is morning is
always the brightest, most vivid picture presented before me by my
fancy. As Hans Christian Andersen says with such poetic eloquence in
his Improvisatore--"It was one of those moments which occur but once
in a person's life, which, without signalizing itself by any great
life-adventure, yet stamps itself in its whole coloring upon the
Psyche wings."

We walked slowly along the narrow bank--tall trees towered around us,
whose waving branches, together with the floating clouds, were
mirrored with exquisite distinctness on the bosom of the dark, deep,
narrow stream--near at shore lay the dreaming, luxurious water-lilies,
and a thousand beautiful blossoms bent over the bank, and kissed
playfully the passing waters, or coquetted with the inconstant breeze.
Our favorite resting-place was about a mile's walk up the beautiful
stream, and to reach it we had to cross to the opposite shore, over a
rude, half-ruined bridge, which added to the picturesque beauty of the
scenery. The oak was a century old tree, and stood upon rising ground
a short distance from the shore. How calmly and happily passed that
morning. Effie sang wild ballads for us, and her rich full notes were
echoed from the distance by the spirit voices of the hills. We wove
garlands of water-lilies and wild flowers, and when I said we were
making Ophelias of ourselves, Effie, with shy earnestness most
bewitching, unloosened her beautiful hair, twining the long locks, and
banding her temples with the water-lily garlands and long grass--then
wrapping an India muslin mantle around her shoulders, she gathered up
the ends on her arms, filling them with sprigs of wild blossoms, and
acted poor Ophelia's mad scene most touchingly. Tears gathered in our
eyes as she concluded the wild, wailing melody

"And will he not come again,
And will he not come again,
No, no, he is dead,
Go to thy death-bed,
He never will come again.

"His beard was as white as snow,
All flaxen was his poll--
He is gone, he is gone,
And we cast away moan--
God a mercy on his soul."

There was a deep, touching pathos in her voice as she uttered the
minor notes of this song, and her soft eyes beamed half vacantly, half
reverently, as looking up to heaven she uttered in low breathing
tones--

"And of all Christian souls! I pray God!"

Then suddenly arousing herself, she looked toward us and murmured, as
she turned away with