of the buoyant spirit called forth by this happy season.  The song of birds fill the air, and they seem in their own way to offer their tributes of praise to the kind and benevolent Father, by whose direction the seasons succeed each other in their appointed order.  All were busy at the farm.  Uncle Nathan was beginning to look up his “help” for the labors of the summer, and my aunt was equally busy within doors.  Grandma is still there, always contented and always happy, for the old-fashioned leather-covered Bible, which lies in its accustomed place by her side, has been her guide through the period of youth and middle-age, and now, in extreme old age, its promises prove, “as an anchor to her soul, both sure and steadfast.”  The Widow Green is at present an inmate of the dwelling, as she often is in busy seasons.  A letter has lately been received from Cousin Silas, saying he hoped it would afford them no serious disappointment if he postponed the proposed journey to Canada for a time, and added, by way of explanation, that his wife was anxious to revisit the scenes of her childhood in the State of Maine, before removing to Canada, and, as he considered it the duty of every man to make the happiness of his wife his first consideration, he was for this reason obliged to defer the proposed removal for the present.  Had he seen the look of relief which passed over my aunt’s countenance as she read the letter, he certainly would have felt no fears of her suffering from disappointment by their failing to arrive at the time expected.  “I only hope,” said she, “that his wife may find the ties which bind her to the scenes of her childhood strong enough to keep her there, and I am certain I shall not seek to sever them.”  “I am afraid Lucinda,” said her mother, “that your heart is not quite right.”  “Perhaps not mother,” she replied, “I try to do right, but I can’t help dreading the arrival of that lazy Silas Stinson and his family; he was always too idle to work and when they are once here we cannot see them suffer, so I see nothing for us but to support them.”  “Let us hope for the best” said the old lady, “he may do better than you think, and it’s no use to meet troubles half way.”

The preceding winter had been one of unusual severity, and, as is often the case in the climate of Canada where one extreme follows another, an early spring had given place to an intensely hot summer.  The school had closed, but I was to remain with Uncle Nathan till autumn, when I was to return to my home at Elmwood for a short time before seeking a situation.  It was the tenth of August, a day which will be long remembered by the dwellers in and around Fulton.  For many weeks not a drop of rain had fallen upon the dry and parched ground, and the heat from the scorching rays of the sun was most oppressive.  Day and night succeeded each other with the same constant enervating heat.  Sometimes the sun was partially obscured by a sort of murky haze, which seemed to