Quick as thought my eyes followed his, and I saw, far off, apparently on the very surface of the water, a single spark of light. But that spark grew and grew, and, as it grew, it rose, until finally it ascended high into the blue ether, leaving a train of light, comet-like, behind it. All at once it burst into a dozen fire-balls, some blue and some red, which, hovering a moment in mid-air, fell at last slowly toward the deep. Every one who saw those colors was aware of their meaning: they were the well-known signals of our gallant ship. Such a shout as then went up to the sky! It rings in my ears even yet, and the very memory of it makes the blood leap quicker in my veins. Two hours after we were safely on board, having been guided on our way by signal rockets till the ship came into sight. As for the schooner, we never saw her more! * * * * * WOOD VIOLETS. BY ALICE B. NEAL. The violets are growing thickly in Washington Square, early as it is. The gates are not yet open, but many linger by the high railing to catch a glimpse of these “Spring Beauties.” _Letters from Philadelphia._ Those purple clustering violets Hiding beneath the grass! How many pause to look on them Who by their covert pass. Many a care-worn face is pressed Close to the iron gate, Heedless if at their daily toil They shall be counted late. The trembling lips—the starting tears— Ah me! what yearning thought The simple wild-wood violets To these lone hearts have brought. Visions of childhood’s careless time When like the flowers they grew, Dwellers beside the singing brook— Beneath a sky as blue. How lightly trod their tiny feet Upon the velvet moss, How gayly sprang from stone to stone The little brook across. What shouts of eager laughter rose, As, bending to the stream, They found the violets, betrayed By their deep azure gleam. The soughing of the dark pine trees, The fresh sweet breath of Spring— The even song of low-voiced birds, All these those blossoms bring. And wearily the sons of toil Turn from this haunted spot, Haunted by scenes of joy and hope For many years forgot. They go more slowly on their way, Nor heed the city’s din, The heavy eyelids as they close Press back the tears within.