I

In travelling with pack animals it is not always convenient or practicable to transport tents, and the traveller's ingenuity is often taxed in devising the most available means for making himself comfortable and secure against winds and storms. have often been astonished to see how an experienced voyager, without any resources save those provided by Nature, will erect a comfortable shelter in a place where a person, having no knowledge of woodcraft, would ever think of such a thing. Almost all people in different parts of the world have their own peculiar methods of bivouacking.

In the severe climate of Thibet, Dr. Hooker informs us that they encamp near large rocks, which absorb the heat during the day, and give it out slowly during the night. They form, as it were, reservoirs of caloric, the influence of which is exceedingly grateful during a cold night.

In the polar regions the Esquimaux live and make themselves comfortable in huts of ice and snow, and with no other combustible but oil.

The natives of Australia bury their bodies in the sand, keeping their heads only above the surface; and thus sleep warm during the chilly nights of that climate.

Fortunately for the health and comfort of travellers upon the Plains, the atmosphere is pure and dry during the greater part of the year, and it is seldom that any rain or dew is seen, neither are there ponds or marshes of stagnant water to generate putrid exhalations and poisonous malaria. The night air of the summer months is soft, exhilarating and delightful. Persons may, therefore,

sleep in it and inhale it with perfect impunity, and, indeed, many prefer this to breathing the confined atmosphere of house or tent.

Home.

Attachment to the place of his abode, whether an innate principle of the human mind or merely the result of association, is a feeling universally observable in man. In the minds of those whose home is the place of their birth, it is naturally connected with their first experience of life, and light, and health; a mother's fondness and a father's care; the affection of relatives, the sports of boyhood; the occupations of riper youth; the first dawnings of hope, and aspirations after happiness; with the season when life, and futurity, and all things seemed fresh and beautiful, ere the disappointments of maturer years had chilled the scene of our birth and early life, still it has much to endear it to our hearts; it is linked inseparably with all our pleasures and pursuits; the thought of home gives us strength to labor, and fortitude to endure, thither do we look for comfort, there do

we take refuge from every external evil; there are gathered together those who are more precious to us than ourselves; those who are not less beloved because they are the friends more of sympathy and choice than of natural consanguinity; in ten thousand ways are our feelings, our thoughts, our actions, identified with home; to it we are bound by ties which increase in number and in strength with increasing years.

Friendship.

Friendship has been called by some "nothing but a name." But we believe it to be a part of our mental constitution, and almost as essential to it as the air we breathe is for our existence. It is true, all are not capable of enjoying it in an equal degree, because all are not equally virtuous.

Friendship is not only a pleasure, but a duty which relates to many particulars; and there is not It would be well for us to avoid those that would one more important than the choice of its objects. be our friends upon short acquaintance; likewise, those who are not friends to themselves; it is probable the former would forget the duties of their office, and the latter a disquieter of our peace. But when we have been judicious in our selectionas human foresight can be-let us enjoy this heavenly boon without distrust, for it is calculated to cheer the desponding heart, and to buoy it on to duty. Its salutary influence upon the heart is like the gentle sound of falling water upon the ear; and the rich track which day leaves upon its surface when she sinks from us, soothing and cheering to the soul.

Man and his Capacities.

A man cannot well pass through life without becoming aware of the fact that he is not a quadruped, a vegetable, or a steam-machine. He finds himself possessed of powers which the other objects in question can neither appreciate nor approach. He can go round the world in ships, traverse it on railways, float above it in balloons, and a multi

plicity of other things, wise and foolish, which are never attempted by quadrupeds, plants or steam engines. Neither is he content to go on for ever

plodding the same weary, monotonous round. He cannot put up with the same kind of dwellinghouse through interminable generations, as bees, wasps and beavers can. There is a development; and yet he is so closely approached by many of what are called the inferior animals in a variety of his proceedings, that some philosophers have declared it to be difficult and impossible to determine where reason begins and instinct ends.

THE FIRST PAVED STREETS.-The Carthaginians are said to have been the first who paved their streets with stones. The Romans in the time of Augustus had pavements in many of their streets; but the Appian Way was a paved road, and was constructed 312 B. C. In England there were few paved streets before Henry the Seventh's reign. London was first paved about the year 1533.

There is no fault in poverty, but the minds that think so are faulty.

No. 9.

Vol. IX.

THE "DAY OF DREAMS."
BY MARY A. LOWELL.

THE short twilight of a Christmas day was drawing to a close. The day had gone by,

with its merry greetings, its cheerful reunions and fond remembrance of friends whose last Christmas day on earth had come and gone..

A noble mansion, belonging to a family by the name of Ingraham, standing on a pleasant emi

nence, was lighted royally. For the last half hour, carriages had been driven to the door, in a steady stream; doors stood open, despite the cold wind; for inside there was almost overpowering warmth.

Crowds of gaily dressed people were already there. Such a gathering could not have been found for miles around-bright, gay and glittering. Music was lending its charms, and dancing had begun, but only by the children, to wile away their time until their guests should appear, for whom had been delayed the Christmas dinner.

One young and handsome girl, had been listening with a raised color and flashing eyes, to two gentlemen who were talking with the daughter of the host, Minnie Ingraham. The listener was Anne Benedict-a young lady who had achieved the unenviable reputation of a great flirt, and boasted of her conquests, shamefully.

They were talking of some young artist, who had been invited for the evening, but had declined. The gentlemen praised him rapturously. He was a splendid painter, they said. In Europe, he had been appreciated as he deserved; here, never. "And you say, Miss Ingraham that he lives entirely alone? Do you think him poor?"

"I must not say what I think. Max has told me of him privately. He knows him, likes him, and has done all he could to overcome his repugnance to going out; but without effect. I have seen him but once."

"Where did you say he lives?"

"In the old, old house below the hill. His studio is there, too; but I fancy he has few visitors." "No," replied the gentleman; "but if it were the fashion to admire Mr. St. Elmir, the rush would be overpowering. We will see what influence we can have, Mr. Callender, to increase his fame in these parts."

Callender bowed.

"I shall call on him to-morrow," he said, simply. There was a fresh arrival, a new buzz of admiration, and the conversation ceased. She who had listened to it, without a word, disappeared from the room. She passed through many apartments, until she reached one which she judged to be the housekeeper's. A dark cloak, much worn, lay on a chair, and an equally shabby hood beside it.

No one saw her, as she seized them, and slipped out of a side door, taking with her a small cane that stood there. She wrapped the cloak closely about her shining dress, and drew the hood low down beneath thick brown braids of hair that massed her beautiful head. There was ice beneath the feet, shod only with satin boots, but she did not heed it, and glided on to her destination-to the "old, old house" as Minnie Ingraham had called it, beneath the hill.

In that old house, there gleamed through the cracks in the shutters, a single light. It came from a room, where a young man was sitting alone. He was tall-not quite handsome-but very interesting looking-bearing the marks of some deep sorrow, which might have touched and subdued him in a measure, but not wholly conquered him. He wore the courageous aspect of one who is determined to endure.

It was an artist's room; but the artist was idle. He had not quite forgotten that it was Christmas. and the room bore the marks of a deep and religious regard for it, in his owner's heart.

Beautiful pictures, warm with the life and glow of Italian pencils, were there. The Mother and Child, the infant St. John, the scene of the birth of Christ, the Visit of the Shepherds, the Angelic Herald-all were grouped in full sight.

A small table stood before the young man, on which stood a small tray with some slight refreshments-bread-some dried fruit and a single glass of wine, and, near it, a small miniature of exquisite beauty and finish.

Awaking from his reverie, he gazed upon the pictured face, long and tenderly. Then, reaching forward, he loosened the wet wrappings from a clay head, which, it was evident, had the same original as the miniature. He looked fondly at his work, gave a new wave to the hair, deepened the curve at the neck, and moulded the fine ear afresh. By a single touch of his pliant fingers, the long, almond shaped eyes were set more deeply, giving a half mournful expression to the face, instead of the glad and joyous one upon the minia

ture.

"Never

"Thus I saw her last," he murmured. again will the glad look come back to that sweet face. Dear child! that I should have left her to the care of strangers; I, that should have been father, brother, all relations in one, to ber-that I should have left her desolate, to scek after bubbles that have broken and deceived me."

He threw himself back in his chair, and tears were in his eyes. A woman may weep at trifles. Vexation, wounded pride, disappointment, and the whole train of selfish and minor troubles, can raise the floodgate of her tears; but, when a man weeps, it is like striking the solid rock and bringing water from its inmost depths, as did the prophet, of old.

A knock at the door startled the lonely weeper. He went through the long, cold passage reluctantly; but, on this night, of all others, he would not be churlish, and he opened the door wide, as with a Christmas welcome.

It was a woman. He could not guess if she were young or old, so wrapped was she in a long cloak, her head so covered by a deep hood. She followed him to his room, without speaking, and seated herself by the bright fire. The young man had thought of the yule logs, burned at Christmas, in other lands, and had placed a great giant of an oak stump in the wide fireplace, and flanked it with hickory. The bright blaze lighted up the glorious pictures, bringing out the depth of coloring, as the wax tapers bring out that of similar ones, above altars.

It did more. It brought out the figure seated before the blaze, into full relief. There was a tall, slender form beneath that cloak-there was a small, white hand grasping its folds to conceal the dress. She spoke at last.

"It is a cold Christmas," she said.

Where had he heard that voice? The tones were low and liquid, like those he had heard from Italian beggar girls.