ion, by finding that it was a man-a real live man-a "prospecter," with his pick and shovel on his shoulder, and his pan under his arm. To say that we were pleased, but faintly expresses our feelings at such an unexpected piece of good fortune. He showed a dim trail to us, and, pointing to some dead branches set up against trees, said "When the trail gets too dim to see it, look ahead for these, until you reach the main road." By this opportune guidance we reached the Fall River House (Frey and Foster's) about a couple of hours after dark; where, under the influence of the many good things provided by our host, we forgot the troubles of the day. Early the following morning, we were on our way down a spur of the main ridge, leading towards the falls, situated about five miles distant; and about ten o'clock we reached the middle fork of Feather River. Climbing around here and there, to avoid a supposed abrupt descent, we made the five miles about nine; thus spending two of the best hours of the morning unprofitably, when the best and easiest course would have been directly down the main ridge. At length, after a wearisome time of climbing, and sliding, and scratching, and tumbling, we reached the middle fork of Feather, and could hear the hissing, splashing sound from the waterfall we had come to see. Winding our way around the rocky and timber-covered point, shown on the right side of the picture, we came in sight of the falls. On either side of the leaping sheet of spray stand bold granite mountains, worn and broken in pieces; and upon their lofty summits a forest of pines, which look, in distance, only a little larger than good-sized walking-canes. From the interstices between the rocks grow small groves of live oaks-mere patches of unshaven beard upon the uneven face of nature—while in the centre before you, from the middle fork of Feather River, where we are supposed to stand while looking at this scene of beauty and majesty, about a thousand feet above us, over its rocky rim shoots a splendid sheet of water, dashing itself to millions of liquid atoms, portions of which rise to be formed into mist-wreaths of many colors, with which to adorn this fine old mountain's brow; while the remainder rushes on, on, unheeding the huge boulders that lie in and obstruct its pathway; and if it cannot roll them down, it dashes past, or climbs their smooth granite shoulders and leaps over them into a gurgling eddy or rushing current; and, about a quarter of a mile from the falls, it joins the larger stream. There is a deep pleasure in listening to the varied melody of water as it rushes, or leaps, or gurgles, or rattles, or boils, or creeps, or ripples among rocks, singing its musical songs; and, if the reader should delight in hearing it, or seeing the wonders of this beautiful spot, preferring to worship God and nature to money and money-getting, let him visit here, and he will be abundantly satisfied. LIFE PICTURES. - 66 'FAREWELLS." BY MARY MORRIS KIRKE. "Yes-if God spares my life, I will come to you." That was what I wrote; that was the decision I had made. I paused a moment to look upon that sentence-so full of meaning and, if possible, to comprehend its full import, and I did. I felt then that in it rested my whole future; all my life's happiness or misery. Fears I had none, for with a heart full of perfect trust had I answered that question, which the last mail from California had brought me; yet I had considered the subject well before giving an answer which I knew must be irrevocable, not that doubts had arisen, but that I wished to think carefully, to test my own strength and love for the stranger; to know if for that stranger I could leave home, friends, old associations, and all I held dear, to go forth alone to meet him in that far-off land. I wished to decision. I did not, from the first, doubt know myself thoroughly before giving my what that decision would be, but the struggle was severe; the thought of leaving home, bitterness itself. But it was over now, and my mind became calmer; a sweet peace filled my whole being, and a consciousness that I was performing no act upon which I could ask God's blessing, though I had taken the step unadvisedly. Not even to my mother had I gone for counsel. I knew a mother's fond heart could never willingly give up a beloved child under such circumstances; yet I knew neither of my parents would forbid, though they might strongly oppose the step, which I felt to be right. I knew I should not go forth from my childhood's home unblessed, therefore I thought it best, for the present, to keep my own counsel, and wait for circumstances, or some favorable opportunity to reveal the fact. I could not thus early bring sorrow to the breasts of those fond parents, that precious only sister, and those young brothers who so loved "sister Mary," as some months must necessarily elapse before my departure. It was now early spring, and I should remain at home until the beginning of autumn. One afternoon, in summer, I was sitting alone with mother. I had still delayed telling her my intention of going to California, but as the time drew near, I felt that it could be delayed no longer. Gently as possible I told her of my love for the stranger-though of that she knew before, and had approved my choice-of his request that I should come to him, and of my determination to comply. She received it with a quaint smile, thinking me only in jest, but my serious manner soon assured her of its truth. For a long time she sat without speaking, then arose and left the room, and I saw her no more until evening, when she came to my own room with father. Sitting there in the dim twilight, each clasping one of my hands, they talked earnestly and tearfully with me, telling me to think well before taking so important a step; they spoke of their own loneliness; of the dangers to which I should be exposed during the long journey, but I had considered it all before, and only asked their blessing ere I should leave their kind care for the protection the stranger offered. The blessing was not withheld, but from that hour no word was spoken upon the subject. I commenced making preparations for my journey. Father placed in my hand a sum of money without a word as to the way it was to be appropriated. Mother assisted me in many things without directly speaking of the object. Sister, too, was busy with her needle, and helped me select such articles as were necessary, but she, too, avoided speaking of the object of all this preparation. The time had come!-the last morning in my girlhood's home! I had passed a restless, wakeful night, falling into a disturbed sleep just before dawn, only to be awakened by a low knock at my door, and mother's gentle voice, saying, "Come Mary, you wished to be called at sunrise." Then I heard a sob, and her footsteps descended the stairs. I started up with a strange, bewildered feeling. Was this, indeed, my last morning at home? My sister had risen before me, and I could hear her weeping in an adjoining room. That dearly loved sister! must we then part? I cast but one glance at the brown traveling dress which was laying on a chair; to me at that moment it seemed more like a garment for the grave, than a dress in which I was to commence a journey towards the one I loved better than all the world beside. Throwing open the window, I saw the first golden beams of the sun, gilding the tops of the tall pine trees in the grove, and glistening upon the dewey plants in the garden beneath. A low whispering seemed to come from the pine grove, reminding me of the many hours I had dreamed away within its shady depths-but they were all past now. The honeysuckle twined lovingly around my casement, and never did perfume seem so sweet as was breathed from its few lingering blossoms; never did the gorgeous dahlias look up with so bright, yet sad a smile; never did the pure white waxberries nod their "good morning" so lovingly; never did the clustering grape vines with their purpling fruit look so inviting, and the song of a robin on the old pear tree in the garden, went through my heart with a sudden pain, when I remembered that this was the last song I should hear from that tree. I could look no longer at the garden with its familiar plants and flowers, and turned to the opposite window. There was the little blue river dancing along, seeming to murmer as it went, of her whose image would never more be reflected upon its clear bosom; there was the bridge, beneath the overhanging branches of the old willow tree, where Neddie and I had so often stood, while he, with such a patronizing way, baited my hook and taught me how to catch the little silver fish. Poor Neddie! I heard his childish voice at that moment asking mother why sister Mary was going away, and if she did not love them; any more. Ah! Neddie, the time may come when you, too, will know why one can leave father, mother, and all others, for the sake of one only. Not long did I remain at the window, for blinding tears hid every thing from my sigh. Hastily brushing the tears away, and bathing my face in cold water, I descended to the breakfast-room. Mother was busying herself about breakfast, vainly trying to look and speak cheerfully; father was sitting at the window leaning his head on his hand, and his voice trembled as he gave me his morning greeting. Once more we gathered around that table an unbroken family, but for the last time. At the next meal one seat would be vacant, which might never again be filled; one voice missed, that might never again be heard within those walls. Once again we knelt around the family altar. Oh! that last prayer, breathed with aching heart, faltering voice, sobs and tears! Oh! God, didst thou not hear that prayer? Didst thou not lend thine ear to listen to that fervent petition from an earthly father's lips, and promise that thou wouldst be a father, ever present, ever faithful, to the child who was so soon going from his care? Didst thou not whisper to that mother sweet assurances that thou, with thine almighty arm, would shield from every temptation, protect from every danger? mained kneeling, but when we arose, it Long we rewas with minds calm and comforted; we felt that though we might never again meet as an unbroken family on earth, we might look forward to a reunion where parting cannot be known. One hasty walk through garden and house; one last glance at each familiar object, and I knew I must away. My traveling trunks were all packed and standing in the hall, ready to be conveyed to the railroad depot. I ran quickly past them, up stairs to my own room. That dear, dear room! must I then leave of which that village had been the scene. it? I locked the door and threw myself | holding up pictures of past enjoyments, upon the bed in an agony of weeping. This room had been to me for years my "holy of holies!" None but a sister had ever shared it with me; here had been the scene of all our maiden dreams, hopes, aspirations; these walls alone had witnessed my tears when from the world I wished to hide my griefs, real or imaginary; hours and hours had I dreamed, such dreams as only a young girl can dream; from this room had I beheld glorious pictures of happiness which coming years would bring; lovely were the tints fond imagination gave the future. Here for years had sisters voices blended in the merry laugh or confidential talk, but now it was all past; the pair were now to be separated-one to go forth, trusting the whole of her life's happiness to the keeping of a stranger, the other to remain alone with a void in her heart which would not soon be filled. Again that sister stood with me there, but no word was spoken; our hearts were too full. But I knew I must not linger here. Robed in my traveling dress, I took one long look at the dear old room, crossed the threshold for the last time, and went slowly and sadly down stairs. My luggage had already gone, and the carriage was waiting for me; but I dismissed it, preferring to walk through the village to the depot. Brother Charlie and sister were to accompany me to the city; they, too, were ready and waiting. Charlie, with a boy's ideas of manhood, not daring to trust himself inside the house, stood leaning on the gate, trying to whistle a merry tune to keep back the tears. Again I sat down at the dear old piano, and while "Home, sweet home" yet lingered on the keys, the last moment came, and with it my mother's last kiss; Oh! mother, mother, I know the agony within your heart as you clasped me in that tearful embrace; that parting was terrible-I know life has not many moments as bitter as those. Neither of us could bear it longer, and father gently, but firmly, drew me away. Mournfully leaning upon his arm, I passed beneath the swaying branches of the great willow trees in the yard; one twig swept across my cheekI broke it from the tree and placed in my bouquet, and now preserve it among my choicest treasures. Scarcely a word was spoken during our walk to the depot; silently I trod the streets of our beautiful village. I could not speak; memory was too faithfully Arrived at the depot, but few moments remained. Already we heard in the distance the shrill steam whistle and the heavy rumbling of the iron wheels. All was hurry and confusion. I was as one in a dream, scarcely conscious of what was going on around me yet there is a picture in my mind of a tearful group, gathered around an old school-mate and friend. I have a recollection of hurried kisses, words of farewell; of the clinging of little arms around my neck, and a bright little head resting for a moment on my shoulder; of a fervent “God bless you, my child," then the cars moved slowly away from the platform, and old friends, father, Neddie-all receded from sight. That picture is indellibly stamped upon my mind, and sometimes, as now, I pause awhile before it, but it awakens painful reflections. Life has nothing more bitter than this sundering of old ties; this tearing one's self away from all the dear delights of home, to go forth alone into the wide world to meet its realities; to know that the dreaming time is all over, that from henceforth a waking reality must take the place of vague fancies' dim uncertain imaginings. A ride of four hours brought us to the city, where brother and sister were to remain with me until the sailing of the steamer, which time was fixed at two o'clock the following day. (Continued.) THE CRY OF THE SPIRIT. Forth from the soul there wings a cry, As When chill the winds of even. The flowers of earth among- It From hearts with sorrow wrung. That man, though lord of earth, Comes back the sweet reply: He smiles on thee from heaven." D'ORVILLE. A TALE FOR CHRISTMAS. BY G. F. N. A few years ago, there was in the northern portion of San Francisco a cottage, which from its neat, picturesque appearance, presented a pleasing contrast to the generality of dwellings built in those days. But with the exterior of that cottage we have nothing to do. The front door opened directly into the parlor, which was a neatly furnished room, with carpeted floor and papered walls; bright coals glowed cheerfully from an open grate, and a solar lamp threw a pleasant light about the room. Outside old Boreas blew his loudest blast, and in his strength came rushing on, sweeping around the house-corner, sighing and moaning, rattling the windows and door; then frisked about, whirled away, and came back again. Anon the rain came tumbling down upon the shingled roof, as though in league with the wind to tear the house away. It was intensely dark; and, take it altogether, so unpleasant a night that even "Mark Tapley" might have considered it a credit to be jolly. Two females were the only occupants of the parlor; one, in spite of various little embellishments intended to create a favorable impression in behalf of youth, you would at once write down as rising thirty; the other was her junior by several years. The first was tall and graceful; her features were regular and almost faultless, yet she was not handsome; her eye, was too bright, there was too much hauteur in her carriage, and there was a something so cold about her that one felt chilly in her presence. The other was so unlike the first, her sister, that you would hardly think it possible for them to be sisters: besides, she was not so tall and stately, her hair was not so black, her eyes not so bright and piercing; her features were less regular, but each seemed full of life and animation; and that something which in her sister appeared so cold, in herself seemed warm and good. Neither were married; probably for reasons best known to themselves, and which have no manner of relation to our story. They were sitting by a table drawn near the fire, and although open books were before them, they were not reading, but sat absorbed in thought. A fresh blast from old Boreas aroused them, when the eldest was the first to speak: "Ugh! What a dreadful night this is. I wish father would come home; if he were only here I think I should feel hap py; for after all I love a storm, and in such a night as this I find a spirit kindred to my own. But you seem sad to-night, Mary, not like yourself—what troubles you?" "I feel sad, Edith; I have had sad forebodings all day, and to-night they are even worse. Coming events,' it is said, 'cast their shadows,' and these thoughts that haunt me are, I fear, the shadows of some coming evil." "Nonsense, Mary; it has been a gloomy day-'tis a worse night; and you, like a barometer, suffer your spirits to rise and fall with the atmosphere. Cheer up, sister, 'twill be a pleasant day to-morrow." "I would cheer up if I could, but the atmosphere, as you are pleased to term it, is too heavy. I have been thinking of little Eva." "Little Eva! What of her ?" "That we are to lose her." 66 'Impossible! How can we lose her? She is ours-ours by every tie that is sacred; scarce was she born ere she was ours. For three years we have watched over and tended her; we have been to her all that a mother could have been, and now-but, who dare take her away?" "Her parents." "She has none save us; she is ours, Mary, ours, and no one can rob us of her, -oh, no; there's little danger of losing Eva; and if that be all the ground for your forebodings, they are indeed shallow." "Edith, I have sometimes thought that Eva might be Bertha's child." "Bertha's child! If I thought she were-if I even thought that my time, care, and attention were bestowed upon her child, or even dreamed that my heart had throbbed for, and my love been wasted upon her child, I would curse that child, and drive it from the house." "Oh, Edith! Edith! take back those words: you do not mean them. Bertha was our sister. She erred, but she has suffered-0, how much! Had she been wiser, and, acknowledging her situation, confided in us, I am sure she would have had your sympathy, as well as mine; and although you might have children, you would have forgiven her, and you would forgive her now." Never! If you think I would, you do not know me. Were she alone the sufferer, I might: but she has brought disgrace upon our name and family, and you and I are bearing the burden of her crime. There was no excuse for her: she knew |