hopes (we don't like the significant name,) is the true ideal of a Christian minister-speaking ever his good words in good season, but preaching yet more eloquently with his life than with his lips. G. WRITTEN FOR THE LITTLE PILGRIM. POOR PONTO. He's dead, our good old Ponto- On the steps before the door, With half-shut, dreaming eyes, In youth, a dog as handsome As one could wish to know, He had eyes of sparkling brightness, And a glossy coat of snow, With joyous bark and gambol He came at children's call, For a ramble in the green wood, Or to catch the bounding ball. And when harvest days were over, And the ripe grain gathered in, When the white frost fell all silently, And the forest leaves grew thin; Then in golden days of Autumn, When the great, red sun on high, Shone softly on the hill side, From out the dark, blue sky; At the shouting of the hunters, He came with leap and bound, For the cracking of the rifle Was to him a joyous sound. But he older grew and feebler- To him, 'twas strange old Ponto Or raised the head he patted, Near by his own loved home, And shall miss him from our side, As we take our summer ramble In the pleasant even tide. A. WRITTEN FOR THE LITTLE PILGRIM. SKETCHES OF THE FAR WEST. BY UNCLE OLLIE. will tell you a little incident that occurred in my travels, and hope you will read it to your fathers or friends, if you think they have any idea of leaving you, to seek the gold of California. It was upon a lovely Sabbath morning, in the month of July. We had arisen early, and harnessed our mules-for the place where we had encamped the night before was destitute of water, and our wood we had to carry from a mountain, a mile distant. All the day before, our road had been over a dreary waste of volcanic ruins and great craters, once filled with lava. You can imagine our delight, when emerging from a deep gorge in the mountain, where great rocks overhung our road, to behold a most beautiful valley, covered with waving grass and unnumbered wild flowers, making the morning air all fragrant with their dewy sweetness. I recollect now the deep quiet of this valleyhemmed in by its high mountains, and its many little streams leaping from high, rocky cliffs, with a gentle, unceasing music. We drove our mules down close beside one of those clear rivulets, cold almost as the snow beds from which it ran, and turned them loose to graze upon the luxuriant grass. We bent down the tops of some drooping willows, and threw over them a few blankets, for a temporary house, the floor of which we covered with our buffalo robes and the cushions from our wagons. As I love often to be alone, I selected a choice volume from my trunk, fixed my pistols and knife in my belt, to be ready for any wild beast, and drawing on my thick boots, that reached to my knees, as a defense against serpents, I sallied forth to look upon the wild grandeur amid the solemn stillness. Did you never, my little reader, sit, at evening, in some solitary place, and have many dear remembrances come to you? Uncle Ollie is a crusty old bachelor, yet often the tears will come as he muses alone-no, not alone!-for many voices come, in soft and gentle whispers, taking him far back to his sunny childhood—and so the tears flow, first of joy and then of grief-for very many of the loved ones are resting in their graves! So, upon that Sabbath-though many hundred miles separated me from the home I loved-yet the chime of Sabbath bells came to me echoing, and I listened to sweet voices of singing and prayer! I know not how far I had wandered, when my attention was attracted by curling smoke above a distant hill-top. I cautiously approached the spot, and saw a solitary wigwam and a brush tent. Near by was an old Indian, with a rude spade, digging what appeared to be a grave. I saw he belonged to a friendly tribe and at once accosted him. He could talk broken English; this, with my little knowledge of his language, enabled me to understand the short history I now tell you. He said, "Many suns ago, some white men camped over the hills; one very pale and much sick." It appeared, from all he could tell me, by signs and words, that the poor man had been sick for many days before coming into the valley-scarcely able to ride his mule, yet unwilling to be left by his companions; but upon arriving in this valley, he found himself unable to go farther. His fellows, (for they there lost the name of friends,) thirsting for the glittering trea sure that haunted their dreams, for a mere pittance hired this old Indian to take him to his wigwam, and allow them to pursue their journey. Can't you imagine the sorrow that must have pressed upon this poor traveller's heart as he beheld the last one of his companions disappear over the hills? When he became sensible that he was all alone, and no friend to bear a message to the loved ones far away! The old Indian, no doubt, did all he could; there was no wife or mother to bathe the burning temples, no little daughter to bring fresh drinks from the cool spring! All these privations pressed upon his heart, in one great sorrow The old Indian said he told him of his five little children in St. Louis, and very often he wished that he could once more see them. Upon the evening he died, he wanted to be raised up, and as the sun was setting, with a blessing and a prayer for the loved ones of home, he fell asleep! The old Indian rose from the grass, where he had been seated while he told me this, and gave a whoop, which soon brought two half naked halfbreeds from the wigwam. The body, wrapped in a dressed buffalo skin, was then borne from the brush tent to the grave. The grave proved too short, and the body was doubled down into it. A squaw, with a pappoose at her back, approached and looked down into the grave. We stood for a moment, when the old Indian said, "Now, if you know religion, pray over the poor fellow;" but the more savage half-breeds commenced to push in the dirt with their feet. The grave was soon filled, and upon a board which I placed at the head, I marked the simple epitaph, "Here lies John Dennis, of St. Louis, Mo., who was left alone by his company-to die!" And so we left to his rest, beside the mountain stream, the poor pilgrim to the land of gold! I know not whether those little children ever received my letter, telling them of the sad fate of their father! Perhaps they are yet longing for his return, and waiting to climb his knee, as in the dear old days. Perhaps this evening, as they sit around their fireside, they are talking of the happy times when "father will come!" But many winter snows will fall, and many summer flowers will fade, and yet he will not come, to fill their hearts with joy. But if they are good children, they may hope to see their father again, in that beautiful land where there is "no more sorrow nor sighing." WRITTEN FOR THE LITTLE PILGRIM. A TRUE STORY OF A CONNECTICUT WINTER. Winter, with its cold, bleak winds, and storms, with its freezing nights, and frosty mornings, is here-Hark! how the wind blows! How it whistles, through the leafless branches of the trees! It seems to eat into the very marrow! How it creeps in through every crevice, and crack, and cranny! How biting and bitter it seems-Whew! but I hate winter! "Hate winter?" "Yes, and so do I, and I, and I; it is cold, and disagreeable, and stormy, and wet-we none of us like winter"— Stop a minute. What do you think of these long winter evenings with the great warm fire roaring and crackling in the chimney, with the rompings, and dancings, which winter brings with it? And then the courtings, and sleigh rides, and skating-it seems to me that after all, winter brings as many pleasures with it as any one of all the seasons. And speaking of skating, reminds me of a story. Come, draw close up around the fire, and let us have another log, so that we can talk by the light of the crackling blaze. None of your unsociable furnaces for me. How can any body be sociable around a hole in the floor? A furnace? Pshaw! How can a furnace, compare with one of your real old-fashioned wood fires? with room enough for half a dozen children, in the chimney corner, where they can sit and watch the curling smoke, and hear the sap hiss in the hickory logs, and tell stories, all the evening long-that's the kind of fire for me-that's the kind of fire to tell stories by-look at it now, how it roars, and dances, If you, little readers of the "Little Pilgrim," will go with me, in thought, I will tell you some true stories of the "plains" and of the wild woods of Oregon; and if you like these histories, I will tell you of adventures with wild Indians, and white men equally wild, that I have met in my rambles. Perhaps many of you have friends who have gone to the far off west, in search of gold. I should be sorry to know you had for they will often remember their homes, and wish they had never undertaken the dangerous and wea. risome journey. Many, very many, die long before they reach the land of gold, and are buried on the plains. Though I know it will make some of you sad, II but there were none of the comforts of home-land sparkles, and flashes! How it spits, and sputters, and snaps! But what am I talking about? You can't see it. Very likely you never saw such a fire in all your lives, and have been warmed over a register, ever since you remember. If so, and if I have offended you in what I just now said about registers, I am very sorry, but I can't take it back. But where's the story? True, true, I had almost forgotten the story. But you must wait a few minutes yet. The story is a sad one, but it is true, and that makes it the more interesting, you know. Before I tell the story you must hear a short introduction. Up here in Connecticut, we have the grandest old-fashioned winters in the world-and we youngsters are all the while conjuring up some way to enjoy ourselves in the highest degree. Well, you must know, to begin with, that the Connecticut river, that glorious old stream, with its swift, still current, has to yield to Jack Frost in these cold winter nights of ours, and becomes frozen over, very hard and strong-so strong, as to bear horses and sleighs, and heavy loaded sleds. But this great river does not give up to the cold until it has made a powerful resistance; and foams, and frets, and casts its waters far up on the meadows. But the frost is too sharp for it, and freezes it up, meadows and all. Well, these frozen meadows, make a grand skating ground, and it is a story connected with them that I am going to tell you. but had been rescued. "Where's Jem?" said I. suffer all sorts of indignities, more particularly LEDYARD. WRITTEN FOR THE LITTLE PILGRIM. It was in the winter of 1848, and a large party of us were skating on the meadows, which extend four or five miles below the city of H. We had been engaged in various games, and were all of us in high spirits; the sharp, bracing air, making the blood run quick in our veins, and the warm breath pour in thick, smoky volumes, from our The next Sabbath, a long train of weeping nostrils. The various costumes made the whole friends and mourning school-fellows followed the party present a very picturesque appearance. body to the grave. and we buried the drowned boy Red tippets were bound about the heads of some, in the frozen ground, beneath the pure, white and various colored scarfs about the waists of snow-only to wake when the morning of the reothers. Long crooked sticks for playing "shin-surrection ushers in an endless summer day. ney," and great curling acorn-tipped skates, with red, and yellow straps, and all flying, and whirling, and twisting, till the whole presented a fair picture of a carnival or masquerade. I became at last tired of this dodging and cutting of pigeon wings, and so started for a long run, down the meadows, to rest myself. Away I went, over hedges and fences, and ditches, until wearied with this exertion, too, I threw myself upon the hard smooth ice, to recover my breath, and to while away the time, took out my pocket knife, and began to cut the initials of my name, deep into the ice. As I lay thus, my ear caught the ringing sound of skates, and looking up, I saw four boys approaching. I knew them all well, and as they came near, "Hallo! lazy!" said one. REVERIES OF A STUDENT. BY TICK. Introduction. Yes, indeed, all these things and many more of a like nature, are enough to arouse an interest in the little ones; and so they do. I have an interest in them; and if in them, I have an interest, too, in all. Do you think that I should submit to all these desires, accede to all these requests, and enter into all these plays which I have mentioned, if I did n't take an interest in the little prime movers ? I say, as I have said before, 1 want to tell the children some of the fancies which come into my brain in the midst of Greek and Latin, and even in the very chapel, at morning or at evening prayer time, as I hear, with half-shut eyes, the old chaplain repeating his stereotype phrases for the benefit of the assembled collegians. I want to let the children know these thingsI wonder if my good friend Grace Greenwood sometimes very grave and sober, and sometimes would n't be glad to hear from me, and if she very funny-and I want to put them into the would n't graciously permit something from my Little Pilgrim's hand, and have him carry them pen to be bound into the budget of good things with him as he flies along from house to house; which her dear Little Pilgrim gathers together and I want to hear him say, when he gets home every month for the pleasure and instruction of lots again, that he can tell me of one little child—yes, of little children-yes, and some big ones, too—I'll be satisfied with one at first-who has found who gladly welcome his regular visits. I should pleasure in reading what I have written for his think she might; for I know that I used to be con- or her amusement. sidered pretty good in the composition-writing line, when I was at school; and since then, I have occasionally tried my hand at a bit or two of verse-even some of which latter effusions, I may say here to myself, have been quite well spoken of by some folks who are good judges in such matters. "I'm not so lazy as you think!" said I; "I'll give you three minutes start, and then catch you, before, you get to the cove." This cove was about two miles from where we then were. They set up a shout of defiance, and the next moment were far away, their merry laugh still ringing in my ears. I waited until the three minutes had But now, if Grace should be disposed to let me elapsed, and then prepared for the chase. But fill up a corner, perhaps she'll ask me what put. hardly had I started, before I saw one of that same it into my head to undertake to amuse and inform party of four, coming toward me. As he drew the children in whom she takes such an interest. near, I saw.from the expression of his face, that "What interest do I take in children?" Why, some accident had happened. "Quick, quick," I'm sure I take a great deal; for are there not said he, as soon as he could get breath to speak-ever so many little individuals, whose ages I don't “Jim has fallen in, and is drowning, and I am pretend to remember, who seize upon me every going for help-for mercy's sake be quick!" I Saturday afternoon, with most uproarious shouts waited to hear no more, but started with all my of-" brother —," (never mind the name,) and speed for the place. Yet 1 could not move half who almost smother me with kisses, when I prepare fast enough. I felt as if I stood still! It on Sunday evening to return to college? And am I seemed an age before I arrived there, though it not glad enough to see them, and be with them could scarcely have been two minutes. I found one day out of seven, even if they do make me two of the boys standing near a hole in the ice; toss them and play "dragon" with them, until I one was dripping wet. He, too, had fallen in,' am totally exhausted? and if they do cause me to WRITTEN FOR THE LITTLE PILGRIM. MY LITTLE BROTHER. BY MARY A. DORSEY. I have laid his tiny, warm hand off my face, very gently, looked a moment at the long lashes lying so lightly on his rosy cheek, and listened to his gentle breathings till I know he is sleeping, and now I may tell tales on him. He'll never know it, my gentle, loving little brother. I wish Lara was only like him; but no, he must be strong hearted, and strong handed, to fight Edgar's battles for him. Once, this hot-headed Lara grew tired of school, tired of home, and of every thing else beside, himself included. He would go to sea, he said, and see the world, and come home bringing golden treasures, and make us all rich and happy-just as if poor people can't be happy, as well as the rich, if they love each other and do right. I begged him a long time not to go, and cried a great deal more than I talked-but it was no use. He packed up his clothes in the old carpetbag, got a new lock to it, and bought a sailor's WRITTEN FOR THE LITTLE PILGRIM. THE STORY OF LILLY. and wide, Thought her pretty young head in the house she So, right through the parlor, without more ado, shining hat. These he hid away snugly in the A COLUMN FOR THE LITTLE ONES. But Lilly, on finding one girl on each side, And that crossing the ocean, on this and that side, Yet I just want to tell you one story, that's true. And to speak to a boy like me scarcely will deign; would comfort me so much if he would be un- Poor child! he had never slept out of my arms since our mother gave him to me-he was then a tiny babe. I told him how Lara would love him, and get good again, and not go away, if he would sleep with him. Then the dear boy wiped his tears, and knelt down and said his little prayers, and then I carried him up stairs and left him. He knocked gently at the door, and I heard him say, "Do let me sleep here, to night, Lara!" There was no resisting such a gentle pleader, and by and by, when his brother came to get some water for my darling, I knew that he wouldn't go to sea, that night, any how. When I had finished all my work, basted the little collars on, and laid out the Sunday shoes, (for it was Saturday night,) I could not rest in bed. I missed Edgar's little soft hand-I had nothing to talk to-I must have one more kiss, I thought, as I stole up to him, very softly. It was quite light in the room-the window was open; I was very still, but he heard me. "Have you come for me?" he whispered; "I have put Laia to sleep long ago." Have sins calves, sheep and kittens, and chickens by And to all they're so kind that they've made them So each comes in a moment when called by his name. A chilly spring wind o'er the prairies was blowing; know." When aunt Abby came in, to see what was the rout, She saw, W. BLOOMFIELD, N. Y., Jan. 24, 1854. To Grace Greenwood:-Here is an idea for "Little Pil." Why is the Little Pilgrim like the prescriptions of a new class of Doctors? Because he is small, sweet, harmless, and pleasant to take. C. PROSPECTUS OF "THE LITTLE PILGRIM," A MONTHLY JOURNAL FOR GIRLS AND BOYS. EDITED BY GRACE GREENWOOD. So she went to the spot, and indeed there she found ing." Lamby rode on, and on, in her carriage so dark, Oh, this frightened her so that she pushed out her face. But where now had she come?-'twas the nicest, A basket, all stuffed with soft cotton and wool, signs by Devereux. The series of European sketches commenced in our first number, will probably run through two or three years. To render this in a high degree labor nor research. In addition to this, and to our interesting and instructive, we shall spare neither editorial articles, we shall furnish (from our own pen) stories, poems, &c., from time to time. I lifted him very gently, and when I had put Nona helped her to drink, while Net held down the peculiar sectarian views, our aim shall always be him in his own bed, I said cup, "What have you been thinking about ?" (for it And she wiggled her tail till she drank it all up. was very late.) After resting a minute, she peeps out and spies, "I've been looking at the stars, and trying to count them, but they keep going in. I wish I was on the other side, then I could see them come through." After a little while, he asked me to hear him Then off the girls ran, with hearts light as a feather, Resolved for their lambkin some fresh grass to say his prayers. gather. "I have heard you," I said. "Yes; but I want to pray again, because I want to thank God for making Lara good, and I am going to ask Him to keep him so." I believe that prayer is remembered up in Heaven yet. I know it was heard and answered. My little brother is not very tall yet-only just got his first boots-and I have never sent him away to sleep since then. Dear little readers of the Pilgrim, my story is all true-just as true as that our Heavenly Father loves to hear your prayers, and says, "They that seek me early shall find me." None better than that the girls gave her- White Lilly often went out, when the weather was fair, And though Netty and Nona very briskly could run, She heeds not the roses and dahlias around, But into the border she comes, with a bound! Plant a handful of confectionary-Candy tuft. And you'd think, like Lord Nelson, she "never "Now," says Nona, "go that side, Net, and when I'll break this dry shingle, with a terrible crack; fetch her. Ah! here she comes, Net-catch her, catch her ! let's It is not our intention to discuss profound religious doctrines or political problems with our young readers. But while we urge upon them no to inculcate a high religious morality. "Whatsoever things are true, whatsoever things are honest, whatsoever things are just, whatsoever things are pure, whatsoever things are lovely," we shall heartily advocate; and ever strive to present, in fair attractive forms, the divine truths contained in that blessed epitome of Faith, Freedom, Love, Temperance and Peace-Christ's Sermon on the Mount. It will be our object not only to adapt our paper to the tastes and comprehension of children, but to render it pleasant reading for parents and teachers. PHILADELPHIA, APRIL, 1854. of the kind in all the world. It has been be- [No. 4. But ing around the towers, were hosts of rooks; black, solemn looking birds, who keep up an incessant caw-cawing, a sort of doleful jabbering among themselves, which I never could imagine how they could find amusing, or profitable. doubtless they understand their own affairs and their own language best. Perhaps they thought their melancholy cawing far more dignified and fitting in that mournful place, than the sweet blithe singing of the black-birds and the thrushes that sometimes came to make the lonely air thrill with their delicious notes, and to set all the little wild flowers trembling with delight-just as some solemn people in this world think it is most proper and pious, to be harsh and gloomy, and despise the merry singing of the light-hearted and the innocent laughter of children. Kenilworth Castle was built in the reign of Henry the First, by Geoffrey Clinton, a Norman noble. In the reign of King John, it passed out of the possession of the Clinton family, and became the property of the crown. Henry the Third, after making many additions to it, granted it to his brother-in-law, Simon Montford, Earl of Leicester. This Simon Montford afterwards proved a traitor and gave King Henry a great deal of trouble, by raising a rebellion. For a time he was victorious, and at the battle of Lewes took captive the king and the prince of Wales. The prince escaped-raised another army, attacked and defeated the rebels. Montford was slain, and the remains of his army, headed by his son, fled to Kenilworth Castle, which was besieged by Prince Edward, but gallantly defended for six months, when famine and pestilence obliged the rebels to capitulate. Thus the castle came again into the possession of the crown. I visited it on a lovely morning in early June. There had been a light shower a little while be- The unfortunate Edward the Second, who got fore-the grass of the great court-yard was fresh- into so much difficulty with his barons because ened anew-the ivy that decked the broken old of his favorites, who proved insolent and meddlewalls and climbed and swung about the great high some-was imprisoned in the dungeons of Keniltowers, glistened in the sun and waved in a plea-worth Castle, while his beautiful but bad queen, sant wind-and the yellow wall-flowers shed down their perfume upon us-falling so thick and so sweet every way we turned, that it seemed like an invisible rain of fragrance. Daisies and other wild flowers brightened up the grass, and modest violets smiled out of shadowed nooks, and here and there, a blooming rose-tree nestling up against the crumbling masonry, seemed trying with all its little might to hide the desolation and cheer the solitude of the scene. Isabella, and her favorite, Roger de Mortimer, were holding a gay court in its halls. Perhaps, sometimes at night, the poor king faintly heard the sound of music and revelry. Perhaps he wept as he sat alone in the cold darkness, remembering how fondly he had loved that cruel woman-and listened to catch one tone of her voice, once so dear to him, though now speaking gentle words to his enemy-or even to hear the sound of her dancing feet, though they seemed to be treading on Flitting every where about the ruins, and wheel- his heart. principally on account of her protestant faith. But her own trials did not make her more merci his horse so elegantly, and was so proud in his bearing, that he might have been mistaken for a Kenilworth remained the greater part of the time in the possession of the crown, till the reign of Elizabeth, who bestowed it upon Robert Dud-ful towards others. She seldom forgave her ene-king, had he not rode bare-headed like the rest of ley, Earl of Leicester. It was in the time of this proud noble that Kenilworth reached the height of its splendor, and really became a beautiful and splendid palace, as well as a powerful fortress. In erecting new and magnificent buildings, towers and gateways—in enlarging the lake which lay near it-in improving the chase, the parks and gardens, he expended no less than half a million of pounds sterling-about two millions and a half of dollars. At this castle, in the year 1575, the Earl of Leicester received Queen Elizabeth and her whole court, and entertained them for seventeen days, in the most princely and costly manner imaginable. When this entertainment came off, all the country was turned upside down with delight and excitement, and everybody said that nothing half so grand had ever happened in the world-not even when the queen of Sheba paid a friendly visit to King Solomon-and never could happen again. In truth, there was great parade and festivity at the castle. There were players, singers, jugglers and tumblers, from London, France and Italy-there were hosts of gallant knights and noble ladies— there was dancing, tilting, hunting, hawking, eating, and I am afraid there was some pretty hard drinking at least this little fact in history looks like it:-" Over and above the wine and other liquors, there was drank no less than three hundred and twenty hogsheads of beer." The Earl of Leicester was a handsome, accomplished gentleman, but a wily courtier. He sought to win the favor of the queen, so that she should choose him for her husband, and raise him to the throne. But Elizabeth saw his ambitious designs, and though she liked him very well, she did not think he would be a good ruler for the people. It was said, also, that this great queen loved the power and glory of royalty too much to share them with any man. She certainly refused to marry Leicester, though he strove and plotted for years to gain a seat beside her on the throne. It is even said that he caused a lovely young girl called Amy Robart, whom he had privately married, to be murdered, so that he could lawfully wed his queen. But I hope it was not so-though certainly the poor lady did drop off very suddenly and mysteriously. Elizabeth Tudor was not decidedly a good woman, but she was one of the best sovereigns that ever reigned in England. She was brave and energetic, and gifted with excellent sense and judg ment. mies-but punished with long imprisonment or death, all rebels and conspirators. When the Queen of Scots was driven from her own country, by the rebellion of her subjects, and sought refuge in England, instead of granting her hospitality and help, Elizabeth put her in prison. Mary Stuart was very beautiful, but somehow this did not seem to help her cause with her "cousin of England," who kept her in close confinement for nineteen years and then beheaded her. Of Queen Elizabeth's last sad days and her death, I have already told you. As for her faults after all, there may have been more excuses for them than we know-and there may have been more noble and generous qualities in her character than we find set down in history. Historians are usually more apt to relate bad, than good things of sovereigns and great people. There is but one true account of any human life; and that is the record kept by God's just angel in Heaven. The descendants of the Earl of Leicester sold Kenilworth to the royal family, and when Cromwell became Lord Protector he bestowed it upon six of his favorite officers. These Puritan soldiers made terrible work with it-dividing the great estate into farms-destroying the parks and gardens, draining the lake, and making of the castle a complete ruin-and a ruin it has remained ever since. the courtiers. After the Queen and the Earl, followed a train of noblemen and ladies, guards, pages, knights, gentlemen and soldiers-a long and splendid cavalcade. On either side stood a line of people, closely packed together-all bowing and shouting their loyal welcomes. As the Queen was approaching the outer tower, she checked her horse, to speak to one of her ladies, when suddenly there broke, or rather slid through the line of soldiers, a little girl, who flung herself at her majesty's feet, and grasped her robe, crying— "A boon! great Queen, a boon!" A rude soldier strode forward and lifted his broadsword over the head of the child-when, quick as a flash, a boy scarcely larger than the girl, leaped out of the crowd, and snatched the sword from the soldier's hand, saying boldly— "Thou art a cowardly knave!" The man turned upon him in rage-caught back the sword and might have killed him with it, had not the Queen cried— "Hold, villain! By my faith, I think the lad is right! Would'st butcher- babes like these? Then art thou one of King Herod's men, and none of ours. Stand back!" Then turning her eyes on the little girl, who stood trembling at her side, she looked at her a moment in silent surprise. And well she might, But now for a little story, which I hope will for the child was as beautiful as an angel. She interest you. LITTLE ROSAMOND-A LEGEND OF KENILWORTH CASTLE. It was the evening of the day set for Queen Elizabeth's visit to Kenilworth. Great multitudes of people had been for many hours assembled on the walls, in the chase, and park and gardens, to witness the splendid sight. But her majesty had been detained till twilight at Warwick, to receive the homage of her subjects, and now it was announced that the grand entrance would be made by torchlight. At length the great bell of the castle tolled, and a single rocket shot up into the air. Then all held their breath and listened. At first, they could only hear a dull sea-like sound, in the direction of Warwick Castle-but it came nearer and grew louder, till they could distinguish the tramp of horses, music, and shouting and the clang of armor. When the queen entered the royal chase, hundreds of great rockets were sent blazing and hissing into the sky, and such a mighty shout was set up by the multitude that it was almost a wonder it didn't jostle the stars out of their places. Yet they did not seem at all disturbed by the tumult, but stayed quietly in their orbits, and winked at one another as though making fun of the Earl's fireworks. The whole music of the castle burst forth-then there was a round of artillery and a tremendous discharge of blunder The procession moved slow and stately from the gate of the park, illuminated by two hundred great wax torches, borne by armed horsemen. This queen was the daughter of Henry the Eighth, "Bluff King Harry," as he was called, was a coarse and cruel man, who while he lived was feared and hated, and when he died, was only not forgotten, because the story of his crimes kept up a shuddering remembrance of him in the minds of the people. He divorced his good wife, Kathe-busses. rine of Arragon, so that he might marry one of her maids of honor, the beautiful Anne Boleyn. But in the course of a year or two, he took a fancy to another lady, and so he had Queen Anne's head taken off, to make way for Queen Jane-who, in her turn, was soon obliged to lay her pretty head on the block, because it was the king's pleasure to have another consort, And so he went on, till all the beautiful young ladies in the kingdom lived in mortal fear of the crown and the axe, and some who were neither beautiful nor young, professed to be most frightened of all. could scarcely have been more than ten years of age-she was very fair and delicate, with a tender, appealing face, and a voice sweet but mournful, like the sound of a wind-harp. She had large dark eyes, with long heavy lashes, but her eyebrows were a shade lighter, and her hair, which was soft and wavy, was of a rich, golden hue. Now tears were flashing in her eyes-her red lips were quivering her cheek was brightly flushedher hair gently lifted from her forehead, by the evening wind; and in her simple white frock, she looked there, under the torch-light, so like a ra. diant little seraph, that the stern Queen spoke softly to her, almost as though in fear, saying"Who art thou? and what would'st thou with me?" "My name is Rosamond Vere," answered the child; "and I come to put this petition into your own hands, and to beseech your majesty to grant the prayer of a poor motherless little girl, who will pray to God for you every night and morning, as long as she lives." The Queen smiled graciously and took the paper, but said "This is no time, nor place to read petitions, child. Come to the castle to-morrow at the hour of twelve, and we will give thee audience. But tell me, who is thy brave young champion? By my soul, he hath a right gallant spirit!" "I do not know, your majesty, I never saw him before," said Rosamond. The boy of whom they spoke had gone back among the spectators, but on hearing these words, he stepped modestly forward. He was a handsome lad, with deep, dark, beaming eyes, and a sort of grand look about his forehead, which made him seem, for all his plain peasant dress, nobler than any young lord or duke in all that cavalcade. The queen, who was young at that time, and though not handsome, was noble and grand looking-came mounted on a beautiful milk-white horse, which she managed very finely, for she was an admirable rider. She was dressed in the richest silks, velvet and lace and from head to foot she seemed almost blazing with costly jewels. Beside the queen rode the earl of Leicester, on a jet black steed, one of the handsomest in the The motherless Elizabeth led but a sad life world, with trappings of velvet and gold, and sil-jesty." during the reign of her sister, Queen Mary, who ver bits. The Earl was gorgeously dressed, and "Marry, a good name, and an honest-and thou mprisoned her and treated her very harshly-glittered all over with gold and gems. He sat art a brave lad-doubtless we shall hear of thee The Queen smiled on him, and said"Well, young rash-head, what art thou called ?" "William Shakspeare, may it please your ma |