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POSTAYs

GRASS. ‘he treed are a glory and joy to the aod, With their rustic of ieavesa and their boughs, As they wave them in ait ike the ban- — nera of God, Bidding Nature be true to her vows ;

Aa they rise in glad clusters from out of,

the vale, And echo the steps of tha wandering gale {a their glorious mnidaummer pride ; Or clester like locks o'er the brow of the

dull, \ Or shadow quaint forma in (he giass of the rl},

Aa they drooping'y hang o'er ite tide.

Itut the trees are too proud and majestic for me, Great earth-nertured kings aa they ara, Thoagh useful and grand ia their pride they may be, ‘There's gomething that’s better dy far; Mor it grows on the iaowataia, and dingle, and dell, And patiently bears the congh Winter as ‘weil Aa itw joys in the glad Sammer air; For though there’s ne one stogle dlossom to see, Though the frost has eloped with tht leaves of the tree, The grass is still lingering there,

it fringes: the stream, and cushions the flower, And hues the soft root ta its breast; Aad flies that have wetted their wings tn the shower Here shelter and build them a nest,

And in hedge-guarded field, or furze covered heath, Where the rabbit makes hollowa and

burrows beneath, And timidly fees as we pase, The bee who's been tuning his bugle in fun, Whe ercket that’s chirrup’d all day in the sun, Sach finds a glad home ia the grass.

When the grave hath received its poor dweller at last, And a heart hath at length found its rest ; Mo castter what life its sad tenant hath past, How good or ungodly his breast.

The grass springeth up ia its freshest of

green,

With a flow’ret or tevo just to sparkle be- tween,

(nd scent all around and above;

Aad that perfume bequeatied to the light of the sun,

May be incense to Gad for the evil that’s eone,

‘a the sight of sweet mercy andtove.

W hat a deaert-like place would this earth of ours be, if its acres were barren and bare, Aad the beautiful green at the foot of the tree Od not grow in humility there ;

What a desert-like spot would this life af; ed.

ours bey

if amid sands of ain no glimpse we could see

6 sone green knotted garland of grass:

Se ae oasis bright. a glad hope to inpart.

Trat the sun of the sky, and the’ san of

the hrart Sull abide tn the road we must pass.

ree ser iyerrerer

IS BSAAa

UNFADING PLOWERS. SECOND PART.

SY T. 3. anTuur. Aa aid man, with boi wh ttened by the

agows of tnany winters, Was sitting ina rau that was poorly supplied wiih fur- |

aptace, hia head bowed down, and his vase Cant dreainily oy the tlear.— 4 pale rowng git! came in while he sat thas mn-, sisy. Lifiing hiseyesto her face, he sad, while ke tried to Juok cheerful.“ Ziiep, dosr, vou must Dut go vut to-day.”

"IT feel a great deal better, grandpa,” replied the git! forcing a sole “lam ke to go te work aguin,”

Se

bea ETE A

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

“ Don't be so positive, grandpa.” And as she ultered this little sentence in a half-pleyful voice, she laid her hand ainong the grey locks onthe old man’s head, and smoothed them caressingly. “You kaow that [ must not be idle.”

“Wait, child, until your strength re- turna.”

“(Our wants will not wait, grandpa.” As the girl aaid this, her face became sober. Tho old man's eyes again fell to the floor, and a heavy @igh came forth from his bosom.

“! will be very eareful,and not over work mygelf again,” resumed Ellen after a pause.

* You must notge to-day,” said the old man arousing himself. “Itis mur- der. Wait at least until to-morrow. You will be stronger then.”

“{fi don't go‘ back I may lose my placé. You know I have been at home forthres days. Work will not wait. The last tine [ was kept away by sick- nesa, @ customer was disappointed; and there waa a great deal of trouble about ir.”

Another eigh eame heavily from the old mans heart. g

“{ will go," said the girl. * Perhaps they will fet ma eff fora day longer. If vo, ( will came back, for | must not lose the place.”

No further resistance was made by the old maa, [na little time he was alone. She had gone to work, Her employer would not let her go away, feeble ag she was, without forfeiture of her place,

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

“{ must get something to do, I can | work atll,” he muttered to hinself, a8 he moved along the streets. © ‘The dear child ts killiag herself, and all for me.”

ut what could he de? Who wanted the services of an old man lke him, whose mind had lost its clearness, whose step hed faltered, and whose hand was no ‘ooger steady? Ia vain he made ap- plication for employment. Younger and more vigorous men filled ali the places, and be was pushed aside, Discouraged and drooping in spirits, he went back to hig home, there to wait the fall of even- inc, which was to bring the return of the only being lefton earth to love him. At night-fall Alea came in.—Her face, so pale inthe morning, was now elightly and her eyes were brighter than when she went out. The grandfather was not deceived by this; he knew it to bea sin of disease. fletook ber hand —-it was hot; and when he stooped to kiss her centle lips he found tuem burn- Inv with fever,

“*iHen, my child, why did you go to work to-day? I knew it would inake you gick,” the old man said in a Voice of an- gttel.

Eilen tried to smile, and not appear so very iil; but nature was tog much oppress- ed.

“TL have browght home some work, #nd will not go out to-morrow,” she reiark- “T think the walk fatigued me more

I sball be better in ”

'

{? ished:

than anything else. the morning, after a good aight’s sleep.

But the giri’s hopes failed ia this. Phe morning found hee so weak that slic could not rise fram her bed: and when her grandfather came into her room to learn bow she passed the night, be foand her weeping on her pillow. She had en- deavoured to get up, bat her head, which was aching termbly, grew dizzy.and sie fell back under a despairing consciousness that her strength was gone.

The day passed, bat Eilen did not grow better; the fever still kept her body prostrate, = Ouee of twice, when her grandfather waa out of the room, she took up the work she bronghthome, and tried to do aome of it while sitting up in bed, ' But ere a minuice had passed, she became | faint, while ail grew dark around her. She wag no better when night came. [Ff her mind could have rested-—if she Bad ‘been tree frqn: auxious und distressing ‘thoughts, mature would Rave power to re-

tact; but, ag twas the pressure was too. i grevt. She could not forget that they j had scarcely so mach asa dollar left, and | ;that her old greadfather wae (20 feeble te

THE BXABIAFR.

ecenen toe ate hh anh i ee cD aS MA AAS AI

work. Upon her rested all the burden of their support, and she was helpless.

The next morning Ellen was better. She could sit up withont feeling dizzy, though her head stil! ached, and the fever had only slightly abated. But the old man would not permit her to leave her bed, thongh she begged him earnestly to let her do so.

The bundie of work that Ellen had brought home, wae wrapped in a news- paper, and this her grandfather took up to read aome time during the day.

“This is Mr. T——'s newpaper,” said he, as he opened it, and saw the title. “I knew T'—-—- when he waa a poor orphan boy, but of course he don't remember me. He has prospered wonderfully.”

And then his eyes went along the col-

umns of the paper, and he read eloud to

Ellen such things as he thought would interest her. Among otherg was a re- miniscence by the editor.—the same ‘hat we have just given. ‘The old man's voice faltered ashe read. The little incident 80 feelingly described, had jong since been hidden in his memory, under the gathering dustof time, But now the dust wasswept away, and he saw his own beautiful garden. He was in it and among the flowers; and wistfully look- ing throngh the fenee stood the orphan boy. Heremembered having felt pity for him, and he remembered as if it were but yesterday, though thirty years had intervened, the light that went over the child’s face ashe handed him a few flowers that were to fade and wither ina day.

Yes, the old man’s voice faltered while he read; and when he cameto the ast sentence, the paper dropped upon the floor, and claspiag his hands together, he lifted his dim eyes upwards, while his lips moved ia whispered words of thank- fulness.

“ What ails you, grandpa?” asked El- len in surprise. But the eld man did not seem to hear her voice,

“Pear wraadpa,” repeated tHe girl, “why do you leok so strangely?” She had risen in bed and was bending to- ward him.

“Ellen, ny child,” said the old man, a light breaking over his countenance, as though a sunbeam had suddenly come in- td the room, “it was your uld grandfather who-gave the flowers tothat poor blind boy. Did you bear 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 pror- pect af relief fer his child, that he was nearly beside himse!f. Butthere lingered some embers of pride in his heart, and from the-e the ashes were blown away, and they became bright and glowing. he thought of asking a favour as a re- turn for thet Iittle act, which was to him at the time a pleasure, came witha feel- ing of reluctance, Butwhen he ldoked at the pale youn girl who Jay with eyes closed, and hey face buried in the pillow, he murmured to Simself, “ lt is for you —fur you!” and taking up his staff, he went tutiering into the open air.

The editor was sitting in his office, writing when he heard the door open, and turning, he saw before his an old man with bent form and snowy head. Something mthe visitor’s countenance struck him as familiar, but he did not re- cognise bim as one whem he had seen befire. -

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

“My name is T~—,” replied Yhe edi- tor.

“You?” ‘Bhere was a slight express- ion of surprise in the old man’s vaice.

“Yest an T'-—-—, my friend,” was kindly siid. “Can I do anything for you? Take the chair.”

- The oifered seat was accepted; and as the old man sank into it, bis eonntenanece and inauner betrayed his emotion.

* T have come,” and hia vowe waa un- steady, * to do what [ could net do for myself alone. But] cannot see my poor sick grandchild wear omt anddie onder the weight of burdens too heavy to be borne, For her valet, [ have cong israel wv pride.”

There was a panty.

“Goon,” ward TP —-—, whs wag look- ingatthe old man etre ty, and endea- rourag to fix hw ideatty in hisaunind).

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DE RENNIE ES NTI IT LT Be NL I RONG TINE TT ne ee

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“You don't know me 2”

“Your face is not entirely Strange,” said ‘I'——. “It must have beer a loug time sinee we met.”

“Long? Oh yes! time. age.”

“ Markland!” exclaimed T’——, with sudden energy, springing to his feet as the truth Rashed upon him, “Bay ie not so ?”

“My name is Mark)and.”

“ And do we meet thus again,” said T——., with emotion, os he grasped tae man’s hand, “ Ab, eir, | have sever for- gotten you. When a ead-hearted bey, you spoke to me kindly, and the words comforted me when | tort. The bunch of flowers you gave me —you remember it, no doubt—is etifl fresh in my heart. Not a leaf haw faded. They are as bright and green, and full of perfume, as when | first hid them there ; and there they will bleom forever—tke upfading flowers of gratitude. | am glad you hare come, though grieved that yeer declining veara are made heavier by misfortune, [have enough and to spare.”

“have aot come for charity,” retorned Markiand. “Ihave handa that would nct be idle, though its not much that they can accomplish.”

* Ge not troubled on that account, my pirnd,” was kindly answered. “ 1 wilt hind something feryohao co. Bat firs. tell me about yourse!f.” °

Thus encouraged the old man told his story. It was the common siory, of the loss of property and friends, and the sp- proach ef want with declining years, T— sav thet pride and native independenee was still strong in Markland’s bosom,fee- bie as he was, and really uneble to enter upon any serious employment; and his ‘irst impression was to save hig feelings at the sane time that he extended to bum entire and permaneut relief. This he found no difficulty tn doing, and the old iman Was soen after placed ina situation where but hitieapplication was necessary. while the trcome was all sufficient fer the comfortabie suppert of himself and grandchild,

The flowers offered with a purely ha- inane feeling proved to be fadeless flow- ers; and their beauty and perfume came back to the sense of the giver, where all other flowers were dead and é¢ying em big dark and dreary way.

It isa long, lose You were a boy, and i under? by

a ne

THRILLING INCIDENT OF THE.

TEXAN WAR. The tragedy of Nacogdoches, aed the

romantic incidents whicn led to the Tex- an war of Independence, find their paral- lel only in the Roman history of Lucretia and the elder Bruins. Juan Costa was a person of grest influence and bravery in the wild forests; but he fell ander the displeasure of Santx Anna, and hte mia- ion, Pedras, tie commander of Neeog- coches, Was sent to arrest him. tle ar- rested his father stthe seupper table, at- tended by his only deughter, a young cirl of surprising beauty and wielligence. He loaded him with chains, and cast bie into prison, notwithstanding her fears and entreaties, Final'y he propased te fren the father ifthe daughter would consent fo sacrifice her innocence and hower, She rejected the infamors proposition with a blow in the face ; when the armed rnffan swore a horrible oath to exeeute bis wii on them both. and then ° : ’ * 2 > x ze * . With dark eyes, tearless, glossy. fixed as those ofa corpse. yet lasing » demb-ec portion of Inmineue fire, she moaned a horse and hurried away wildly sroune the comutry, She haited at every house, re inatter whether Mexican or Amerean, and rehearsed, in tones of thrilling herrer her father’s wrongs and her own, All timid modesty, ali weakness, had vanwh- ed from ber tongue, uiter!y consumed by the scorching thirst of vengeance. She painte t, ia passion’s fiery language, ana with avwfal minuteness, the facts of ihe damaing deed: she bared her cirguy he- sum, and showed the livid marke of the ravisher’s finger? among the maars ef those azire veins along the surfsce at that expinse of snow, now @o polinted nd vaste !, but before pure aa the givace of an anrel’s wing. And a'ii!, wherever the baawtit:| maid wanteral,s deafening sell of wrk eed

no other com.

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