CHAPTER XXX.

SENSATIONS AND REVERIES.

Ir was very late when we returned to camp. My companions soon retired to rest, leaving me all alone. The roar of the battle, the tread of marching armies, the din of contending hosts, had been left far away. It was a calm, clear autumn evening. The moon shone brightly, from a cloudless sky, bathing in its soft light a scene of surpassing beauty, while not a sound broke the stillness, save the gentle murmur of the ocean, as it broke in sparkling wavelets, almost at my feet. Lighting a cigar, and taking possession of a bench near by, I resigned myself to the full enjoyment of the hour.

The present, however, was soon forgotten, while memories of the past-of scenes long buried-floated before me. One of these came back so vividly, that it seemed reality; and, hundreds of miles away, I was again enacting that which had transpired long years ago.

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For weeks past, we had been cutting our way, step by step, through those dense tamaral swamps, and thick, tangled undergrowth, which render the forests along the headwaters of the Blackhoof and Snake rivers almost impenetrable. We had been VOL. 4-No. 6. 57

away from home for months; and the uncertain mode of communication between those in the wilderness and the civilized world, had cut us off almost entirely from all intercourse with friends and family. It had been a very long time since the last mail had been received, and every one looked forward with more than ordinary pleasure to the time, when the always-welcome messenger, who brought us our letters and papers, should arrive.

It was near the middle of August. The day had been excessively hot, and more than usually laborious, as we worked our way through the dense swamps and marshes, until the whole party were completely exhausted. The sun was sinking rapidly in the western sky when we pitched our tents and prepared for the coming night. The spot selected for the encampment was truly beautiful. A grove of large sugar maple trees, on a grassy hill-side, which sloped gradually away to a clear bright stream, a little distance off, which went murmuring and babbling along through the woodland. Here the camp-men had built fires, prepared supper, and spread our blankets; and here, weary and exhausted, we threw ourselves down, thankful that the day was over, and that the night had come at last! Gathering in groups, we lit our pipes, and talked of homes far away, and friends dear (845)

to us, and of those we had loved in other days, and the moon came sailing up grandly in a cloudless sky, sending its pale light through the tree tops, and shedding its bright beams over that little band of wanderers in the wilderness, and the night winds came cool and refreshing; and then the voices of the talkers became fainter, and the whispers lower, until silence reigned and we dreamed of home and loved ones far away!

I have always loved the moonlight-so calm, so pure, so passionless, and yet so soft, so gentle, and soothing, that it has always reminded me of my mother's smile; that smile which used to bring hope and happiness, in all my earlier griefs and trials; and when the fierce passions of manhood assailed me, when the heart has grown sick with cares and trials, and disappointments, and sense of wrong; when friends have proved untrue, and life has seemed a blank and hope a delusion, I have gone out into its light, and thought how sweet it would be to lie down and sleep for ever that sleep "where the wicked cease from troubling, and the weary are at rest."

Long had I gazed on the moon-light that night, as it came down lighting a pathway through the forest. And when I slept, I dreamed that I saw it still, just as I had done in my waking moments-trees, and camp, and brook, and moonlight, until the dream seemed no longer a dream, but an actual and vivid reality. Then I saw a female dressed in white approaching through the woods! As she came nearer, I saw it was my mother; but so changed! She was young again! A bright smile was resting on her face, and she came and knelt down beside me and kissed me. I started up. Her lips were cold-so cold that they awoke me, and long after I felt their chilling impress upon mine. I got up and looked at my watch. The dream had made a deep impression on me. It was so real, so life-like, so palpable, that it was no dream at all. I made a note of the date and time, and then sat down to think, for I could not sleep! Hours passed, and morning came. But still the impress of that dream had not worn away. I could not forget it or shake it off. It had reality in it!

Days and weeks passed by, but still no news from home. We had traveled miles away, pushing deeper and deeper into the wilderness, and passing over ground hitherto untrodden by a white man's foot. The utmost limit of our journey had been reached; the summer had passed, and autumn set in with its bleak winds and stormy skies and rain and tempest!

It was on one of those stormy evenings incident to this season of the year, that we pitched our tents on the edge of one of those vast "island forests," which form one of the distinctive features of this wild region. Dark leaden clouds were sweeping along the sky, and fitful gusts of wind came howling by, drifting the rain through every opening in our well-worn tent-cloths. As night approached, the storm increased, the wind, in the meantime, tearing and rending the forest, while the trunks of dead trees came crashing down with a noise like distant thunder. Great owls, driven from their dens, hooted and floundered about in the night air, and packs of wolves, attracted by our camp fires, howled piteously around The "spirits of the air" seemed indeed abroad, and we cowered down over our scanty camp-fires, vainly endeavoring to find shelter from the tempest.

us.

A courier from the settlements arrived. He brought letters for us! One was handed to me. I looked at the address by the dim fire-light—the hand-writing was unknown to me, and it bore a black seal. I tore it open. It was from a neighbor, and very brief--informing me that my mother had died, and that on the very day and hour of my dream!

Long and dreary seemed the hours of that stormy night. A weight was on my heart-my throat was dry-my temples throbbed-but yet I could not weep. The grief was too great for tears! I felt that I had lost my best, my only friend, that henceforth there was no home for me here; that I was alone in the world. And then memories of my childhood came: when I used to stand beside her and listen to her holy teachings; or, kneeling at her feet, with her gentle hand resting on my head, would repeat my infant prayers-memories, also, of youth and early manhood came; when fierce passions would break forth

and angry feelings have sway; when I would not, or could not, brook reproof or restraint from others-how her gentle words would drive them all away, and I would grow soft and yielding to her slight est wish. And I thought of the time when my father died, and we laid him to sleep in a quiet corner of the church-yard-how she leaned upon my arm, and I felt that I was all to her then, that henceforth, boy as I was, her protector and stay; and I felt proud that she should look up to me, and loved her better. That brief hour made me a man! And then I remembered how I used to go to her and tell her of all my aims and aspirations-things I never breathed to any other-and how she would cheer and encourage me in every effort that was good, always pointing upwards-and then the thought came, that she was gone— gone forever-that that heart was still, that hand cold, that voice hushed in death. The bitterness of that night can never be forgotten.

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The morning came, and, with it, a longing desire to stand beside her grave. It seemed as if my heart would break if I did not visit that hallowed spot. I could not rest; that one wish, that one desire, absorbed my whole nature. I felt that at her grare tears might come, and that would bring relief. I scarcely knew why, but I felt that I must go there.

I called upon the commandant of the party, and stated that circumstances compelled me to return home at once, asking him, at the same time, to accept my resig nation, and permit me to go. He at once granted me a leave of absence, with per

mission to return to the settlements. We were more than two hundred miles from the nearest frontier post. With a few companions, I set out immediately, traveling this distance on foot, resting on our blan kets by the wayside at night, and carrying our provisions with us.

Days and days passed. The journey was ended; and I was once more in my native place. It was Sunday, at early dawn, when I arrived. Not a soul was stirring in the streets or along the roads. Instinctively I turned toward the church-yard. The gate was open; and, at last, I was standing beside my mother's grave !-never to meet me more!-never to welcome me home!and a voice whispered: "Come home!" I started. To the spirit it whispered: "Come home!"

And I have heard that voice again in the midnight watch at sea, when the storm raged and the billows heaved like a giant in his wrath, when the ship was tossed like a mote upon the surging wave, it has whispered, "Come home!" In the deser waste and trackless wilderness, it has whispered, "Come home!" Amid the storm of battle and din of contending hosts, it has whispered, "Come home!" In calm and in tempest, at noon-tide and in the silent watches of the night, "Come home!" When friends forsake, and the heart shrinks within itself cold and cheerless, when I feel that I am alone in the world, it whispers, "Come home!"

Oh, Father! grant that when the journey is past, the weariness ended, it still may whisper, "Come home !"-aye, "HOME!" [CONCLUDED.]

How peaceful is the closing scene,
When virtue yields its breath!
How sweetly beams the smile serene
Upon the cheek of death!

The Christian's hope no fear can blight,
No pain his peace destroy;

He views, beyond, the realms of light,
Of pure and boundless joy.

Oh, who can gaze with heedless sight
On scenes so fair as this!
Who but exclaim-"Thus let me die.
And be my end like his!"