BY MISS LOUISA M. BARKER.

When I was a little child, younger than those for whom this book is written, my home was in a valley. The usual appendages to a farm-house, the garden, orchard and small pasture grounds, lay very near it; and I was as familiar with these enclosures as with the rooms of the house. A little further off there was a mimic river, which, as it wound about, divided itself into different streams, and surrounded little islands, shaded with the tall plane tree and the flexible willow. Here, too, with those who were old enough to be careful in crossing the rustic bridges, I sometimes played on summer afternoons;—gathered the prettiest flowers in the sweetest little woods, and dipped my feet into the clear running water.

Beyond these there lay less frequented fields, which rose gradually, at no very great distance, into a range of hills as green as the valley below. One of them was covered all over its summit, and a little way down its sides, with some dark old woods. The trees which grew there were very tall, and so large that their thick and heavy tops seemed to crowd together, so that you might have walked on them almost as well as upon the hill itself. I loved sometimes, when the air was full of the bright sunshine, to look at the rich shades of green upon those tree-tops; but if ever my eye rested, for a moment only, upon the dark and mysterious avenues which led into the depths of the wood beneath them, there would creep such a chill to my heart,—such a feeling of dread would come over me,—that I turned quickly to the glad-looking homestead, that I might again grow warm and happy.

At first it was probably no more than the idea that those woods formed a limit to the world of light and gladness in which I lived. My eye could not penetrate their dimness, and with a childish, human feeling I shrank from the undiscovered and unknown. But as I grew older, and read the stories in the small books which were given to me for presents, or lent by my little friends, I had other and plainer reasons for the apprehensive feeling with which I looked at the woods. I found that children had been so lost among their thickets as hardly to be found again; and that two poor little orphans, left there on purpose, had lain down and died of hunger and weariness; and the birds covered them over with leaves. Strange birds I thought there were in the woods. Then the fairies that dwelt there, and the strange elfin creatures, and the perils that travellers fell into with robbers and wild beasts; and still I referred the scene of every story I read directly to those very woods upon the hill-side, although they were so near that I could see them plainly enough from the windows of the cheerful rooms at home.

Time passed along in its usual way; but before I had acquired knowledge or strength of mind enough to correct my early impressions of the woods, I had permission, one bright afternoon in June, to go with an older sister to a strawberry meadow across the creek. We were accompanied by some little maidens, who were older and more adventurous than me; and so it happened that when we did not find the fruit so abundant as we could wish, they persuaded us to go into another field, and then into another, I little thought where, until I became suddenly sensible of a shaded light around me, of a breeze a little cooler than that which tempered the warm air of the valley, and a low, wild music that I had never heard before; and looking up, I saw that we were actually upon the ascent of the hill which led up to the dreaded woods.

Strange and almost horror-struck as I felt, I did not scream out, (perhaps I should not have had breath to do so,) but I gathered up all the wisdom that my little heart could boast, into the resolution not to look at the woods, not to think of them; for we should soon go back again, I thought, and nothing would happen. And my young friends can judge how terrified I must have grown, when I heard one of the girls begin to talk of the beautiful flowers her brother had brought her from the woods, and end by proposing that we should go there, and get some for ourselves. I waited breathlessly to hear the objections which I doubted not would be urged against this plan, but none were offered; and when I ventured to remonstrate, they paid so little attention to me, that my pride was hurt at the thought of saying any more.

There was another way in which my pride was at work. I was ashamed, among those who were so brave, to own that I was afraid; so, though I held the hands of those who led me pretty tight, and gave them some little trouble to pull me along, they knew nothing more of my reluctance to go with them.

We got up the hill very fast; so at least it seemed to me. Here and there a solitary tree, a few feet in advance, looked as if it had stepped out to welcome and encourage us to pass on; and I cannot say that my strength did not revive a little as I passed under the heavy branches, and out again into the freer air. Be that as it may, it was terrible enough to me, the approach to those woods. My companions were eager and gay, and shouted out, as we entered them. They little thought how overpowering were my feelings. And I little thought, myself, that I was then and there to receive a lesson that I should never forget; one, perhaps, that would do me more good than any other that I should ever learn.

At first, I was so frightened that my senses were all in confusion; but as I gradually recovered the use of them, I took notice of the coolness and the shade, and the dimness away in the distance; I heard the leafy murmur above my head, the sweet notes that the birds were singing, and the loud echoes. All these things seemed to blend together into something so solemn and so magnificent, that I began to feel for the first time what it was to be a little child. With that, soon came a feeling of confidence and even love. I thought that the majestic presence that filled the woods, whatever it was, would not hurt me, and my heart grew so light at the thought, that I began to gather flowers with the rest. How pretty they were! and what clean, shining leaves! And here and there, wherever a little sunshine found an opening in the branches and streamed down upon the bright green moss, it seemed so golden, so clear, and so real, just as if I might clasp it in my hands!

I grew so much affected, at length, that I sobbed myself into tears, and my sister said that I had never been in the woods before, and she would take me home. I did not like to say that I wanted to stay longer, but held to my flowers; and after I reached home, was washed and rested, I went to the window, and remained there a long time, looking at the woods. I did not quite comprehend all I had thought and felt, but it seemed to me that a great truth, one that would do me good, had dawned upon my mind.

It was a long time before I fully understood the lesson. In a few weeks I caught one of those contagious diseases which children must have once; and it went so hard with me, that, before I was able to walk about, and go out of the house, the leaves were all gone, and the snow had covered the ground. When spring returned I thought often of the woods, but I was too sickly to go there; and when I grew strong again, my thoughts were all occupied with an approaching event. Several changes had occurred in the family, and others were expected, to which my friends though discontented at first, had grown quite reconciled. It was not so with me. There was one circumstance which affected me more than it did others, and from that I prophesied a continual succession of evils. It seemed to me that my life was to be wholly changed, and all the joy and beauty left behind. It was childish, I know. I knew it then, for I would not for the world have told any one how I felt. Still I was as much affected by it as I have ever been since at any real grief.

Late one afternoon, when my thoughts were busy with my fears, I went to the window, and looked up at the woods. The sunshine was very bright on their tops, and the shadow very dark on the hill-side below. Very vividly then came back to me the memory of my visit to them the year before. I thought of the evils which I expected to meet, and of the beauty which I found there. It was some good angel which whispered then in my thoughts, that, just as I went to the woods, full of fears and forebodings, I was approaching the expected misfortune; that I might be as happily disappointed in this as I had been in that.

I cannot tell how delighted I was with this suggestion, nor how completely it took possession of my mind. I was gloomy and fearful no longer. I did not, indeed, when the change came, resign what I lost by it without regret; but I was so certain of finding new enjoyments, that I resigned it cheerfully. And when, after a few weeks' experience had taught me that many advantages and many pleasures had come to me in consequence of those very circumstances which I had dreaded so much, I bound the lesson of the woods to my heart so firmly that there it still remains.

And let me say to you, for whom I have related this little incident of my childhood:—do not tremble at the disappointments and trials which await you. Do not seek to throw upon others any part of them which you may more becomingly bear yourself. If you live always in the open sunshine, you will never know what beauty there is in the woods. You will find the sentiment in your books, that it is the night-time only that shows us the stars; and in the gloom which must sometimes fall upon this uncertain and mortal life of ours, you may find, if you will, as much to rejoice in as to dread. You will form plans, and indulge in hopes, which cannot be realized, and disappointment will look frowningly upon you; but if you will submit yourself to the trial like a little child, the hand that will lead you through it will point you to happier scenes than those of your own imagining.

You will have friends to love, that death may take away from you—and, oh! then, the shadow of the woodland, as it lies against the sunny meadow, will be less dark than your life. But do not despair. The few rays of light that reach you will be richer, the flowers will be purer, and the music will be softer and sweeter; for you will be nearer heaven than you were before.

There is another shadow which you and I, and all of us, are approaching,—"the shadow of death." But will not "the lesson" brighten our approach even to that? Certain I am, that if that hour of my childhood, when, with a fearful heart, I went into the solemn woods, and heard the sweet singing of the bird and the breeze, shall be remembered then, even though the light of life be fading away, "I shall fear no evil."

FLORENCE DREW