Year: 1860




There are few more romantic or beauti
full spots than the little village of Inglebor
ough, with its rustic church, its sunny
hamlets, and its simple and primitive in
habitants. Struggled amid the granite
hills of New Hampshire, the villagers held
but little and casual intercourse with the
people of the world, consequently theil
manners and customs were of the old style
But the most attractive feature of the vii
lage is beautiful stream which originates
in mountain hard by, from which the
place takes its name. 1t dashed into the
village from amid small wood little a.
bove the church on the hillside, and rush
ing rapidly by the mill, threw itself natu'
rally down miniature cascade, and sc
went murmuring on its way, dancing along
like thing of life.


In season of droughtthe stream would Of
ten be almost dry; and then the sudden rain
storms in the mountains would rapidly gil
the bed of the stream, which, increasing as
it flowed, often carried everything before it
to the valley. In this manner farmers fire..
quently lost numbers of their sheep; and
sometimes there were instances where it
proved fatal to human life


1t is many years ago since such an acct
dent occurred in the valley; but during a
visit to the delightful village, we heard the
story recounted over, and tell the tale as
twas told to us.


In the cottage opposite the church, but
divided from it by the water, there had re-
sided for many years an industrious couple
whose farm was their whole wealth. They
had had many children, but one after the
other fell sick and died, to the inexpressi-
Bile grief of their mother, who had heart
formed for the fullest enjoyment Of mater
nal love. She was one of those kind beings
who may be justly called the infants friend !;
for childhood, whether by its innocence or
helplessness, always called forth the display
of her otherwise retiring beuevolenee.-
Her own frst-born was nurtured with sur
passing tenderness. She leaned over its
cradle to watch its rosy slumbers, in unut-
terable transport; and hushing the almost
audible beatings of her glad heart, she
moved about the house with noiseless foot
steps, lest they should wake her boy. How
joyously did she watch for the unclosing Of
bis soft blue eyes that she might snatch
him, ere he was yet quite awake, to her
bosom.


What bright dreams of futurity did she
not indulge in ! Kissing the transient tears
from his face, and hushing his little sorrows
as none but mother would, as none but a
mother could hush them. But sickness
came. The almost transparent eyelid of
the child dropped heavily, his rosy lips be-
came pale, and his cheek had the hue of
death. Not then was he left to the care of
a hireling-no, his mothers hand smooth
ed his pillow, and prepared his neglected

food his mothers voice lulled him to his
short, broken slumbers his mothers tears
fell on his burning brow. She took no rest
herself, but tasted and wept, for her whole
soul was wrappedupi the life of her child.
As she looked upon him while be lay with
ering before her, like a flower nipped by
untimely frosts, she could not repress the
grief that was overaowing at her eyes. She
saw that he must die, and she tried to be-
come submissive to the stroke. She lis
tened in agony to his labored breathings-
she started away from his couch when she
saw his face-the face she had all but wor-
convulsed--and at length
when his dying agonies were painfully pro-
longed, they wrung from her an unuttered
prayer that the child might die.


The birth of another boy weaned her
thoughts from the one she had loved and
lost. But he two, had died, and she
with yet more bitterness over the
second bereavement. But hope, ever
buoyant, again rose in her breast, when she
looked for the first time on the face of a
fair girl. The love of mother for her
SONS is mingled with pride; she anticipates