on his gorgeous belt of wampum, and waited. Of whom was he dreaming as he sat beneath the sha dow of the pictograph? Was it not of the blueeyed maiden with cheeks like the flush of sunsèt on the snow?

The Iroquois waited. Then he heard a murmur, as of the wind stirring the leaves, then the rush of rapid footsteps, and, as he started to his feet, the cliffs above him were thronged with Algonquin warriors. There was silence for an instant, and then an hundred bows were bent, an hundred bowstrings snapped, an hundred arrows converged through the air and struck him! But as he turned to hurl defiance at his enemies, a lithe form bounded upon the parapet-it caught the figure studded with arrows and tottering upon the brink in its arms and screamed into the dying ears"I am here, oh, Iroquois !" and then, except the pictograph, nothing human remained upon the platform of the Palisades !

When I had finished the legend, Mr. Sumach startled the echoes with a burst of fluting that defies description. So I set to work resolutely to pack up the basket, for I thought such a place as the one

we were visiting did not require the aid of art to make it interesting. After the packing was finished, we started off for the boat, Mr. Sumach tooting over the rocks in a marvellous manner, until we came to the place where some climbing was necessary, and there I had the satisfaction of seeing the flute dislocated and cased, and then it fell in the water, when Mr. S. had some trouble to get at it. When we got to the place of anchorage, we found the tide had risen and the grapnel under water, but no boat; so I suppose the other end of the rope had not been tied to the ring in the bow. We had a pretty walk, though, to Closter, and hired another boat. As our boat was brought home next day it was no great matter; but I wished the person who found it for us had found also the oars and the thole pins.

CHAPTER XIII.

The Children are sent to School-Old Soldiers-An Invitation, and Cruel Disappointment Our Eldest begins to show Symptoms of the Tender PassionPoetry The Melodies of Mother Goose-Little Posterity by the Wayside-A Casualty-The Drowning of Poor Little Tommy.

Under

WE have sent the children to school. the protecting wing of Mrs. Sparrowgrass, our two eldest boys passed in safety through the narrow channel of orthography, and were fairly launched upon the great ocean of reading before a teacher was thought of. But when boys get into definitions, and words more than an inch long, it is time to put them out, and pay their bills once a quarter. Our little maid, five years old, must go with them, too. The boys stipulated that she should go, although she had never gone beyond E in the alphabet before. When I came home from the city in the evening, I found them with their new carpet-satchels all ready for the morning. There was quite a hurrah! when I came in, and they swung their book-knapsacks over each little shoul

der by a strap, and stepped out with great pride, when I said, "Well done, my old soldiers." Next morning we saw the old soldiers marching up the garden-path to the gate, and then the little procession halted; and the boys waved their caps, and one dear little toad kissed her mitten at us-and then away they went with such cheerful faces. Poor old soldiers! what a long, long siege you have before you!

Thank Heaven for this great privilege, that our little ones go to school in the country. Not in the narrow streets of the city; not over the flinty pavements; not amid the crush of crowds, and the din of wheels: but out in the sweet woodlands and meadows; out in the open air, and under the blue sky-cheered on by the birds of spring and summer, or braced by the stormy winds of ruder seasons. Learning a thousand lessons city children never learn; getting nature by heart and treasuring up in their little souls the beautiful stories written in God's great picture-book.

We have stirring times now when the old soldiers come home from school in the afternoon. The whole household is put under martial law until the old soldiers get their rations. Bless their white

heads, how hungry they are. Once in a while they get pudding, by way of a treat. Then what chuckling and rubbing of little fists, and cheers, as the three white heads touch each other over the pan. I think an artist could make a charming picture of that group of urchins, especially if he painted them in their school-knapsacks.

Sometimes we get glimpses of their minor world -its half-fledged ambitions, its puny cares, its hopes and its disappointments. The first afternoon they returned from school, open flew every satchel, and out came a little book. A conduct-book! There was G. for good boy, and R. for reading, and S. for spelling, and so on; and opposite every letter a good mark. From the early records in the conduct-books, the school-mistress must have had an elegant time of it for the first few days, with the old soldiers. Then there came a dark day; and or that afternoon, from the force of circumstances, the old soldiers did not seem to care about showing up. Every little reluctant hand, however, went into its satchel upon requisition, and out came the records. It was evident, from a tiny legion of crosses in the books, that the mistress's duties had been rather irksome that morning. So the small