whose education she continued to conduct, veiled her sorrows lest they should darken the pathway of her remaining parent, strove to be a comforter to her widowed sister, and to advance the welfare of her fatherless children. The perusal of sacred poetry formed the principal solace of the few intervals of leisure which she allowed herself, but its composition was laid aside after the departure of the beloved one who had been the prompting spirit.

Somewhat more than two years after his death she was taken ill of a fever. Its first attack seemed slight, but her discriminating mind apprehended the result, and arranged even the minutest circumstance as one who returns no more. "I have no longer any wish for life," she said, "but for my dear mother's sake."

As the disease developed its fatal features, she faintly whispered, "Lay me by the side of my father." Apprehending that the delirium so generally incidental to that disease might overpower her, she drew her sister down to her pillow, and slowly articulated, "I have many things to say to you. Let me say some of them now, or perhaps I may not be able. You know how much I have loved you. Seek an interest in our Saviour. Promise me that you will prepare to follow For oh! I never before felt so happy. Soon shall I be in that world

me.

'Where rising floods of knowledge roll,

And pour, and pour upon the soul.""

And so with many other kind and sweet words, and messages to the absent and beloved, and communings with the Hearer of Prayer, passed away at the age of twenty-four, as lovely a spirit as ever wore the vest

ments of mortality; so lovely, that the friend who from life's opening pilgrimage had walked with her in the intimacy of a twin-being is able to remember no intentional fault, no wayward deviation from duty, and no shadow of blemish, save what must ever appertain to dimmed and fallen humanity.

THE STOCKBRIDGE BOWL.

THE Stockbridge Bowl!-Hast ever seen
How sweetly pure and bright
Its foot of stone, and rim of green,
Attract the traveller's sight?
High set among the breezy hills
Where spotless marble glows,
It takes the tribute of the rills
Distilled from mountain snows

You've seen, perchance, the classic vase
At Adrian's villa found,

The grape-vines that its handles chase,
And twine its rim around.

But thousands such as that which boasts
The Roman's name to keep,
Might in this Stockbridge bowl be lost
Like pebbles in the deep.

It yields no sparkling draught of fire
To mock the maddened brain,

Like that which warmed Anacreon's lyre

Amid the Tean plain;

But freely, with a right good-will,

Imparts its fountain store,

Whose heaven replenished crystal still

Can wearied toil restore.

The Indian hunter knew its power,
And oft its praises spoke,

Long ere the white man's stranger plough
These western valleys broke;

The panting deer, that wild with pain,
From his pursuers stole,

Inhaled new life to every vein

From this same Stockbridge bowl

And many a son of Berkshire skies
Those men of noble birth,

Though now, perchance, their roofs may rise
In far or foreign earth,—
Shall on this well- remembered vase
With thrilling bosom gaze,
And o'er its mirrored surface trace
The joys of earlier days.

But one, who with a spirit-glance
Hath moved her country's heart,
And bade, from dim oblivion's trance
Poor Magawiska start,

Hath won a fame, whose blossom rare
Shall fear no blighting sky,
Whose lustrous leaf grow fresh and fair,
Though Stockbridge bowl be dry.

In the northern part of Stockbridge, Berkshire County, is a beautiful expanse of water, usually called the "Great Pond," which in many countries would be dignified with the appellation of a lake. Its origi

nal Indian name of "Quit-chu-scook" is scarcely melodious enough for its singular loveliness. Miss Sedgwick, whose birth is counted among the glories of that region, says, "the English equivalent to this aboriginal word, 'The Bowl,' is short, simple, and perfectly descriptive. No bowl was ever more beautifully formed, or set, nor ever, even in old Homer's genial verse, sparkled more invitingly."

The County of Berkshire, with its wild and bold scenery, seems to have impressed its image strongly on the affections of those who have emigrated from its bosom. Not a few of that large number have acquired distinction in their distant abodes, yet still look back with that fond remembrance to their mountain-home, the first nurse of their infancy, which reflects honour both on the mother and the children.

In the summer of 1844, the pleasing and novel suggestion was made, of re-assembling as far as possible the scattered sons of the county, to hold a season of rejoicing among the green hills of their nativity. Pittsfield, from its central position and other advantages, was selected as the place of the proposed re-union. The invitation that was sent forth is a model of cordial and patriotic sentiment.

"In every point of view," it remarks, ". we feel that such a meeting would be highly interesting. The sons of Massachusetts have reason to revere and love their native soil. She is the mother and nurse of a mighty people. In the very cradle her sons had to fight the battles, and use the wisdom of mature manhood. And while the descendants of those who landed on her rocky coast have gone abroad, and amount to nearly five millions of souls, she holds on her way, with her