It is well, however, to practise in all possible conditions of weather, and not to be discouraged at finding unaccountable variations at different times in the flight of balls. A few weeks' experience will at least enable the learner to judge of the veracity of a class of stories one often hears, of the feats of backwoodsmen. It is not long since we were gravely assured by a quondam travelling acquaintance, who no doubt believed it himself, that there were plenty of men in the South who could shave off either ear of a squirrel with a rifle-ball at one hundred yards, without doing him further injury. A short experience of target-shooting will suffice to demonstrate the absurdity of all the wonderful stories of this class which are told and often insisted on with all the bigotry of ignorance. A somewhat extended acquaintance with backwoodsmen has served only to convince us, that, while a practical familiarity with the rifle is more general with them than with us, a scientific knowledge of its principles is rare; and the best target-shooting we have ever seen was in New England. [Footnote 2: _Hand-Book for Hythe._ By Lieut. Hans Busk.] TWO SUMMERS. Last summer, when athwart the sky Shone the immeasurable days, We wandered slowly, you and I, Adown these leafy forest-ways, With laugh and song and sportive speech, And mirthful tales of earlier years, Though deep within the soul of each Lay thoughts too sorrowful for tears, Because--I marked it many a time-- Your feet grew slower day by day, And where I did not fear to climb You paused to find an easier way. And all the while a boding fear Pressed hard and heavy on my heart; Yet still with words of hope and cheer I bade the gathering grief depart, Saying,--"When next these purple bells And these red columbines return,-- When woods are full of piny smells, And this faint fragrance of the fern,-- "When the wild white-weed's bright surprise Looks up from all the strawberried plain, Like thousands of astonished eyes,-- Dear child, you will be well again!" Again the marvellous days are here; Warm on my cheek the sunshine burns, And fledged birds chirp, and far and near Floats the strange sweetness of the ferns. But down these ways I walk alone, Tearless, companionless, and dumb,-- Or rest upon this way-side stone, To wait for one who does not come. Yet all is even as I foretold: The summer shines on wave and wild, The fern is fragrant as of old, And you are well again, dear child! MR. AXTELL. PART II. Katie (the doctor's name for her) said consolingly, as we went up-stairs,-- "I am going to sleep in Miss Lettie's little dressing-room; the door is close beside her bed. If you want me, you can speak,--I shall be sure to hear"; and she lighted my footsteps to the door. I went in hastily, for Katie was gone. The statuesque lady became informed with life; she started violently, and said,-- "Who is it?"