Once more I saw Alethe—at her breast Hung a sweet infant, and the radiant smile That revell’d round its lips while calm at rest, Was like the smile of cherubs,—free from guile. Ethereal—bright—surpassing Fancy’s dreaming, The mother shone—for Fancy ne’er could paint Aught so much like a guardian Angel beaming In full beneficence upon a saint As sweetly innocent—as free from earthly taint. St. Louis, 1841. * * * * * MY GRANDFATHER’S STORY. BY LYDIA JANE PIERSON. “Well, well,” said my grandfather, “sit down, girls, and I will tell you all about it.” Cousin Sarah and myself accordingly got our work, and sitting down at a proper distance, assumed the attitude of earnest listeners. “If you had ever been in France,” he commenced, “I could make you understand my story much better, but your little rustic American imaginations can never conceive any thing like the refinement, and yet freedom of society in that polished country; the softness and beauty of the earth and sky; or the striking magnificence of the old ruinous chateaux; but as it is I shall be very brief in my sketches of these things.” “Oh, no, no, grandfather,” we both exclaimed at once, “you must be the more particular in your description; for being strange to us they are the more interesting.” “Well,” he replied, “I will as much as I can, without making a long story of it; but do not interrupt me, for that will utterly break the chain of my recollections.