That night, when sleep had prest down the eyelids of Eva, and she lay in sweet unconsciousness of all, save the gay visions of happier years which floated through her brain, the beloved Caraola hung over her earliest friend, kissing her cheek and wetting it with her tears. The lovely sleeper heard not the deep sigh of suppressed sorrow, or the light foot which was passing forever from the home, where love and protection had {749} been extended to the children of the savage. The morning light revealed the truth. A fan of eagles’ feathers was lying on Eva’s pillow, and a bow and arrow were placed near Eldred’s couch—the sole traces of their Indian friends. A melancholy void was left in the little group who had been wont to gather with cheerful faces round the hearth; and many a sigh and heartfelt prayer were breathed for the wanderers who came not again. Thus passed away, like the shadows of evening, the last scions of the Conistoga Indians. UNIVERSAL SYMPATHY. A WINTER’S NIGHT THOUGHT. BY EDWIN SAUNDERS. The night is cold, the wind is bleak, The nearest road the shepherds seek To gain their home, to share the smile That shortens, sweetens all their toil— The smile of love, that well repays The labor of the darkest days. The driving snow comes down amain, Across the field and down the lane; The lucid stream that rolled along, With rapid course and ceaseless song, And wantoned in the sunny ray, Now hushed and still’d its course doth stay: The flowers and herbs that graced its side In nature’s general death have died. Along the hedge and in the grove No more are heard, around, above, The thousand songs, and chirps, and cries, That thro’ the leafy arches rise. The birds are gone, the trees are bare, And sadly mourns the very air— Their echo is no longer there Their fitful sheep-bell on the gale, Like some lost spirit’s dismal wail, Now borne in fearful loudness near, And now slow dying on the ear, Comes with a witchery o’er the soul, And seems like nature’s funeral toll— The knell of beauty, life and grace, And this her last sepulchral dress. Is there a heart so hard, so cold, Without emotion can behold This general death, this quick decay Of all that’s beautiful and gay? What, shall the happy woodland chime Be hushed, or seek a milder clime? What, shall the garden and the grove Be stripped of all that moved your love? The yielding stream, whose glassy face Gave back your form with tenfold grace, Be dulled and stiffened, and your eye Not know a tear, your heart a sigh? It cannot be!—regrets must steal O’er human souls, for we do feel. Yes, there’s a close-linked sympathy— For this we know our fate must be; Though lord of nature, man’s a part, And every change speaks to his heart; But yet he hopes that spring shall come, And call her favorites from the tomb— That Flora shall descend and stand, And cast her garland round the land;