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Boone's frame was vigorous and athletic, but in strength and stature he was not beyond the average standard of man. There was nothing rough, still less fierce, in his manners; but he was rather remarkable for the gentleness and quietness of his bearing. He was a man of few words, but was always willing to answer the questions which curious visitors put to him. His moral character was spotless. His affections were strong, and he tenderly loved those who were near to him: to his dying day, he never could speak of the son who was killed at the Blue Licks without tears. His nature was simple and truthful; and though the incidents of his life have been, by some writers, embellished by many romantic fictions, he himself never afforded any materials for it.


A BAND of children, round a snow-white ram,
There wreathe his venerable horns with flowers ;
While, peaceful as if still an unweaned lamb,
The patriarch of the flock all gently cowers
His sober head, majestically tame,
Or eats from out the palm, or playful lowers

His brow, as if in act to butt, and then
Yielding to their small hands, draws back again.

Their classical profiles, and glittering dresses,
Their large, black eyes, and soft, seraphic cheeks
Crimson as cleft pomegranates, their long tresses,
The gesture which enchants, the eye that speaks,
The innocence which happy childhood blesses,
Made quite a picture of these little Greeks ;

So that the philosophical beholder
Sighed for their sakes — that they should e'er grow older.
AN APOLOGY. — W. R. Spencer.
Too late I staid : forgive the crime;

Unheeded flew the hours.
How noiseless falls the foot of Time

That only treads on flowers !


eye with clear account remarks
The ebbings of the glass,
When all its sands are diamond sparks,

That dazzle as they pass ?

O, who to sober measurement

Time's happy fleetness brings,
When birds of paradise have lent

Their plumage to his wings?


· Of no distemper, of no blast he died, But fell like autumn fruit that mellowed long; E’en wondered at because he dropped no sooner. Fate seemed to wind him up for fourscore years, Yet freshly ran he on ten winters more; Till, like a clock worn out with eating time, The wheels of weary life at last stood still.


All the stars of heaven ; The deep-blue noon of night, lit by an orb Which looks a spirit, or a spirit's world ; The hues of twilight; the sun's gurgeous coming; His setting indescribable, which fills My eyes with pleasant tears as I behold Him sink, and feel my heart float softly with him

Along that western paradise of clouds ;
The forest shade; the green bough; the bird's voice,
The vesper bird's, which seems to sing of love,
And mingles with the song of cherubim,
As the day closes over Eden walls ; —
All these are nothing to my eyes and heart
Like Adah's face: I turn from earth and heaven
To gaze on it.

O Cain ! look on him : see how full of life,
Of strength, of bloom, of beauty, and of joy,
How like to me; how like to thee when gentle.

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Look! how he laughs and stretches out his arms,
And opens wide his blue eyes upon thine,
To hail his father; while his little form
Flutters as winged with joy. Talk not of pain !
The childless cherubs well might envy thee
The pleasures of a parent! Bless him, Cain!
As yet he hath no words to thank thee, but
His heart will, and thine own too.


Hark! the note, The natural music of the mountain reed For here the patriarchal days are not A pastoral fable — pipes in the liberal air, Mixed with the sweet bells of the sauntering herd: My soul would drink those echoes. O that I were The viewless spirit of a lovely sound, A living voice, a breathing harmony, A bodiless enjoyment, born and dying With the blest tone which made me.

With other ministrations thou, O Nature,
Healest thy wandering and distempered child !
Thou pourest on him thy soft influences,
Thy sunny hues, fair forms, and breathing sweets,
Thy melodies of woods, and winds, and waters,
Till he relent, and can no more endure
To be a jarring and discordant thing
Amid this general dance and minstrelsy ;
But, bursting into tears, wins back his way,
His angry spirit healed and harmonized
By the benignant touch of love and beauty.

SORROW. --Henry Taylor.
He that lacks time to mourn lacks time to mend
Eternity mourns that. 'Tis an ill cure
For life's worst ills, to have no time to feel them.
Where sorrow's held intrusive, and turned out,
There wisdom will not enter, nor true power,
Nor aught that dignifies humanity.

ENIGMA. — Miss Fanshawe.

'Twas whispered in heaven and muttered in hell, And echo caught softly the sound as it fell; On the confines of earth 'twas permitted to rest, And the depths of the ocean its presence confessed ; 'Twas seen in the lightning, and heard in the thunder ; 'Twill be found in the spheres, when riven asunder ; 'Twas given to man with his earliest breath, Assists at his birth, and attends him in death ; Presides o'er his happiness, honor, and health, Is the prop of his house, and the end of his wealth.

It begins every hope, every wish it must bound,
And though unassuming, with monarchs is crowned.
In the heaps of the miser 'tis hoarded with care,
But is sure to be lost in his prodigal heir.
Without it the soldier and sailor may roam,
But woe to the wretch who expels it from home.
In the whispers of conscience its voice will be found,
Nor e'er in the whirlwind of passion be drowned.
It softens the heart; and though deaf to the ear,
It will make it acutely and instantly hear.
But in shade let it rest, like a delicate flower -
O, breathe on it softly ; it dies in an hour. *



THE scenery of the prairie country is striking, and never fails to cause an exclamation of surprise. The extent of the prospect is exhilarating; the outline of the country sloping and graceful. The verdure of the flowers is beautiful; and the absence of shade, and consequent appearance of profusion of light, produces a gayety which animates the beholder.

It is necessary to explain that these plains, although preserving a general level with respect to the whole country, are yet in themselves not flat, but exhibit a gracefully waving surface, swelling and sinking with an easy slope, and a full, rounded outline, equally avoiding the unmeaning horizontal surface, and the interruption of abrupt or angular elevations. It is that surface which, in the expressive language of the country, is called rolling, and which has been said to resemble the long, heavy swell of the ocean, when its waves are sub. siding to rest, after the agitation of a storm.

* The answer to this beautiful enigma is the letter H.

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