curls over her ivory neck and shoulders, waving gently in the morning breeze, as it floated lightly around her.  She was dressed in a simple white robe, and in her hand held the richest boquet.  Her snowy arms were bare almost to the shoulder, and as she stood looking out upon the far off sail, or watching the entrance of her fellow passengers, as they took their respective places in the boat; no eye that looked upon her but lingered in its gaze to admire her beauty.

Then came a rich man and his lady, and there must be room in the boat for their splendid equipage, and so his gay horse stood champing his bitts and curbing his proud head, as his fiery eyes glanced over the glassy surface of the restless waters.

All was ready, the signal was given, and the boat ploughed her way like a thing of life, leaving a long path of white foam in her wake.

Men talked of business, of the prospect of the advancing season, the pressure in the money market, or the perfidy of the opposing political party.

Women talked about their cross children, unfaithful servants, and various domestic trials.

The young girls talked of their school, their boquets, and the many little events in which they were interested, while a group of school boys, who had entered last, and were obliged to stand in the rear of the boat, declared they had never seen the fair queen of that party looking so lovely.

But suddenly there was a jar, a scream, a plunge, and that fairy form was precipitated into the foaming waters beneath, and the boat was gliding on with such rapidity that no arm could reach her.  She sank slowly from sight, as her spreading robe buoyed her up for a moment on the waves.  Her long curls lay spread out, tossing upon the surface by the motion of the waves, then as they sank slowly from sight, one snowy hand was raised, clutching the boquet with a tenacity so proverbial to the drowning.  She then sank to sleep beneath the surging waves that danced lightly on over her death cold bosom.

None could tell exactly how the accident happened.  The horse, unused to that mode of conveyance, became restive, and in his plungings to liberate himself precipitated the unfortunate girl, with all her gay dreams of life and pleasure, into a watery grave.

The tide was going out, and she fell into the rapid current, and when her body was recovered no traces of beauty rested upon her marble features, and none who looked upon the black, bloated face and lips of the poor girl could recognize the bright beauty of that joyous morning.  The withered boquet was covered with green slime, and like the hand that held it, bore no resemblance to its former self.  “Surely in the midst of life we are in death.”

To Miss H——­ B——­,

These Lines Are Affectionately Dedicated By ——.

  Maiden, for thee I’d tune the lyre;
  Might minstrelsy my song inspire;
  Could I a gifted offering bring,
  I’d boldly sweep each silken string,
  And wake a sweet and thrilling strain,
  Thy heart would echo back again.