when, by the aid of a rope extended along the line, and the use of some stout poles, the landsmen succeeded in leading the almost frozen but now joy-intoxicated crew to the shore.

A walk of a mile and a half brought the company to the ferry-house on the southern shore, kept by Mr. Anderson. The courageous female, on entering the house, was presented with her child, which, in her anxiety and subsequent stupor, she had utterly forgotten, when she immediately fell into a deathlike swoon, from which she was with difficulty recovered.

Thus was a Christmas day, began in anxiety and continued in terror and dark despair, closed with almost maddening joy and rejoicing. Hay was carried to the boat for the horses, one of which, however, perished during the night in attempting to reach the shore, and the other was rescued, on the next day, in safety. After a day or two spent under the hospitable roof of Mr. Anderson, the villagers were enabled to cross on the ice, and again clasp their families and friends to bosoms glowing with gratitude to God for their wonderful escape from a fearful grave.

The heroine of my narrative was yet living a few years ago; and though the ferry has frequently changed owners, she and her family still

pass and repass at pleasure, free of charge. It was a fearful time; the whole neighborhood, and the neighboring villages, all partook of the heartsickening terror of the several hours of suspense. Cold, water, ice, all combined to render the danger greater and more dreadful; and, under God, but for that young mother, the villages of New Haven and Waterford had been filled with widows and orphans, and with the voices of wailing and woe, and our friends and neighbors had slept, years before their time, under the groaning waters of the ice-laden Susquehanna.

TALES OF PALESTINE.

I. THE WAKENING.

THE cool, reviving breeze stole softly by, raising the dewy vine-leaves and drooping flowers, and tuning its unseen lyre to mournful melody. The gentle song of waters came upon the wind, and the "matin bird" forgot its accustomed notes of joy while listening for the flutelike voice and silvery laugh that were wont to greet the morning's approach. But they came not; and the floweret hung its head, languishing for the cooling cups which one soft hand had so oft administered.

Come with me to yon room. It is rich as a fairy scene, and golden vases are scattered around, filled with the rarest spices and odors. Yet wherefore is that crowd of weeping ones? Minstrels are there, with harps tuned to a dirge for the dead; and maidens clad in rich raiment stand around, scattering perfume from silver censers, and wailing over a young form laid on that low couch. Flowers, the fragrant tribute

of love to the departed, are spread upon her pillow, and form a coronal for her marble brow, where the bright hair hangs in golden ringlets. The drooping lid hides the deep blue of her dove-like eye, and the long silken lash reposes on her cold cheek. The heart's pure signet is sealed upon those calm, pale lips, which have never breathed aught but love and kindness; and those clear-white hands are firmly clasped upon her heaveless bosom.

Ah! well may she be mourned, for her voice hath been upon the weary heart like evening dew upon the withering herbage; and the eyes of all have brightened in smiles, and their lips blessed her, as she passed, by her father's side. Amid the marble columns of her own proud home, meekly hath she worn the high honors of her house; and though clad in royal vesture, yet hath she entered the abodes of poverty's lone children, and cheered the hearts of the aged and the afflicted with the sweet ministerings of love.

She hath been to both her parents an angel sent from heaven. When sorrow was busy at their hearts, it was driven away by her soothing tone and gentle caress; and she added to the sweet charities of the heart the gems of intellect. Daily have the parents watched alike the buddings of her loveliness and the growth of her

mind; and many an unpolished gem did they rescue from obscurity, and brighten, till it was a jewel fit to bind upon her heart.

And she is dead! Ere twelve young summers hath shed their joys upon her head she hath been snatched away, and therefore are ye gathered to weep with the bereaved mother. But others have entered, and the grief-stricken father is there. Tears flow no longer from his eyes; they are turned in confidence on a majestic figure among the entering group. That noble personage advances to the couch with graceful and commanding step. His brow is calm and benign, and his radiant eye rests mildly upon the form of the sweet maiden. Hark! he speaks; his voice, deep-toned and clear, utters the accents of pitying love: "Weep not; she is not dead, but sleepeth." But mark the scorn that curls those haughty lips, and the smile of contempt that passes over those anger-darkened countenances. Yet still is the stranger's noble brow unmoved, as he commands all to depart, save his own attendants and the mourning parents. And now he takes the hand of the sleeping maiden, and solemnly mild is his silver voice heard saying, "Maiden, arise!" And she hath heard him, and obeyeth! yea, the dead doth arise, and is clasped in her mother's arms, and a