, while the other’s back is turned, whistle, that he shall turn his head, then hold thy hand aloft, with one quiet “toho!” but no shooting; if he be broke, he shall stand like a carved stone. Then walk up to the point leisurely, be sure that thou godown wind, making a circuit if needs be, with thy gun at half-cock, the ball of thy thumb on the hammer, and the nail of thy fore-finger inside the guard, but not upon the trigger. When the bird rises, cock your gun, and down him! If thy dogs do their devoir, they shall drop to the charge unbidden; if they do not, raise thy hand with an imperious gesture, and cry coolly and calmly “down charge;” but however ill they behave, nay! even if they run in and eat thy bird, move not till thy gun is loaded; then calmly walk up to them, drag them, pitilessly scourging them all the way, to the place where they should have charged, and rate them in the best of thy dog-language. I say “scourging thempitilessly,” because that is, in truth, the merciful course; for so one or two whippings will suffice, instead of constant small chastisement and irritation, which spoil a dog’s temper and break his spirit, without conquering his obstinacy, or gaining the ascendancy over him.

If, on the contrary, they charge as decent dogs should and do charge, so soon as thy gun be loaded, lift them, with a “Hold up, good lads!” and cast them gently onward, checking them with a “Steady, dogs!” if they show disposition to be rash, until they point the dead bird, if killed, or draw on him, if running. Then, with a “Toho! Steady!” walk to their point; pick up the bird under their noses, praising them the while, or bid them “Fetch!” according to the circumstances of the case; but if they retrieve the bird without pointing him, or even after pointing him, until told to “fetch,” let chastisement not hide her head.

This, rest assured, friend is the way to do it.

For the rest, whether thou wear fen-boots, or shoes and trowsers, or, as I use, by deliberate preference, arch-boots, corduroy shorts, and leggins, suit thine own fancy; but let thy shooting-jacket be roomy on the chest and shoulders, and well supplied with ample pockets. Let thy gun be—for my choice—of 31 inches, 12 or 14 gauge, 7¾ to 8 pounds. Let thy powder be Brough’s diamond grain, or John Hall’s glass—on no account any other—thou mayest get it of Henry T. Cooper, in Broadway, New York—thy shot No. 8—thy caps Starkey’s central fire, or Moore & Gray’s, or Westley Richards’—by no meansFrench, or Walker’s, the first of whichfly, while the latter are, I think, corrosive. Forget not to have in thy pocket a dog-whip, a stout knife, a yard or two of strong cord, a pocket-flask, replenished, as thou wilt, with old Otard, or as I recommend thee, Ferintosh or Glenlivat whisky—stick in the seam of thy waistcoat a strong darning-needle, headed with sealing-wax, it is the only true and responsible gun-picker; and so, good sport to thee, and health and temper to enjoy it!—as good sport, gentle reader, as I trust myself to enjoy this coming week of April, the rain-gods and the river-gods permitting, and the nymphs remembering us, as their long-time adorer, in their kind orisons.

The Cedars, March 25, 1850.

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