Sibella looked at him with affectionate admiration, while she replied, “Truly, ‘the child is father of the man.’ There spoke the same soul that invited a tradesman’s manly son to spend the vacation with him, in preference to Lord Smallsoul.” “I will never reprove _my_ boy, if he brings home the manly son of a wood-sawyer to spend his school vacations with us,” rejoined he. “But hark! Hear our children laughing and shouting! What sound is more musical than the happy voices of children? See the dear little rogues racing over the carpet of wild-flowers! How they seem to love each other! God be praised, they are free to enact the parts of Paul and Virginia in this lovely solitude. May no rich relatives tempt them into fashionable life, and make shipwreck of their happiness.” A SERENADE. Sleep well! Sleep well! To music’s spell; Thus hushing thee To reverie, Like ev’ning breeze, Through whisp’ring trees; Till mem’ry and the lay Float dreamily away. Sleep well! Sleep well! May dreams bring near All who are dear, With festal flow’rs From early hours; While, softly free, This melody Drifts through thy tranquil dream, Like lilies on a stream. Sleep well! Sleep well! THE JURYMAN. Soften his hard, cold heart! and show The power which in forbearance lies, And let him feel that mercy now Is better than old sacrifice! J. G. WHITTIER. Peter Barker belonged to that numerous class, who are neither better nor worse than other men. Left an orphan in his infancy, the paths of life were rough and lonely at the outset. He had a violent temper and a good heart. The first was often roused into activity, and punished with energy kindred to its own; the last remained almost undeveloped, for want of genial circumstances and reciprocated affection. One softening gleam fell upon his early path, and he loved it like the sunshine, without comprehending the great law of attraction that made it so very pleasant. When he attended school in the winter months, he always walked home with a little girl named Mary Williams. On the play-ground he was with her, always ready to do battle with anybody who disobliged her. Their comrades laughed, and called him Mary’s beau; and they blushed and felt awkward, though they had no idea what courting meant. Things had arrived at this state of half-revealed consciousness, he being fourteen years old, and Mary twelve, when her friends removed to the West, and the warm, bright influence passed out of his life. He never rightly knew whether he was in love with Mary; but years afterwards, when people talked to him about marrying, he thought of her, wondering where she was, and whether she remembered him. When he drove his cows home from pasture, the blackberry bushes on the way brought up visions of his favourite school-mate, with her clean cape-bonnet thrown back, her