Sweet is the hour that brings us home. _Quoted from recollection._ It was a bright and beautiful morning in March, when Clara, after taking an affectionate leave of her cousin, whom, despite her little foibles, she tenderly loved, was seated by her old friend and commenced her homeward journey. March, in our southern clime, is not always rude and boisterous, but has many a gentle day, when Nature is dressed in as lovely a garb as she wears at any season of the year, and such a day was the one of which we speak; the woods were covered with fresh green leaves, the marshes and banks of the streams were gay with the yellow jessamine, the dew-drops sparkled like diamonds in the morning sun, and the cooing of the turtle-dove, the cheerful notes of the mockingbird, and the fresh country air that fanned her cheek, were to Clara like friends of her early days. The sun was just setting when from a winding in the road Clara obtained a glance of Primrose Cottage, as it stood imbosomed in trees arrayed in the freshest green—of the river, whose banks, where she had pursued her childish sports, were now decked with wild flowers of every hue, and finally, of the group of expecting friends, who at the sound of wheels had hastened into the piazza, and Clara’s heart beat high as she recognized Edward, the foremost of the party. Clara was soon out of the carriage, and in the arms of her mother, nor did Edward neglect to press her hand very tenderly, as he handed her from the carriage, after which she was conducted into the house. “And, now, which do you like best, _Home_ or the _City_, sister?” asked little Rosa, when Clara had reached her own room, and was removing her traveling dress, and arranging her hair. “Home, my dear Rosa,” replied our heroine, “there I enjoy myself much more than I ever have during my visit to the city, and yet, mamma,” added she, “if I had a house in Savannah, I would have young ladies to visit me, and I know I would make these visits delightful.” They now returned to the parlor, where they had left Mr. Seymour, and after tea, Clara sat once more with Edward in the fragrant vine-covered piazza, before mentioned, where the moonbeams sparkled on the seat they occupied, through a richly blossoming mass of yellow jessamine—that dear seat, which seemed intended for the very use of which it was made, namely, that of Edward’s offering his hand, and of Clara’s accepting the offer, which was sealed by—no matter what it was sealed by, gentle reader, only accept that patient lover, whom you have been so long trifling with, and you will soon find out for yourself. * * * * * SPRING SNIPE SHOOTING OF 1850. BY HENRY WILLIAM HERBERT, AUTHOR OF “WARWICK WOODLANDS,” “MY SHOOTING BOX,” ETC.