Atlantic Monthly, Vol. XII. September, 1863, No. LXXI.

my hasty boy John, plunging into the room at nine in the evening, a

ntel-piece adorned with letters, directed to

the box, (a foot square,) full of fresh maple-sugar, with its card of d

Charley has been this half-hour, and say good

ide-awake youth, going out of the room in groun

my trunk, nor where in the world this great box of sugar is to go.

I should like to know what she is like,-not to look a

black hair and heavy eyebrows, and his big, black eyes

American type is. At present,

nglander,-an or

tic genie into the copper vessel? I thought it was a dangerous move, that last one of your

nine already, and only one trunk packed! Never mind.

g the lo

things! But what, then, have you in th

erfect. Item. A dozen of 'Sinbad the Sailor,' sent by mistake to the Association, instead of Doddridge. These boo

s shawl, and the flat packages from Burt's, into the largest carpet-bag, that there might be room

t, my dear," said I, cheerfully; for really

ul

ocker

you to come in, we are so untidy; but I co

oplist" sticking out of his coat-pocket, and his ears evermore pricked up for the latest news from

d stare to see so many patches; he expected ministers down to York warn't quite so carfle

though, last Sabbath! eight dol

between the pushings, puffings, and pressings at the carpet-bag; "a cup of cold w

r heathen!" gro

ggest shawl, will you?-no, the other,-Ursu

l helps the good work. I told the Widow Rand she'd ough' to do somethin' for the heathen, so she's gone to raisin' mustard. She said she hadn't

iet Newell, and Juggernaut. Happily, somebody came f