On the second day of the gathering, toward noon, Mary May arrived, and with her father, mother and sisters, entered that enclosure of merry hearts. She hoped to see at the festival the youth who had so strongly impressed her; and the moment she entered the rude structure, her eyes eagerly ranged round the assembly until they rested upon the person of her rescuer, who as eagerly returned her significant glance. During the continuance of the feast and frolic, the lovers had many interviews; and before it closed, their faith and vows were exchanged. They were to have been married the month after her capture; and now, since her return and deification, she had not learned a word about her 'brave,' and had come to the determination if he proved false to destroy herself. Day after day passed without the presence of the only one who could drive the dark cloud from her mind, and it was becoming every day more dense and oppressive, until she gave way to utter despondency, and bitterly bewailed her fate. One afternoon, about two months after her return, while some of her kindred were bowing before her in heathenish worship, hasty steps were heard approaching; the next moment the young brave appeared and clasped his lost treasure to his heart; and taking advantage of the bewilderment of the worshippers, occasioned by his sudden appearance, the happy pair escaped to the sea-coast, and passing over a portion of the bay, found a secure retreat among the Mickmacs, to which tribe the young brave belonged. And there may they rest. I sometimes, though quite infrequently, meet with some one from Newfoundland; and among the first questions I ask is one touching the 'Red Indians;' and although I have not heard any thing which went to confirm the hope that they may yet be brought to place confidence in the white man, yet I still trust that I shall; and when this result is brought about, or any other thing of interest shall be learned of these strange mortals, I shall take much pleasure in communicating the information, for the benefit of the readers of the KNICKERBOCKER. BIRTH-DAY MEDITATIONS. I stand upon the wave that marks the round Of Life's dark-heaving and revolving years; Still sweeping onward from Youth's sunny ground, Still changed and chequered with my joys and fears, And colored from the past, where Thought careers, Shadowing the ashes in pale Memory's urn; Where perished buds were laid, with frequent tears, That on the cheek of Disappointment burn, As blessed hours roll on, that never may return.