at falling fill the air with their perfume, so the fragrance
of those hours still lives.

Next to Rosa Whittier sat Julia Balcolm, with saddened expression of
countenance and large deep blue eyes that gazed upon you with a deeper
expression of melancholly in their glances than is usual to the merry
age of childhood, and elicited your sympathy ere you knew her history.
Julia was a cripple. She was drawn to school by an older sister with
rosy cheeks, bright flashing black eyes, and a sprightly animated
countenance, and carried into the school-room in the arms of her
teacher, or some of the older scholars. And so she came, year after
year, mingling with the merry group. But where is she now? yon little
mound of heaped up earth covers her remains, and a narrow marble slab
tells the place of her repose, and we can but hope she who was denied
the privilege of walking on earth may now soar on angel's wings.

As we contemplate the deprivations of one situated as she was, we can
but realize the blessing of having "the common use of our own limbs."
This dear child was obliged to crawl from place to place after her
more favored companions, dragging her useless perished limbs behind
her. But he who careth for us knew what was best for her, and we
cannot doubt his infinite wisdom.

It were vain to endeavor to trace the destinies of all who used to sit
with us, in this favorite, place. Many have gone down to death--many
still live on the same premises where they first inhaled the breath
of life, and some have gone forth into the world to fulfil a darker
destiny on the broad ocean of human life, that is ever tossing its
tumultuous waves before the tempestuous winds of fortune, and have
been ship-wrecked upon the quick-sands of vice and dissipation. The
shady side of the picture has been presented; but those were bright
and joyous days, and our school-yard resounded with the merry laugh
and frolicsome mirth of childhood; yet they leave not that abiding
impression upon the mind that characterizes incidents of a more
sombre hue. But we will leave the dear old school house with all its
treasured memories that link it with the past, and pursue our way in
some other direction. It is hard to stop where so many images crowd
upon the mind, and come stealing upon us in the shape of old familiar
friends with whom we have walked side by side, day after day; but dear
familiar scenes, adieu.

Chapter IV.

The Grave Yard.

Let us w