rose amongst roses, at the drawing-room window, and instantly with the speed of light was met and embraced by her at the hall door.

There was not the slightest perceptible difference in her deportment. She still bounded like a fawn, and laughed and clapped her hands like an infant. She was not a day older, or graver, or wiser, since we parted. Her post of tutoress had at least done her no harm, whatever might have been the case with her pupils. The more I looked at her, the more I wondered; and after our mutual expressions of pleasure had a little subsided, I could not resist the temptation of saying"So you are really a governess?"

"Yes."

"And you continue in the same family?" "Yes."

“And you like your post ?"

"O yes! yes!"

"But, my dear Mary, what could induce you to go?" "Why, they wanted a governess, so I went." "But what could induce them to keep you?"

The perfect gravity and earnestness with which this question was put, set her laughing, and the laugh was echoed back from a group at the end of the room, which I had not before noticed-an elegant man in the prime of life showing a portfolio of rare prints to a fine girl of twelve, and a rosy boy of seven, evidently his children.

Why did they keep me? Ask them," replied Mary, turning towards them with an arch smile.

"We kept her to teach her ourselves," said the young lady.

"We kept her to play cricket with us," said her brother.

"We kept her to marry," said the gentleman, advancing gaily to shake hands with me. "She was a bad governess, perhaps; but she is an excellent wife-that is her true vocation."

And so it is. She is, indeed, an excellent wife; and assuredly a most fortunate one. I never saw happiness so sparkling or so glowing; never saw such devotion to a bride or such fondness for a step-mother, as Sir W. S. and his lovely children show to the sweet Cousin Mary.

SPRING.

Low breathed the western wind at close of day;
The bloomy shrubs were bent with heavy showers;
The clouds had hardly rolled their wreaths away;
They darkly hung, where high the mountain towers;
Through flowery vale, the dashing stream

Leaped sparklingly, in many a fall;
And evening's rosy beam

Tinted the forest tall.

The loving birds were emulous in song;
The cattle lowed; on slope of sunny hill,
Sported the lambs, and wildly raced along
The turf, that bore its beaded treasure still;
And as they swept, a shower of light,
Flew round, like gems that deck the snow,
When morning glances bright
On hill and valley flow.

And gleaming o'er a wood-embosomed lake,
Floated 'mid dreary haze the golden ray;

SPRING.

The rippling wave, in many a yellow flake,
Curled round the dewy rock and slid away :
In rustic boat, his dipping oars

Attuned to song, the peasant boy,
Gliding by happy shores,

He felt the season's joy.

By willowy isle, with silvery catkins bowed,
He skimmed the sheeted gold, and on my ear
Echoed his song, now sweetly low, now loud,
As when the patriot ode is swelling near.
From rock to rock the music rung;

By wooded hill it died along;

Light was the heart that sung
That wild and woodland song.

The buds are now unfolding,
And gaily swings the vine;
In woods the birds are holding
Their merry Valentine;
On hills, in meadow, waking,
Peep out the blue eyed flowers,
And forest leaves are making

A shade for summer hours:
And why should not my heart be gay,
When all the world is now at play?

And every heart is beating,
Is beating full with love;
Advancing, now retreating,

How gently woos the dove;
On topmost bough high swinging-
Ah! there is none so gay,

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So clear his voice is ringing,

As merry thrush to-day:
And I will merrily sing my song,
As o'er the lake I skim along.

LIFE BEYOND THE MOUNTAINS.

MANY works have been issued from the press with at least part of this title. Life in London: Life in France: Life in Italy: Life in the West, and Life in the Wilderness: but for our own title, Life beyond the Mountains, we claim the right of originality. Who has not asked himself the question, where is it? in what unexplored region?

The Indian exclaims, "Our fathers dwell beyond the mountains." The Christian says, "Faith looks over the icy mountains." The weary, care-worn pilgrim who has lengthened out his three-score and ten, and has seen friend after friend depart, fixes his languid eye on this untried region, this land of promise.

The mother who has hardly beheld her infant cherub ere it has taken flight, or with a more heart-rending pang has given up one scarcely less innocent, though mature in virtue and loveliness, seeks her consolation in that life that is to restore her beloved ones to her embrace.

But what has this existence to do with an annual? What with the Token, that comes out with its gilded pages, its finished engravings, its love and minstrelsy. blended with touches of moral truth? Have the bright eyes that gaze on that, aught in common with this far distant land? Have lips, on which linger the smiles of youth and hope, have creatures, redolent with life,

LIFE BEYOND THE MOUNTAINS.

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aught to do with this shadowy existence? Yes, they are called; they must go with their plans unaccomplished, the bridal wreath unwove, and the flowers so joyously trodden under foot, scattered over the turf that covers them. Is there one human being, gifted with reason, that does not at times inquire what is this hereafter which must inevitably come?

Does not the thought force its way in the wakeful stillness of the night? Comes it not in the beam of day, as we walk forth amidst hills and valleys? as we gaze on the mighty cataract or the peaceful lake? the oak that spreads its broad branches, the humble flower, not less skilful in workmanship, though more minute? From animal life to the half vegetating polypus, all connect the mind with the great Artificer, whose dwelling is beyond "the everlasting hills."

Why, then, is this subject kept far out of sight? why is it deemed unfit for an annual? why is it mentioned to the ear of the young with diffidence, as if it were an omen of evil?

Have they enough of existence here? would they wish when they lie down, to sleep in dust and oblivion? Oh, no! human nature shudders at the thought; the veriest wretch would compound for years of suffering, rather than give up one particle of life. Shall the young and innocent then call this an unwelcome subject? Even so, because there is a portal we must pass, from which we shrink. It is death: and we talk of death as if it were the termination of life, instead of the beginning.

"In this misguiding world, they picture death
A fearful tyrant-Oh, believe it not,

It is an angel, beautiful as light,