all the surrounding scenery. Frequently, therefore, of an afternoon, seated by "The Crescent Rock," would she extemporize to her beloved "T." a romantic tale of the Red Man. Of the many now indistinctly remembered, and sketched for my use by her brother, I select but one. It is a story of

the ancient Senacas-"The Guards to the West Door of the Long House"--when the tribe dwelt in the home of their fathers, and the council fires blazed on the tragic Ganandawah.*

"It was spring. The valley was clothed in green, and the air was redolent of flowers. The Beautiful Day-dream had left the Lofty Hill, and wandered into our charming ravine. Following the course of the stream, and frequently climbing the cliff to pluck the flowers, she at length became fatigued, and reclined upon an emerald grass-plat, in front of The Crescent Rock. Lulled by the voices of brook and breeze, she fell asleep. She dreamed. A wild beast, fierce and terrible, stood upon the cliff before her. She uttered a shriek. The sound broke her slumber. She cast a glance above. Two fiery eyes flashed on her from the brow of the rock. She shrieked again, and swooned. When she recovered, a young brave bent wistfully over her. Beside him lay the panther in his blood. An arrow from the Winged Arm had transpierced him in the very act of springing upon the maiden, and laid him lifeless at her feet. Her gratitude was equal * Lofty Hill.

#

to her surprise. She embraced the neck of her deliverer, and bathed it with tears of joy.

But

"The Winged Arm and the Beautiful Daydream had long cherished for each other a passion of which neither had ever spoken. Now the Great Spirit had favored the divulgement; and there were mutual declarations, and solemn pledges. could the union be consecrated by a father's blessing? A mortal hate existed between him and the father of the Winged Arm. The maiden hastens to the camp, and lays before the Chief the fact of her rescue. He owns the obligation, but scorns the alliance. She pleads; she entreats with tears. 'Go, then,' at length exclaims the chieftain, tell the Winged Arm to bring to my tent scalps from the brave foe, and the Beautiful Day-dream shall be his reward.'

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*

"Four moons had waned, and the warrior had not returned. Had he fallen by the hand of the foe? Strong hopes grew weak, and the dark eyes of the dusky maid ached daily with the gaze from Ganandawah. On one of the bright days of autumn, a dim speck was seen floating up the lake. Approaching nearer, it proved a canoe. Bears it not the long looked for beloved? The stroke of the paddle seems the same; the person corresponds to his; and the prow of the boat is adorned with what the anxious gazer deems the dark tresses of the hapless foe. Nearer, and nearer, and more distinct. It isit must be he! She rushes down the steep to wel

come her triumphant lover.

The canoe heaves

round a shady point, and- -a huntsman with his game rides leisurely upon his oar. * * * *

"The frost has nipped the foliage, and the rough wind is tearing it from the trees. Hope has long since died into doubt, and doubt is now darkening into despair. The heart of the Beautiful Day-dream is as sear and desolate as the autumn wood. She retires to a favorite cove by the lake shore, to weep for the Winged Arm. She draws her blanket around her, and sits down beneath a beetling cliff. The melancholy winds, singing the requiem of her love, lull her into the sleep of sorrow. Again she dreams. The ardent brave stands before her with his trophies. She springs forward to embrace him, and the effort breaks the soft bonds of slumber. The sun is just setting across the clear waters of the Canandaigua. The howling winds have died into Eolian whispers. The little waves come in stealth, and rock the pebbles along the shore. But list! was it not the stroke of a paddle? Again! was it not the grating of a canoe upond the strand?

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'She had a dream, which was not all a dream!'

The Winged Arm is at her side! Up the narrow path to the camp they fly! Nine ghastly scalps are hung upon the sachem's tent! The story of blood is told; and the young warrior and his dusky girl are one!"

Such is a meagre outline of one of Adaline's fancy sketches a few bones dug up from the grave of memory, belonging to a skeleton which was once a form instinct with life and beauty. These legends frequently employed her little tongue for an hour per diem through several successive days. Thus, at the base of the Crescent Rock, Fancy first plumed her angel pinions.

Contemporaneous with this, and an equally delightful recreation, was a species of poetic combat. A theme was selected by one of the parties, who composed upon it an impromptu line; and the other responded in a line which rhymed and measured with the given, and continued or finished the thought. None of these early improvisings have been preserved. Uttered merely to amuse the hour, and gratify a passion for poetry, they were never recorded, and are now forgotten. One metrical production of this period, however, has fortunately escaped oblivion. It is the only instance. The authoress writes it out from memory in her diary, several years after the assigned date of its composition, poetically enough entitling it

"LISPINGS OF THE HEART.
"How charming, in the east,

The roseate hues of morn!
How bland the early breeze,
That bends the waving corn!
How sweet the song of birds,

Within their woodland bowers!

How pure the diamond dew,

Which bows the blushing flowers!
When scarce the orient sun is up,
To gild with gold the mountain top!

"Fade not along the sky,

Ye purple streaks of dawn!
Stay not, ye balmy winds,
O'er garden, grove, or lawn!
Fly not, ye tuneful tribes,
The green and leafy nest!
Dry not, ye pearly tears,

Which on the rose-cheek rest!

But glow, and breathe, and sing, and shine, Sweet emblems of the Love Divine."