And there where I had madly wept, Unheeding sky and earth, With all their light and loveliness— Their gladness and their mirth, I knelt me down and humbly asked My sins might be forgiven, And that the incense of my heart Might float with peace to heaven! • • • • • • • I turned me from that forest scene, And Hope her radiance shed About a heart that ceased to mourn The pale, rejoicing dead! * * * * * WAWHILLOWA. A LEGEND OF THE QUONNECTICUT. BY D. M. ELWOOD. Whoever has once stood upon the summit of Mount Holyoke, will never forget the rich scene spread out before him. For miles—as far as the eye can reach on every side—may be seen Nature in her most imposing forms. Vales clad in their rich vesture of green, watered by the limpid streams, cool, pure, and refreshing; gently sloping hills, crowned with fields of waving grain, and spotted here and there with the fleecy herds; and yet farther on, rising peak upon peak, and summit upon summit, the “huge pillars” which “prop the heavens” rear their craggy heads on high, bidding defiance to storm and tempest, and scarcely trembling even at the peals of “living thunder” which “leap” from crag to crag. Occasionally, peering above the tall trees that surround them, the spires of numerous churches point out the villages, and form agreeable pictures on which the delighted eye may rest. Sweeping the very base of Holyoke the broad Connecticut rolls its calm tide along, and winding away into the distance far to the south, may be traced on a clear day, circling its way through the verdant meadows almost to its very mouth. Directly across the river from Holyoke, Mount Tom rises in sullen majesty, as if disdaining to hold fellowship with the humble yet beautiful objects around. Northampton—with its snow-white dwellings, its spires and turrets, its hill—the sides of which are occupied with delightful mansions—and its top surmounted with a lovely grove, forms a panorama, the beauty of which must be seen to be realized. Between it and the river is a broad valley, chequered with fields of various colors, spotted with trees, and giving rich promise of the harvest. Nearly at the foot of the mountain—a little to the northward, rising not far above the surface of the river—is a small and fertile island, of a diamond form, like an emerald set in silver. This island we will call Hockanum, a name given to it years and years ago. Still further north, on a broad peninsula formed by a bend of the river, stands the town of Hadley, with the history of which is associated many a thrilling tradition. One of these it will be our object now to present to the reader.