Uncle Jesse's Old Log Cabin

Written for [corner of page torn off] Uncle Jesse's -Old Log Cabin.

"Happiness", says "Currer Bell" "is a golden glory, shining down upon us out of Heaven" - and it may well be doubted if the divine halo, ever glows with a holier light upon crowned heads and princes, than upon the humblest peasant if it ever shines with a purer lustre in the gilded halls of the wealthy and proud, than in the lowly cottages of the poor and unknown

There may be a more dazzline glitter in the one - a glitter that may deceive the eye by its reflected brightness, as the false glare of the artic sun, may cause the benumbed mariner to dream of warmth and heat, as it flashes its diamond rays upon the cold blue waves, and fields of floating ice; but the prismatic iceberg, gives back the sparking glory of the sun's caress, only in [?] brilliancy and beauty, and receives no warmth in its chill bosom, responds not with answering life, bursting from its heart.

But the wandering sunbeam, that steals unobserved into the dark recesses of the summer forests, and kisses its narrow space of soil, warms into life and beauty the hidden violet, that gives its soul out in fragrance to the sweet wooings of sun and shower. And thus too often is it in life; cold is the glitter and glare of fashionable society, heartless and soulless is their home life, while the one pure blossom of Pardise that "Alone survives the fall," still blooms in all its native loveliness around the poor man's cot, and sheds its fragrance on

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his heart.

Not far from my childhoods house stood, or rather was buried - -buried in roses - all underlined] the humble log cabin of "Uncle Jess." The passer by could catch no glimpse of the rough, unhewn, brown logs, still rejoicing in the primitive covering of bark of which the cabin was build, so completely was it wreathed in roses, and only "Knew by the smoke that so gracefully could.

Above the green elms, that a collage was near," and if there was a spark of sentiment alive in his breast might have soliloquized with the poet, "If there's peace to be found in the world. A heart that was humble might hope for it here."

I'm sure the roses loved that spat and sometimes I have a fancy that they really enjoyed their pleasand task of climbing over the rough logs, for they laughed merrily down from the mossgrown eaves, nodded and shook their heads in sportive glee to their humbler sisters, who were content to bloom amid the long grass at their roots, or lay in special dreamy happiness, basking in the sunshine with the old house dog, upon the brown stone door step. And it was amusing to see how knowingly the good fellow winked his sleepy eyes, and snuffed the drowsy air in his dreams, conscious that he at last "slept on flowery beds of ease" and was pillowed upon roses.

Anon, or wandering zephry passed that way, and the more aspiring roses that clustered so thickly around the top of the stick chimney, were tremulous with delight, and greeted their

Free will is but necessity in play"

Obeying his own souls necessity.