On their return home the lucky man informed his grandmother that he should leave the next day, and that what he should kill on the morrow must be searched after, as he should not return to tell them where he had killed the game. His cousin was grieved to find that his mind was made up to leave, and began to expostulate with him to change his determination, but he would not be persuaded to do so. The next day, the young man who was to leave bound a rabbit-skin about his neck, to keep it warm, and having painted himself with red and yellow paints he left; his cousin following just behind, entreating him not to go. “I will go,” said he, “and live in the north, where I shall see but four persons, and when you look that way you will see me.” They walked side by side until he began to ascend, and as he did so, the other wept the more bitterly, and entreated him more perseveringly not to leave him. The cousin ascended to the skies, and is now seen in the north, Ke-wa-din Ah-nung (North Star,) still hunting the polar bear; while the other wept himself to naught before he could arrive home, and now he answers and mocks everywhere everybody. He lives in craggy rocks, and his name is Bah-swa-nay (Echo.) The young maidens lived for a long time in the south under ambrosial bowers, awaiting the return of their lovers, until one fell in love with mankind, and the other yet lives in that country, awaiting the return of her lover, where ——“she looks as clear As morning roses, newly washed in dew.” * * * * * UNFADING FLOWERS. BY T. S. ARTHUR. Thirty years ago, a small, barefooted boy, paused to admire the flowers in a well cultivated garden. The child was an orphan, and had already felt how hard the orphan’s lot. The owner of the garden, who was trimming a border, noticed the lad, and spoke to him kindly. “Do you love flowers?” said he. The boy replied, “Oh yes. We used to have beautiful flowers in our garden.” The man laid down his knife, and gathering a few flowers, took them to the fence, through the panels of which the boy was looking, and handing them to him, said as he did so, “Here’s a nice little bunch for you.” A flush went over the child’s face as he took the flowers. He did not make any reply, but in his large eyes, as he lifted them to the face of the man, was an expression of thankfulness, to be read as plainly as words in a book. The act, on the part of the man, was one of spontaneous kindness, and scarcely thought of again; but, by the child, it was never forgotten.