ected
from sacred and profane history, ancient and modern. To them, however,
there is little of meaning attached by those who give them save the
sound. I have known one family reckon among its members a Solon and
Solomon, a Hector and Wellington, a Bathsheba and Lucretia; and the two
famous Johns, Bunyan and Wesley, have many a name-sake. These, in their
full length, are generally saved for holiday terms, and abbreviations
are made for every-day use. In these they are ingenious in finding the
shortest, and _Theodore_, that sweetest of all names, I have heard
curtailed to "_Od_," which seems certainly an odd enough cognomen.
Sybel's bridal portion consisted of a cow and some sheep--her father's
waggon which brought her home contained some household articles her
mother's care had afforded--Melancthon had provided a barrel of pork and
one of flour, some tea and molasses, that staple commodity in
transatlantic housekeeping. Amongst Sybel's chattels were a bake-pan and
tea-kettle, and thus they commenced the world. Melancthon has not yet
had time to make a gate at his dwelling, and our only mode of entrance
must be either by climbing the "fence" or unshipping the "_bars_," which
form one pannel, and which are placed so as to be readily removed for
the passage of a carriage, but from us this will require both time and
strength, so at the risk of tearing our dress we will e'en take the
fence. This is a feat which a novice does most clumsily, but which those
who are accustomed to it do most gracefully.

As we approach the dwelling, the housewife's handy-work is displayed in
a pole hung with many a skein of snow white yarn, glistening in the
sunlight. Four years have passed since Sybel was a bride---her cheek has
lost the bloom of girlhood, and has already assumed the hollow form of
New Brunswick matrons; her dress is home-spun, of her own manufacture,
carded and spun by her own hands, coloured with dye stuffs gathered in
the woods, woven in a pretty plaid, and neatly made by herself. This is
also the clothing of her husband and children; a bright gingham
handkerchief is folded inside her dress, and her rich dark hair is
smoothly braided. In this particular the natives display a good
taste--young women do not enshroud themselves in a cap the day after
their marriage, as if glad to be done with the trouble of dressing their
hair; and unless from sickness a cap is never worn by any one the least
youthful. The custom commences with