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SflWnWflTti) Tk\T TF IWW ID) AWW fP A m imm?. &HJJUJ UjwmiiW Mli lAMiilm 11 lfaA//ij jijl jik TERMS, $2,00 PER ANNUM, IN ADVANCE. (Original |'artnj. Fortlie Southern Literary Gazette. epistle amatory. HV ALTON. He that can love unloved again, H ,[h larger store ot'love tlian brain, [Sir Robert Ayton. I. Be . i> —. You de3ire me, I Clio inspire me, VidooL-sy flow in the vein,— ■so yield to the spell Os my love-breathing shell, . jiv n • you an amorous strain, you’re anxious to hear, When adoring a fair, \, | tse bosom with passion is fired, How best you may act. In turn to exact r ,Mj litai, so dearly desired. tr. ( \~nle) — I , forsooth— Being an amorous youth, 11 id rather a weakness for Cupid ; Who, seeing my failing, Was ever ;i .cling, \ ,and turning me perfectly stupid ; For, So , • did you see’, The hoy lias an e’e lift-ii and as quick as a sago,— And ha! if not w. e, A tyrant he’ll rise, \ ,J sorrowful war on ye wage ! 111. How I pity poor Willis, Uncapped by fair Phillis— ! !.... little coquette ought to blush, sir ; ili.s heart —perfect tinder, Is burnt to a cinder, < ,v lu answered his suit, ‘Tush, tush, sir!’ With deep sunken eyes, In sorrow he sighs, ‘j . the m ion repeats the ad tile, Lo t his relish for dinner, Because lie can’t win her, A id tries t > grow ‘ wretchedly pale.’ IV. In plain conversation, With strange collocation, fiie simplest of words misarrays, Answers questions so blindly, With absence of mind, he Affects not to hear what one says— For sympathy turns To Keats, Moore or Burns, ViTo-e sorrows he fancies he bears— Grows quite misanthropic With Byron’s sad topic, And sinks into sullen despairs ! v. If, perchance, on the streets, A maiden he meets, Who haps not to be his sweet Phillis, For hours together, He talks of the weather, G. 111* street, though it rained, dusty still is. Tricked out in fine airs, To the Ball he repairs, With fond heart and high hopes of pleasure, With a soul-melting gaze, To look in her face, And reveal lii.s warm bosom’s sweet treasure. VI. But, wo is his fate, If perchance, quite elate, She smiles with delight on another — See his countenance fall, As sad ’gainst the wall He leans in a terrible bother. Not a lady that e’en For lie’s seized with the spleen) Hies he deign to converse, or to dance with— But, silent and frigid, Lips pursed-up quite rigid, He seems to be spelled a deep trance with. Til. While Phill is coquettes, Amused at his pets, Aad flatters a beau of coarse feature, Nor troubles herself h ith the simple weak elf, i! t laughs at the poor silly creature ! At supper, with Sherry, Howe’er he makes merry— Determined to drown thus his sorrow : But, the excitement all over, S id again he thinks of her, Bit worse—gets a head-ache next morrow ! VIII. And retiring to bed, V\ itb a love-addled head, Kicks restless in every direction — Nor sleeps he a bit, Less Mab ‘ makes a hit’ h uli dreams of ‘ requited affection’. But to bear quite unable A lot so unstable, Hi- late now decides pretty quick: As, with heart pitta-patter, Disclosing the matter, Hi gets—why what but a kick ! IX. Now, pray, Sir, excuse me, It here I accuse thee, t one who may sit for this picture— But, stand ye alone ? File re are a hundred I’ve known, “'horn may apply the same stricture. You asked me for truth — So thus, my dear youth, i-knowing your hapless condition, I’ve probed your weak heart, That the wound, while it smart, “ay Bring you back soon to contrition. x. For, believe it, my man, I ts a wretched bad plan 1 tor a woman’s compassion— To shrink when she spurns, () r w eep when she turns, ‘■ t:i e sure way to get the Flirt’s lash on ! I he smile of a lonian, Compassionate to man, m °re than her scorn the heart harrows: 1 is a caustic applied 1 ” a manly heart’s pride, ‘ Ml ich wounds it more keen than Love’s arrows. XI. What want you with pity From the heart which hath stnit ye l ‘ 1 Lius you’d a conquest obtain ? Besiege, with warm zeal, Her heart’s citadbl, J ‘ s ße spurn thee—retire from her train. Hor, though a sweet Fairy I should worship, yet, hear ye, a Mffiiiii wmuk mmm ts m'umtmi, the mn awq mmm . mb n mmui I never would pray for a smile : If she gave it not free, ’Twere no value to me— But would prove her a creature of guile. XII. ’Tts woman’s true sphere, With fa.th to revere, Air! acknowledge the man her superior: When she seek - .1 protector, Do you weak'/ expect her To seek the arms of her inferior ? If she ever unites In Hymeniai rites With the man she ne’er loved deep and true, Beware, and expect sure, The sad Curtain-Lecture, Hen-pecking, the sulks, or a Shrew. XIII. Fond man—do you love ? Are you willing to prove, By patience, forbearance, or danger, or fortune. The thousand of trials, The stern self-denials, That await thee, hereafter, in Lite’s changing * sun ? If such be thy love, Thou standest above One half the weak mortals beside thee : Whate’er thy condition, Thy wealth or position, A Queen’s not too high to be-bride thee. xtv. Then, man of my heart, Be a man, as thou ait, And,favoured thus well o’er the crowd, — Bow down to no one, Yet spurn not the low one, Be true to thyself—be proud to the proud! If the maiden thou lovest To thee coldly provest, Turn, turn from her side in disdain : Never stoop to a sigh. But keep a bright eye, And proudly dissemble thy pain! xv. For women seek men— Not Strephons I ken, But men—spirits jovial and high : If her choice thou art, With a woman’s true heart, ’Twill speak Iron her love-breathing eye ! Scout, scout the ‘ old saw’, That, in Modesty’s law, A maiden should ne’er dream of love, Till, bowed at her feet, In petitionings sweet, A youth bis fond passion doth prove ! XVI. Entrc nous —I confess, I’d seek no caress From one of this old-maujish school: Give rue Nature’s true feelings— Not Art’s vile concealing;— And I’m sure of a wife—not a f—l. The girl who ne’er knows— Or pretends’to the close, Not to see your fond hopes and wild fears: Be sure is a Prude— Cold, callous and rude— And will turn thy bright smiles into tears ! spirit of tljr Imraola. [We have already advised our read ers that Mr. Putnam lias in press, a very beautiful volume, entitled “The Memorial,” and written by the friends of the bite Mrs. Osgood with the de sign of erecting a monument to her memory with the profits arising from its sale, lathe November Internation al, we find, copied by permission, the following exquisite story ; and we take the liberty of introducing it to out readers in advance of the publication of “ The Memorial. ’ Eds. Gazette .] THE SNOW IMAGE. A CHILDISH MIRACLE. BY NATHANIEL HAWTHORNE. One afternoon of a cold winter’s day, when the sun shone forth with chilly brightness, after a long storm, two chil dren asked leave of their mother to run out and play in the new-fallen snow. The eldest child was a little girl, whom, because she was of a tender and modest disposition,and was thought to be very beautiful, her parents, find other people that were familiar with her, used to call Violet. But her brother was known by the style and title of Peony, on account of the rud diness of his broad and round little phiz, which made everybody think of sunshine and great scarlet flowers. — The father of these two children, a cer tain Mr. Lindsey, it is important to say, was an excellent, but exceedingly matter-of-fact sort of man, a dealer in hardware, and was sturdily accustomed to take what is called the common sense view of all matters that came un der his consideration. With a heart about as tender as other peoples’, he had a head as hard and impenetrable, and therefore, perhaps, as empty, as one of the iron pots which it was apart of his business to sell. The mother’s character, on the other hand, had a strain of poetry in it, a trait of un worldly beauty, a delicate and dewy flower, as it were, that had survived out of her imaginative youth, and still kept itself alive amid the dusty realities of matrimony and motherhood. So, Violet and Peony, as I began with saying, besought their mother to let them run out and play in the new snow ; for, though it had looked so dreary and dismal, drifting downward out of the gray sky, it had a very cheer ful aspect, now that the sun was shin ing on it. The children dwelt in a city, and had no wider play place than a lit tle garden before the ho ’se, divided by a white fence from the street, and with a pear-tree and two or three plum-trees overshadowing it, and some rose-bush es just in front of the parlour-windows. The trees and shrubs, however, were now leafless, and their twigs were en veloped iu the light snow, which thus made a kind of wintry foliage, with here and there a pendant icicle for the fruit. “Yes, Violet—yes, my little Peony,” said their kind mother ; “you may go out and play in the new snow.” j ‘ Accordingly, the good lady bundled tip her darlings in woolen jackets and wadded sacks,and put comforters round their necks, and a pair of striped gaiters on each little pair of legs, and worst ed mittens’ on their hands, and gave them a kiss a-piece, by way of a spell to keep away Jack Frost. Forth sal lied the two children with a hop-skip and-jutnp, that carried them at once in to the. very heart of a huge snow-drift, whence Violet emerged like a snow hunting, while little Peony floundered out with his round face in full bloom. Then what a merry time had they ! To look at them, frolicking in the wintry garden, you would have thought that the dark and pitiless storm had been sent for no other purpose but to pro vide anew plaything for Violet and Peony; and that they themselves had been created, as the snow birds were, to take delight only in the tempest, and lin the white mantle which it spread over the earth. At last, when they had frosted one another all over with handfuls of snow, Violet, after laughing heartily at little Peony’s figure, was struck with anew idea. “You look exactly like a snow-image, Peony,” said she, “if your cheeks were not so red. And that puts me in mind! Let us make an image out of snow— :m image of a littJe girl—and it shall be our sister, and shall run about and play with us all winter long. Won’t it be nice ?” “ Oh, yes !’’ cried Peony, as plainly as he could speak, for he was but a lit tle boy. “That will be nice ! And mamma shall see it!” “Yes, answered Violet; “mamma shall see the new little girl. But she must not make her come into the warm parlour; for, you know, our little snow sister wiil not love the warmth.” And forthwith the children began this great business of making a snow image that should run about —while their mother* who was sitting at the window and overheard some of their talk, could not help smiling at thegrav ity with which they set about it. ‘They really seemed to imagine that there would he no difficulty whatever in cre ating a live little girl out of the snow. And to say the truth, if miracles are ever to be wrought, it will be by put ting our bands to the work, in precise ly such a simple and undoubting frame of mind as that in which Violet and Peony now undertook to perform one, without so much tts knowing that it was a miracle. No thought the mother; and thought, likewise, that the new snow, just fallen trorn heaven, would be excellent material to make new be ings of. if it were not so very cold.— She gazed at the children a moment longer, delighting to watch their little figures—the girl, tall for her age, grace ful and agile, and so delicately colour ed, that she looked like .a cheerful thought, more than a physical reality —while Peony expanded in breadth rather than height, and rolled along on his short and sturdy legs, as substan tial as an elephant, though not quite so big. Then the mother resumed her work ; what it was I forget; but she was either trimming a silken bonnet for Violet, or darning a pair of stock ings for little Peony’s short legs.— Again, however, and again, and yet oth er agains, she could not help turning her head to the window,, to see how the children got on with their snow image. Indeed, it was an exceedingly plea* sant sight, those bright little souls at their tasks! Moreover, it was really wonderful to observe how knowingly CJ V and skilfully they managed the matter. Violet assumed the chief direction, and told Peony what to do, while, with her own delicate tinge she shaped out all the nicer parts of the snow-figure. It seemed, in fact, not so much to he made by the children, as to grow up under their hands, while they were playing and prattling about it. Their mother was quite surprised at this; and the longer ahe looked, the more and more surprised she grew. “ What remarkable children mine are !” thought she, smiling with a mo ther’s pride; and smiling at herself, too, for being so proud of them.— “ What other children could have made anything so like a little girl’s figure out of snow, at the first trial ? Well, —but now 1 must finish Peony’s new frock ; for his grandfather is coming to-morrow, and 1 want the little fellow to look handsome.” So she took up the frock, and was soon as busily at work again with her needle as the tivo children with their snow-image. But still, as the needle traveled hither and thither through the seams of the dress, the mother made her toil light and happy by listening to the airy voices of Violet and Peony. They kept talking to one another all the time—their tongues being quite as active as their feet and hands. Except at intervals, she could not distinctly hear what was said, but had merelv a sweet impression that they were in a most loving mood, and were enjoying themselves highly, and that the busi ness of making the snow-image went prosperously on. Now and then, how ever, when Violet and Peony happened to raise their voices, the words were as audible as if they had been spoken in the very parlour, where the mother sat. Oh, how delightfully those words echoed in her heart, even though they meant nothing so very wise or wonder ful, after all ! But you must know, a mother lis tens with her heart, much more than with her ears ; and thus she is often de lighted with the thrills of celestial mu sic, when other people can hear nothing of the kind. “ Peony, Peony !” cried Violet to her brother, who had gone to another part of the garden ; “bring me some of that fresh snow, Peony, from the farth est corner, where we have not been trampling. 1 want it to shape our lit tle snow-sister’s bosom with. You know that part must be quite pure — just as it came out of the sky !” “ Here it is, Violet!” answered Pe CHARLESTON. SATURDAY, DEC. 7, 1850. ony, in his bluff tone —but a very sweet tone, too--as he came floundering through the half-trodden drifts. “Here is the snow for her little bosom. Oil. Violet, how beau-ti—ful she begins to look !” “ Yes,” said Violet, thoughtfully and quietly ; “ our snow-sister does look very lovely. I did not quite know, Peony, that we could make such a sweet little girl as this.” The mother, as she listened, thought how fit and delightful an incident it would be, if fairies, or, still better, if angel-children were to come from para dise, and play invisibly with her own darlings, and help them to make their snow-image—giving it the features of celestial babyhood ! Violet and Peo ny would not he aware of their im mortal playmates—only they would see that the image grew very beautiful, while they worked at it, and would think that they themselves had done it all. “My little giri and boy deserve such playmates, if mortal children ever did!” said the mother to herself; and then she smiled again at her own motherly pride. Nevertheless, the ideti seized upon her imagination; and, ever and anon, she took a plimpseout of the window, halt-dreaming that she might see the golden-haired children of paradise, sporting with her own golden-haired Violet and bright-cheeked Peony. Now, fora few moments, there was a busy and earnest, but indistinct hum of the two children’s voices, as Violet and Peonv wrought together with one happy consent. Violet still seemed to he the guiding spirit: while Peony acted rather as a labourer, and brought her the snow from far and near. And yet the little urchin evidently had a proper understanding of the matter, too ! “ Peony, Peony !” cried Violet; for her brother was again at the other side of the garden. “ Bring me those light wreaths of snow that have rested on the lower branches of the pear-tree. — You can clamber on the snow-drift, Peony, and reach them easily. I must have them to make some ringlets for our snow-sister’s head !” “ Here they are, Violet!” answered the little boy. “Take care you do not break them. Well done ! Well done! How pretty !” “ Does she not look sweetly ?” said Violet, with a very satisfied tone; “and now we must have some little shining bits of iee to make the brightness of her eyes. She is not finished yet. — Mamma will see how very beautiful she is; but papa will say,‘Tush ! non sense !—come in out of the cold !’ ” “ Let us call mamma to look out,” laid Peony; and then he shouted lusti sv, “Mamma! mamma!! mamma!!! Look out, and see what a nice’ittle girl we are making!” The mother put down her work, for an instant, and looked out of the window. But it so happened that the sun —for this was one of the shortest days of the whole year —had sunken so nearly to the edge of the world, that his set ting shine came obliquely into the la dy’s eyes. So she was dazzled, you must understand, and could not very distinctly observe what was in the gar den. Still, however, through all that bright, blinding dazzle of the sun and ‘the new snow, she beheld a small white figure in the garden that seemed to have a wonderful deal of human like ness about it. And she saw Violet and Peony—indeed, she looked more at them than at the image—she saw the two children still at work; Peony bringing fresh snow, and Violot apply ing it to the figure, as scientifically as a sculptor adds clay to his model.— Indistinctly as she discerned the snow child, the mother thought to herself that never before was there a snow-fig ure so cunningly made, nor ever such a dear little boy and girl to make it. “They do everything better than other children,” said she, very compla cently. “No wonder they make better snow-images !’, She sat down again to her work, and made as much haste with it as possible; because twilight won Id soon come, and Peony’s frock was not yet finished, and grandfather was expected, by railroad, pretty early in the morning. Faster and faster, therefore, went her flying lingers. The children, likewise, kept busily at work in the garden, and still the mother listened, whenever she could catch a word. She was amused to ob serve how their little imaginations had got mixed up wit h what they were do ing, and were earried away by it. They seemed positively to think that the snow-child would run about and play with them. “What a nice playmate she will be for us, all winter long!” said Violet. “I hope papa will not be afraid of her giving us a cold ! Shan’t you love her dearly, Peony ?” “O, yes!” cried Peony. “ And 1 will hug her, and she shall sit down close by me, and drink some of my warm milk !’’ “Oh no, Peony !” answered Violet with grave wisdom. “That will not do at all. Warm milk will not be wholesome for our little snow-sister.— Littlesnowjieople, like her, eat nothing but icicles. No no, Peony ; we must not give her anything warm to drink !” There was a minute or two of si lence ; for Peony, whose short legs were weary, had gone on a pilgrimage again to the other side of the garden. All of a sudden, Violet cried out, loud ly and joyfully : Look here, Peony ! Cos ne quickly ! A light has been shining on her cheek out of that rose-coloured cloud!—and the colour does not go away ! Is not that beautiful ?” “ Y es; it is beau-ti-ful,” answered Peony, pronouncing the three syllables with deliberate accuracy. “ Oh, Vio let, only look at her hair! It is all like gold!” “ Oh, certainly,” said Violet, with tranquility, as if it were very much a matter of course. “That colour, you know, comes from the golden clouds, that we see up there in the sky. She is almost finished now. But her lips must be made very red —redder than her cheeks. Perhaps, Peonv, it will make them red, if we both k ; ss them!” Accordingly, the mother heard two smart little smacks, as if both her chil dren were kissing the snow-image on its frozen mouth. But, as this did not seem to make the lips quite red enough, Violet next proposed that the snow child should be invited to kiss Peony’s scarlet cheek. “ Come, ’ittle snow-sister, kiss me!” cried Peony. “ There ! she has kissed you,” added Violet, “and now her lips are very red. And she blushed a little, too !” “Oh, what a cold kiss !” cried Peony. Just then, there came a breeze of the pure west wind, sweeping through the garden and rattling the parlor-windows. It sounded so wintry cold, that the mo ther was about to tap on the window pane with herthimbled finger, to sum mon the <wo children in; when they both cried out to her with one voice. The tone was not a tone of surprise, although they were evidently a good deal excited ; it appeared rather as if they were very much rejoiced at some event that ha i now happened, hut which they had been looking for, and had reckoned upon all along. “ M imma ! mamma ! We have fin ished our little snow-sister, and she is running about the garden with us !” “ What imaginative little beings my children are !” thought the mother, put ting the last few stitches into Peony’s frock. “ And it is strarige, too, that they make me almost as much a child as they themselves tire! i can hardly help believing,now,that the snow-image ha - really come to life !” “Dear mamma!” cried Violet, “pray look out, and see what a sweet play mate we have!” The mother, being thus entreated, could no longer delay to look forth from the window. The sun was now gone out of the sky, leaving, however, a rich inheritance of his brightness among those purple and golden clouds which makes the sunsets of winter so magnificent. But there was not the slightest gleam or dazzle, either on the window or on the snow; so that the good lady could look all over the gar den, and see everything and everybody in it. .And what do you think she saw there ! Violet and Peony, of course, her own two darling children. Ah, hut whom or what did she see besides? — Why, if you will believe me, there was a small figure of a girl, dressed all in white, with rose-tinged cheeks and ringlets of golden hue, playing about the garden with the two children. A stranger though she was, the child seem ed to he on as familiar terms with Vio let and Peony, and they with her, as if all the three id been pi vitiates during the whole < their little lives. The mother thought to herself, that it must certainly be the daughter of one of the neighbours, and that, seeing Violet and Peony in the garden, the child had run across the street to play with them.— So this kind lady went to the door, in tending to invite the little runaway in to her comfortable parlour; for, now that the sunshine was withdrawn, the atmosphere, out of doors, was already growing very cold. But, after opening the house-door, she stood an instant on the threshold, hesitating whether she ought to ask the child to come in, or whether she should even speak toiler. Indeed, she almost doubted whether it were a real child, after all, or only a light wreath of the new-fallen snow, blown hither and thither about the garden by the in tensely cold west-wind. There was certainly something very singular in the aspect of the little stranger. Among all the children of the neighbourhood, the lady could remember no such face, with its pure white, and delicate rose colour, and the golden ringlets tossing about the forehead and cheeks. And as for her dress, which was entirely of white, and fluttering in the breeze, it was such as no reasonable woman would put upon a little girl, when send ing her out to play, in the depth of winter. It made this kind and careful mother shiver only to look at those small feet, with nothing in the world on them, except a very thin pair of white slippers. Nevertheless, airily as she was clad, the child seemed to feel not the slightest inconvenience from the cold, but danced so lightly over the snow that the tips of her toes left hardly a print in its surface; while Vio let could but just keep pace with her, and Peony’s short legs compelled him ft) lag behind. Once, in the course of their play, the strange child placed herself between Violet and Peony, and taking a hand of each, skipped merrily forward, and they along with her. Almost imme diately, however, Peony pulled away his little fist, and began to rub it as if the lingers were tingling with cold ; while Violet also released herself, though with less abruptness, gravely remarking that it was better not to take hold of hands. The white-robed dam sel said not a word, but danced about just as merrily as before. If Violet and Peony did not choose to play with her, she could make just as good a play mate of the brisk and cold west-wind, which kept blowing her all about the garden, and took such liberties with her that they seemed to have been friends tor a long time. All this while, the mother stood on the threshold, wonder ing how a little girl could look so much like a flying snow-drift, or how a snow drift could look so very like a littlegirl. She called Violet, and whispered to her. “ Violet, my darling, what is this child’s name ?” asked she. “Does she live near us ?” “ Why, dearest mamma,” answered V iolet, laughing to think that her mo ther did not comprehend so very plain an affair, “this is our little snow-sister, whom we have just been making !” “ Yes, dear mamma,” cried Peony, running to his mother, and looking up simply into her face. “ This is our snow-image! Is it not a nice ’itttle child?” At this instant a flock of snow-birds came flitting through the air. As was very natural, they avoided Violet and Peony. But —and this looked strange —they flew at once to the white-robed child, fluttered eagerly about her head, alighted on her shoulders, and seemed to claim her as an old acquainrance.— She, on her part, wa” evidently as glad to see these little birds, old Winter’s grandchildren, as they were to see her, and welcomed them by holding out both her hands. Hereupon, they each and all tried to alight on her two palms and ten small fingers and thumbs, crowding one another off, with an im mense fluttering of their tiny wings.— One dear little bird nestled tenderly in her bosom ; another put its bill to her lips. They were as joyous, all the while, and seemed as much in their cle ment, as you may have seen them when sporting with a snow-storm. \ iolet and Peony stood laughing at this pretty sight; for they enjoyed the merry time which their new playmate was having with these small-win -ed visitants, almost as much as if they themselves took part in it. “ V iolet,” said her mother, greatly perplexed, “tell me the truth, without any jest. Who is this little girl ?” “My darling mamma,” answered Violet, looking seriously into her mo ther’s face, and apparently surprised that she should need any further ex planation, ‘1 have told you truly who she is. It, is our little snow image, which Peony and I have been making. Peony will toll you so as well I.”* “ Yes, mamma,” asseverated Peonv, with much gravity in his crimson little phiz; “this is’ittle snow-child. Is not she a nice one ? But, mamma, her hand is, oh, so very cold !” VV bile mamma still hesitated what to think and what to do, the street-gate was thrown open, and the father of Violet and Peony appeared, wrapped in a pilot-cloth sack, with a fur-cap drawn down over his ears, and the thickest of gloves upon his hands. Mr. Lindsey was a middle-aged man, with a weary, and yet a happy look in his wind-flushed and frost-pinched face, as if he had been busy all day long, and was glad to get back to his quiet home. His eyes brigliteded at the sight of his wife and children, although he could not help uttering a Avord or two of sur prise, at finding the whole family in the open air, on so bleak a day, and after sunset’ too. lie soon perceived the little white stranger, sporting to and fro in the garden, like a dancing snow wreath, and the flock of snow-birds flut tering about her head. “Pray, what little girl may that be?” inquired this very sensible man. “Sure ly her mother must be crazy, to let her go out in such bitter weather as it has been to-day, with only that flimsy white gown, and those thin slippers !” “My dear husband,” said his wife, “I know no more about the little thing than you do. Some neighbour’sehild, 1 suppose. Our Violet and Peony,” she added, laughing at herself for re peating so absurd a story, “insist that she is nothing but a snow-image, which they have been busy about in the gar den, almost all the afternoon.” As she said this, the mother glanced her eyes towards the spot where the children’s snow-image hud been made. What was her surprise, on perceiving that there was not the slightest trace of so much labour ! —no image at all ! no piled-up heap of snow !—nothing whatever, save the prints of little foot steps around a vacant space. “This is very strange!” said she. “What is strange, dear mother?” asked Violet- “ Dear father, do not you see how it is? Thi,s is our snow image, which Peony and I have made, because we wanted another playmate. Did not we, Peony?” “Yes, Papa,” said crimson Peony. “ This is our ‘ittle snow-sister. Is she not beau-ti-ful ? But she gave me such a cold kiss!” “ Poll, children !” cried their good, honest father, who, as we have already intimated, had an exceed ingly common-sensible way of looking at matters. “Do not tell me of making live figures out of snow. Come, wife; this little stranger must not stay out in the bleak air a moment longer. We will bring her into the parlour; and you shall give her a supper of warm bread and milk, and make her as com fortable as you can. Meanwhile, I will inquire among the neighbours ; or, if necessary, send the city-crier about the streets, to give notice of a lost child.” So saving, this honest and very kind hearted man was going toward the lit tie white damsel, with the best inten tions in the world. But Violet and Peony, each seizing their father by the hand, earnestly besought him not to make her come in. “ Dear father,” cried Violet, putting herself before him, “ it is true what 1 have been telling you ! This is our lit tle snow-girl, and she cannot live any longer than while she breathes the cold west-wind. Do not make her come in to the hot room!” “Yes, father,” shouted Peony, stamp ing his little foot, so mightily was he in earnest, —“this he nothing but our ’ittle snow-child ! She will not love the hot fire !” “ Nonsense, children, nonsense, non sense !” cried the father, hall-vexed, half-laughing at what he considered their foolish obstinacy. “Hun into the house, this moment! It is too late to play any longer, now. I must take care of this little girl immediately, or she will catch her death-a-cold !” “ Husband !—dear husband !” said his wife, in a low voice; for she had been looking narrowly at the snow child, and was more perplexed than ever, —“There is something very sin gular in all this. You will think me foolish—but—but —may it not be that some invisible angel has been attract ed by the simplicity and good-faith with which our children set about their undertaking? May he not have spent an hour of his immortality in playing THIRD VOLUME.—NO. 32 WHOLE NO 132. with those dear little souls ? —and so the result is what we call a miracle.— No, no! Do not laugh at me, l see what- a foolish thought it is ?” “My dear wife,” replied the husband, laughing hpartily, “you are as much a child as Violet and Peony.” And, in one sense, so she was; for, all through life, she had kept her heart full of child-like simplicity and faith, which was as pure and clear as crystal; and, looking at ail matters through this transparent medium, she sometimes saw truths, so profound, that other peo ple laughed at them as nonsense and absurdity. But now kind Mr. Lindsey had en tered the garden, breaking away from his two children, who still sent their shrill voices after him, beseeching him to let the snow-child stay and enjoy herself in the cold west-wind. As he approached, the. snow birds took to flight. The little white damsel also, fled backward, shaking her head as if to say—“ Pray do not touch me !” and roguishly, as it appeared, leading him through the deepest of the snow. Once, the good man stumbled, and floundered down upon his face; so that, gathering himself up again, with the snow sticking to his rough pilot-cloth sack, i looked as white and wintry as asc v-image of the largest size. Some of the neighbours, meanwhile, seeing him from their windows, wondered what could possess poor Mr. Lindsey to be running about his garden in pursuit of a snow-drift, which the west-wind was driving hither and thither! At length after a vast deal of trouble, lie. chased the little stranger into a corner, where she could not possibly escape him.— llis wife had been looking on, and, it being nearly .twilight, was wonder struck to observe how the snow-child gleamed and sparkled, and how she seemed to shed a glow all round about her, and when driven into the corner, she positively glistened like a star! It was a frosty kind ot brightness, too, like that of an icicle in the moonlight. The wife thought it strange that good Mr. Lindsey shou.d see nothing re markable in the snow child’s appear ance. “Come, you odd little thing !” cried • the honest man, seizing her by the hand. “ I have caught you at last, and will make you comfortable in spite of your self. We will put a nice warm pair of worsted stockings on your frozen little feet ; and you shall iiave a good thick shawl to wrap yourself in. Your poor white nose, i am afraid, is actually frost bitten. But we will make it ail right. Come along in !” And so, with a most benevolent smile on his sagacious visage, all purple tis it was with the cold, this very well meaning gentleman took the snow-child by the hand and led her toward the house. She followed him, droopingly and reluctant; for all the glow and sparele was gone out of her figure; and, whereas, just before, she had resembled a bright, frosty, star-gemmed evening, with a crimson gleam on the cold ho rizon, she now looked as dull and lan guid as a thaw. As kind Mr Lindsey led her up the steps of the door, Vio let and Peony looked into his face— their eyes full of tears which froze be fore they could run down their cheeks —and again entreated him not to bring their snow-image into the house. “ Not bring her in !” exclaimed the kind hearted man. “ Why you are crazy, my little Violet!—quite crazy, my small Peony ! She is so cold, al ready, that her hand has almost frozen mine, in spite of my thick gloves.— \\ ould you have her freeze to death ?” Ilis wife, as he came up the steps, had been taking another long, earnest, almost awe-stricken gaze at the little white stranger. She hardly knew whether it was a dream or no ; but she could not help fancying that she saw the delicate print of Violet’s fingers on the child’s neck, It looked just as if, while Violet was shaping out the image, she had given it a gentle pat with her hand, and had uegiected to smooth the impression quite away. “ After all, husband,” said the mo ther, recurring to her idea, that the angels would be as much delighted to play with Violet and Peony as she her self was, “alter all she does look strange ly likaa snow-image! 1 do believe she is made of snow !” A puff of the west-wind blew against the snow-child ; and again she sparkled like a star. “Snow!” repeated good Mr. Lind sey, drawing the reluctant guest over his hospitable threshold. “No wonder she looks like snow. She is half-frozen, poor little thing ! But a good fire will put everything to rights.” Without further talk, and always with the same host intentions, this highly benevolent and common-sensi ble individual led the little white dam sel—drooping,drooping, drooping, more and more—out of the frosty air,- and into his comfortable parlour. A Heid enbeg stove, filled to the brim with in tensely burning anthracite, was send ing a bright gleam through the isinglass of its iron door, and causing the vase of water on its top to fume and bubble with excitement. A warm, sultry smell was diffused throughout the room, A thermometer, on the wall farthest from the stove, stood at eighty de grees. The parlour was hung with red curtains, and covered with a red carpet, and looked just as warm as it felt.— The difference betwixt the atmosphere here, and the cold, wintry twilight out of doors, was like stepping at once from Nova Zembla to the hottest part of India, or from the North-pole into an oven. Oh, this was a fine place for the little white stranger ! The common-sensible man placed the snow child on the hearth-rug, right in front of the hissing and fuming stove. “ Now she will be comfortable!’ cried Mr. Lindsey, rubbing his hands and looking about him, with the plea santest smile you ever saw. “ Make yourself at home my child !” Sad, sad, and drooping looked the little white maidetvas she stood on the hearth-rug, with the hot blast of the stove striking through her like a pesti lence. Once, she threw a glance wist fully toward the windows, and caught a glimpse through its red curtains, of the snow-covered roofs, and the stars glimmering frostily, and all the deli cious intensity of the cold night. The bleak wind rattled the window-panes, as if it were summoning her to come forth. But there stood the snow-child, drooping, before the hot stove ! lint the common-sensible man saw nothing amiss. “ Come, wife/’ said he, “let her have a pair of thick stockings and a woolen shawl or blanket directly; and tell Do ra to give her some warm sapper as soon as the milk boils. You, Violet and Peony, amuse your little friend.— She is out of spirits, you see, at find ing herself in a strange place. For my part, 1 will go around among the neighbours, and find out where she be longs.” The mother, meanwhile, has gone in search of the shawl and stockings ; for her own view of the matter, however subtle and delicate, had given away, as it always did, to the stubborn mate rialism of her husband. \Y ithout heeding the remonstrances of her two children, who still kept murmuring that their little snow-sister did not love the warmth, good Mr. Lindsey took his departure, shutting the parlour-door carefully behind him. Turning up the collar of his sack over his ears, he emerged from the house, and had bare ly reached the street-gate, when he was recalled by the screams of Violet and Peony, and the rapping of a thimbled linger agrinst the parlour-window. “Husband! husband!” cried his wife, showing her horror-stricken face through the window-panes. “ There is no need of going for the child’s pa rents 1” “ We told you so, father !” scream ed \ iolet and Peony, as he reentered the parlor. “You would bring her in ; and now our poor—dear—beau-ti-ful little snow-sister is thawed !” And their own sweet little faces were already dissolved in tears so that their father, seeing what strange things oc casionally happen in this every-day world, felt not a little anxious lest his children might be going to thaw too ! In the utmost perplexity, he demanded an explanation of his wife. She could only reply, that being summoned to the parlour by the cries of Violet and Peony, she found no trace of the little white maiden, unless it were the re mains of a heap of snow, which, while she was gazing at it, molted quite away upon the hearth-rug. ” And there you see all that is left of it 1 added she, pointing to a pool of water, in front of the stove. “ \ es, father, ‘said Violot, looking reproachfully at him, through her tears, “there is all that is left of our dear little snow-sister!” “Naughty father!” cried Peony, stamping his foot, and—l shudder to say—bilking his little fist at the com mon-sensible man. “We told you how it would be! \Y hat for did you bring her in V- And the Ileidenberg stove, through the isinglass of its door, seem and to glare at good Mr. Lindsey, like a red-eyed demon, triumphing in the mischief which it had done ! This, you will observe, was one of those rare cases, which yet will occa sionally happen, where common-sense finds itselt at fault, ihe remarkable story of the snow-image, though, to that sagacious class of people to whom good Mr. Li idsey belongs, it may seem but a ch di .h atl’air, is neverthelesss, capable of being moralized in various methods, greatly for their edification. Due ot its lessons, for instance, might be, that it behooves men, and especial ly men of benevolence to consider well what they are about, and, before acting on their philanthropic purposes, to be quite sure that they comprehend the nature and all the relations of the busi ness in hand. What has been esta blished as an element of good to one being, may prove absolute mischief to another; even as the warmth of the parlour was proper enough for children of flesh and blood, like Violet and Pe ony—though by no means very whole some, even for them—but involved nothing short of annihilation to the un fort u nate snow-image. Hut, after all, there is no teaching anything to wise men of good Mr. Lindsey t stamp. They know every thing—Oh, to be sure !—everything that has been, and everything that is, and everything that, by any future pos sibility, can be. And, should some phenomenon of nature or providence system they will not re cognize it, even if it come to pass un der their very noses. “ Wife,” said Mr. Lindsey, after a fit ot silence, ■“see what a quantity of snow the children have brought in on their feet! It has made quite a puddie here before the stove. Pray tell Do ra to bring some towels and sop it up!” Woman of Spirit. — The San Fran cisco Evening Picayune says that Mrs. Jane M. \\ heeler, a very beautiful and intelligent lady, was recently brought up in that city for an assault on a fel low named Coney. It appears that the lady, having been grossly insulted by Caney, on the voyage out, walked into the cabin, accompanied by her husband and some other gentlemen, and after reproaching the scoundrel for his insolence, took olf her satin slipper and slapped his face soundly with it! The lady was instantly discharged by dudge Hoffman; and the Picayune significantly remarks that “Mr. Caney had better immos this ranch.” When you take an article to an editor expecting to hear directly wheth or he will or won’t print it, you mmht better take along a horsewhip. If not, he will be apt to consider it more rea sonable and proper that your article should wait its turn for perusal aud judgment, than that he should put aside the work pressing upon him, in order to s uit your convenience.— N. Y. Tribune.