life, which sorrows, however deep, may bend for a time, but, like the flower too much freighted with rain-drops, only bows its head until the sunshine comes with its welcome beams to kiss away the moisture, when its bright petals open, and again it looks heavenward. A presence diffuses itself in all her writings sweet as the perfume by which she was surrounded in her own lovely home, pure as the heavenly-lustered orbs that overshadowed her pathway. At twilight, when Venus, robed in clouds of rosy hue, Flings from her golden urn the vesper dew, she rises on the wings of fancy, and the rich, mellow streams of thought flow freely, buoyed up by visions which shadow no tumultuous cares, or sounds of woe, the fires of genius burning brightly on the altar of thought, as the blazing meteor which, at God's command, guided the wandering Israelites to their promised rest. The versatility of talent she exemplifies so remarkably is really wonderful, while she may be classed among that gifted number who, in spite of prejudice or criticism, fastens the minds of her readers, taking them captive at will. She is now the star of the _Sunny South_, published in Atlanta, Georgia, from whose columns her pure thoughts are sparkling every week, to illumine the home circles of many Southern families. All her writings are characterized by that chaste freshness of originality, that earnestness of feeling, emanating from a truly pure heart, which have been poetically and truthfully described in the following lines: Bryan! hers the words that glisten, Opal gems of sunlit rain! So much the woman, you may listen, Heart-beats pulsing in her brain! About sixteen miles from Tallahassee has been discovered another of those remarkable springs found in Florida. In order to reach it, we take the St. Mark's train, sending a carriage in advance to meet us at Oil Station, six miles from Wakulla Spring. Few objects of interest are seen on the way; but here, where the woodman's ax and the turpentine still are not silencing the sounds that have echoed through the airy forms of these forest-trees, which have stood as sentinels for centuries, we can listen to the music among the pines--a strange, unearthly moaning, vibrating movement of lanceolate leaves, the sound produced being attributable to the loose manner in which they are attached to the bark of their stems. You may as well forbid the mountain-pines To wag their high tops, and to make no noise When they are fretted with the gusts of heaven.