OR, EMILY, THE LITTLE WEST INDIAN. A TALE FOR YOUNG PEOPLE. BY MRS. HENRY LYNCH. LONDON: JOHN HATCHARD & SON, 187, PICCADILLY. 1847. THE COTTON-TREE. I WAS born in Jamaica, and my first recollections are those of a large shadowy house, a wide piazza, and kind black faces. Yes, little English reader, you may laugh; but there are stars that cheer the traveller on the darkest heaven; and there were smiles from these sable nurses that filled my infant heart with happiness. For hours I would sit between the knees of my good "Nana," as she told me some wild African legend, or related, in a "Nan B cy story," with animated gesture, the spec tral performances of some wonderful sprite. But there are yet dearer memories than these gleaming in beauty, like the distant landscape through the mist of time. The morning kiss!-Oh! with what delight I gathered the blossom from the orange-tree, that I might give the pale flower to my dear mother! and as I took my seat on the bed, I would playfully dress her locks in the bridal wreath. "And who, my child," she would say, "bid those snowy blossoms shine amidst the dark * A Nancy tale" is what may be termed a ghost story, and is generally a metrical account of some superhuman power, chanted by the negro in a wild, low strain. leaves? Who painted the pomegranate with its beautiful crimson? and who upholds those delicate lilies in strength, with the scorching summer around them, refreshing them with the silent dews of night? Is it not He, my love, who took little children in his arms and blessed them?" I did not see much of my father, for he was engaged throughout the day; but I remember, like a distant dream, my first indistinct idea that sorrow dwelt amongst us. My infant brother died.* And our * It is customary amongst the negros to make noisy lamentations on the death of any member of the family. "My sister breathed her last," writes a lady, " and in an instant the room was crowded with people, some of whom I had never before seen; all were wringing their hands, assum |