GRANDMOTHER'S BOX. "Resplendent as a summer's sky, "And memories strange of other days, "I remember, I remember, The fir trees dark and high, It was a childish ignorance, But now 'tis little joy To know I'm farther off from Heaven These and a thousand other snatches of poems and old songs, many of them much more facetious in their nature, have this morning been ushered by the ghosts of bygone days into the audience-chamber of my soul. Hours have passed; the dial has long since crossed the meridian and still these shadows come trooping on, gliding upon each other's footsteps, each telling a rare and often a forgotten tale of those early days when we look upon life through a prism, coloring all things with the gorgeous hues of our own hope and fancy. And what power has loosed the bars of oblivion and called into my presence these pilgrims of the past? It was a simple cause, and apparently a homely one. An old box, upon which were painted wise-looking mandarins with most expressive countenances and long queues, toppling ladies with diagonal eye-brows, and little Chinamen each with a shaven brow and a tea-plant in his hand, ranged in regular file like the farmer boys at a country training. I used to gaze upon it for hours, and think it a perfect chef-d'œuvre of art. It had once contained a white embroidered Canton crape dress, which was brought in it from China for my grandmother long years ago, about the time of the Revolution, when she was a belle. Once when dressed in it at a ball, she captivated a British officer, who it is said shot himself in despair, because the fair rebel was too patriotic to smile upon him. Certain it is, that the last time he was ever seen, was when stepping into his boat, which was moored in a little cove which made up into her father's gar den, on the banks of a New England river. Soon afterward, the report of a pistol was heard far off on the water, and the next day some fishermen, away off by Montauk, saw floating out to sea a boat containing only the cap and military cloak of one of his majesty's officers. But time has fled, leaving its traces, not only upon the brow of my venerated grandmother, but also upon the Chinese box, which bereft of its lock and hinges, has from childhood been part of my personal property. In moving and journeying I have always taken it under my especial protection, and in the perilous times of house cleaning, have often rescued it from immediate and predetermined destruction. It has ever been the receptacle of those articles for the time being the most interesting to me. It survived the hazardous days of paper dolls and picture books, then it had its day of bead-chains, samples and patch-work. Then it was promoted to be a sentimental post-office, and many a dimpled little hand was slyly thrust under its lid, to deposit or extract a tiny notelet as it stood in the corner of my desk at school. But now it would puzzle the brain of a virtuoso to determine the possible value or use of its contents. There are dry leaves and moss, broken flowers, old bouquets and faded ribbons, scraps of poetry, shells, minerals, play-bills and programmes of concerts, single gloves, locks of hair and various other indescribable articles, presenting in all as incongrous a collection of rubbish as can well be imagined. I this morning ascended the stairs, just as Miss Venus Diana in her zeal at clearing up, and putting things to rights, had thrust her delicate hand into my box, and drawn it out full of the unseemly trash, as she styled it. A shriek from me arrested her, and the contents of her hand fell back into the box, instead of the dust skuttle where it was her intention to consign them. I snatched it from her hand, and rushed to my room, where I have spent this long, bright, Indian summer day in laughing, weeping and dreaming over its contents. To me they are more precious than rubies, more beautiful than the garden of a prince. Every old scrap and faded leaf is the relic of some departed joy, the symbol of some departed hope, and there, tangled together, are the orange and the cypress wreath, souvenirs of the bridal and the grave. The recollections awakened by some are pleasant to relate. They would afford an agreeable pastime and depict some of those strange phases in human nature which artists seldom attempt. Others inspire such memories as belong not to one alone, and which the lips would in vain essay to utter. Here is a branch of autumn leaves, the maple, oak and beech, with the dark green hemlock, and branches of the golden rod and everlasting. It transports me to a little nook,' nestled far away in the most distant of the Helderbergs. In the land of "Anti renters and Injins." Yet rugged as is that land and untutored as are some of its people, I love it well and often when far away my heart yearns toward its green hills and smiling lakes, and I long to breathe its invigorating air. I could never live in a level country. I know I should go crazy on a western prairie, where there are no mountains, not even a rock upon which we can fix the attention. Such plains are like that good sort of people, in whom we can see nothing very wrong although we cannot love them. The heart must have something prominent, something tangible around which its affections can cling, and thus if it relieve the monotony of a common place character, we sometimes gild a fault with the hue of our own imaginings and call it beautiful. I gathered these leaves in a little recess, inclosed by the dwarf oak and dog-wood, and canopied above by branches of dark hemlock and maple, so closely interlaced as to admit but an occasional ray of sunlight. The moss-covered trunk of a fallen tree formed a rustic seat. Here my brother and myself used to retreat from the rays of the summer sun. Hither we brought our stores of birch, beech-nuts and butter-nuts, and here swinging on the branches of the hemlocks we performed imaginary journeys more satisfactory than many of later days which were far more tedious and expensive. As we grew older we brought there our books and pictures, and used to extend our walks from it to explore the sides and ravines of the mountains, or angle in the brook, which flowed beneath it. How many associations are connected with that old Ontiora, the mountain of the sky. How many times have I been kept awake until midnight by the winds that howled and moaned through its ravines, sometimes lashing its sides with fury, twisting from its bed some giant tree, which would fall with a crash and come sweeping down, breaking the sapling and the girdled oak until some forest veteran arrested its course with a sound which would rumble and echo along the hills like the explosion of the heaviest artillery. Then it would die away in plaintive tones, like some solitary spirit moaning over the fallen and the lost. Mingled with all this would be the unearthly voice of the hoot owl, and the screeches of other animals, aroused by the storm, and beneath all would be heard the deep and continued undertone of the stream which flowed forever at its base. Well do I remember the first expedition that I made to the summit of the Ontiora. I used when an infant to stand at my mother's window, watching the clouds that floated over it, and gazing upon the pine trees that skirted its brow, stretching their dark outlines upon the horizon, and fondly believe that if I could ascend to that spot I should see the holy angels, and good little children who had died. And though as I grew older I learned from specimens of humanity that occasionally descended from that high place, that it was not the abode of angels, my desire to visit it was in no way diminished, and I secretly determined to gratify it upon the first opportunity. I had frequent and long conversations with Lany Hoever, a little girl with copperas-colored sun-bonnet and red woolen frock, whose home she told me was far beyond the pine trees and who came every day through the hot summer sun to sell us raspberries and blackberries. I questioned her with regard to the geography of the hill and received most minute and interesting detail and the additional information that the blackberries grew up there so thick that if I but shook the bushes, quarts of them would fall directly into my basket. I considered Lany the wisest person of the age and accordingly one July morning in the absence of my mother, I put myself under her convoy to perform a journey to the top of the mountain. A cousin of my own age readily entered into my plans, and taking each a large basket and china tea cup, which Lany assured us was indispensable, that we might not be troubled with our basket among the tushes, we set out. Guilty conscience caused us to look back now and then until we had crossed the brook and were hidden among the trees. On we went, trudging along with baskets and tea cups pulling ourselves upward by bushes and the roots of trees, sometimes frightened by a spotted snake, which would glide from under our feet, then scratched and torn by the briars which grew in our way, yet urged on by the resolute Lany and visions of blackberries, until weary and breathless, we reached the top of the hill and sat ourselves down to rest. But there the view which burst upon my sight, and the emotions which it caused I shall never forget. I have gazed upon scenery the most renowned in our native land, I have followed in spirit the footsteps of those I love through the storied scenes of the old world, and have stood with the daring adventurer in those distant and unfrequented regions, which, borrowing no charm from history or fable, stand wrapt in the sublimity of their own loneliness. But nev er in my later journeyings, never in "my fancy's wanderings" have I known such strange delight as at that moment filled my heart. It was the first yielding to the charms of nature, the first consciousness of that love for her, which was to fill the soul with the intensity of a passion. It was the same influence which causes such deep-toned vibrations of the sterner chords of the heart of man, now acting upon the delicate and sensitive fibres in that of the child, the ravishing voice of nature. Beneath me, lay iny father's house, with the garden and orchard, and near it the hamlet, the mill and the stream winding along the meadows in a graceful, lady-like way, sighing beneath the willows of the church yard like a veiled mourner, and then rattling and dashing over the rocks like a romping girl, mingling its glee ful voice with the rural sounds which arose to the ear. There embosomed deep among shady hills, like a pearl in an emerald cup, lay the little lake, which though half a mile distant, by its apparent nearness, seemed tempting me to plunge into its sunny waves. Then away off wound the road through fields of purple clover and yellow grain, with here and there a dark spot of wood land, while in the distance were seen the blue outlines of the Katazbergs, and the white mists that hung over the valley of the Hudson. I must have gazed long upon this scene, lost in the thoughts which it awakened, when Lany and my cousin dashed past me in pursuit of a squirrel, which they were determined to hunt down. I joined the chase, and in this and other equally refined diversions, we amused ourselves, until hungry and weary we arrived at the door of Dame Hoever. It was long past the hour of noon and the kettle of supaan was boiling for supper. Katrina Hoever soon came from the field with her rake upon her shoulder, slipped her shoes off at the door, entered her tidy kitchen, made her toilet and began preparations for supper. These were speedily effected. She drew out the little round table which was turned up in the corner, placed a dish in the centre, into which she poured the supaan and a pan full of milk, some spoons from the china mug which stood upon the dresser, and placed around the table, and then taking from a nail behind the door, a long tin horn, she blew a blast which reëchoed along the hills, and was answered by a repeated ay'o from Yacup and their son Hans, who soon made their appearance from the field, and seated themselves at the table. While this process was going on, my admiration had been divided between Dame Katrina, who with feet, the natural proportions of which were undiminished by shoe or stocking, was array ed in a blue dress, chintz kerchief, long ear-rings, and hair plaited and puffed in a way which Martelle would despair of imitating, and the burnished pewter plates which stood up edgeways on the dresser. Upon one of these plates I had already built visions of olycokes and honey-comb, such as had been served to me upon such an one at squire Teabout's, and when supper was announced I thought something had been forgotten. But not so. It was a repast for a philosopher; Diogenes would have been satisfied. Only spoons were necessary to the eating of supaan and milk, and these alone were furnished. Though this was my first visit without the restraint of the parental eye, I had conducted myself with the utmost propriety, but the next ceremony of Dame Hoever "frightened me out of it" to my utmost mortification and self-reproach. It has been one of the great trials of my life that I am prone to laugh on solemn occasions, such as weddings, funerals, &c. Not that I feel merry, but I cannot help it. I used sometimes to go to the old church with the chanticleer on the spire, and always behaved well during the sermon, which was in High Dutch and three hours long. But when squire Teabout and neighbor Hank each took down from the side of the pulpit a long pole, having on one end a black pouch with a long tassel, and a bell in the tassel, and went sliding it to the end of every seat, my risible propensities became incontrolable. And once when I went to meeting at the school house and Deacon Simpson told the same experience which he had told fifty-two times each, during a score of years, how "he was chopping in the woods, and a large worm |