Peril there is on the mountain peak,
When headlong tumble the turbulent rills.
But did ever the lowland shepherd's fear
Daunt the heart of the mountaineer?

Or did ever the hill-born hunter seek,
When the snowdrift, sweeping the mountain wide,
Flew fast and fierce, for a lowland guide
To track the path of a mountain creature?
No! For the huntsman loveth the hills,
And knoweth their nature.

Then to whom shall the sailor for counsel go,
Thro' the violent waters his bark to steer?
Or what, thro' the ice and the falling snow,
May guide the foot of the mountaineer?
Hath the huntsman heed of the pastoral trills
Which the shepherd pipes to his flocks on the lea?
Or the seaman faith in the fear that fills
The landsman's babbling prate? Not he!
For the heights and the depths have their ways and
wills,
Which they must learn who their lords would be;
And the highlander studies and trusts the hills,
As the mariner studies and trusts the sea.

But, O my love, I am thine in vain,
If thou trustest me not! And, oh! why hast thou ta'en
Counsel not of my nature nor thine
How a woman should deal with this heart of mine?
The seaman the sea doth trust,
And the huntsman the hills. But thou,
Thou that hast known me, dost
Trust those that I scorn to know
For the knowledge of me;
Who have been thine own
In vain, if by thee
I be still unknown.

COUNTRY BALL IN NEW
ENGLAND.

WHILE the New England summers are
far warmer than those of Old England,
the winters are far colder. It is no
unusual thing for the snow, in New
Hampshire and Massachusetts, to remain hard,
glistening, and crisp, upon the ground
for months together. The bleak winds
cut across you like a sharp invisible knife;
as you emerge from the storm door, which
is built up before nearly every house,
your hands instinctively seize your ears
and nose: then, as they themselves are bit
by the keen air, as suddenly plunge into
the deepest recesses of your pockets.
Unless you have a care, as you walk up the
street, your ears and nose will acquire that
monitory numbness which precedes
freezing, they will turn a white-blue; and,
mayhap, some kind-hearted passer-by will rush
up and clap his hand upon the infected
organ, with the apology that it is fast
becoming frozen.

Yet, with all its discomforts, the bleak
New England winter is not without its
compensations. A kind Providence has
after all, distributed climatic goods and ills
with even hand.

Two of us college undergraduates had
(much to our shame, as we look back on it
all) committed certain student pranks
(whether victimising a freshman, or
breaking tutors' windows is not material), and
were, in midwinter, punished by
" rustication." By "rustication" is meant, the
sending a student away to some remote
village, for a certain period, where he is
put under the charge of a rustic parson,
and forced to keep up with his class by
studying in solitude.

Arrived at Cranberry Centre, half frozen
from the long coach ride, we descended at
the neat, snow-shrouded cottage of the
Reverend Elkanah Pike, Independent
minister. He had received minute
instructions from the " prex" of our college as to
our discipline and government, and was
waiting to receive us with a countenance
which strove hard to be stern. But there
was a merry twinkle in the good parson's
eye which spoilt it all. His " Ah, boys, boys,
been in mischief, hey?" far from
frightening, reassured us.

The parson, besides being a parson, was,
as many New England parsons are, a
farmer. He penned in his own cows on
Saturday night, and preached on Sunday
morning. He was the nabob farmer of the
neighbourhood; a well-beloved squire, who
took the lead in all the amusements as well
as the charities and the well-being of God's
Church. He had two buxom daughters,
who were perpetual treasurers of the fairs,
head-singers of the choir, committee on
quilt-meetings and apple-bees. We had
scarcely been at Cranberry a week when
Ellen Maria, the eldest (whom in rustic
absence of restraint, we already called by
her Christian names), informed us that
next Thursday night there was to be, at
Hodges's Tavern, a good old-fashioned New
England country ball. It was further
intimated to us that all the girls for miles
about had heard that two college boys were
sojourning with " Squire" Pike; and were
frantic (the word is Ellen Maria's) to see
them and have a dance with them at the
ensuing festivity.

For a week it had snowed and snowed
and snowed, with a steady, unremitting,
heavy descent of great countless flakes. It
had cleared up the day before; the roads
were, indeed, choked with snow, but it had
melted a little, then frozen hard, so the
whole country round was smooth,
glistening ice, while the tree-boughs fairly dazzled
one with prismatic scintillations. The
glorious winter moon was full and round,
and the moonlit winter scene was nothing
less than gorgeous; the aurora, too, fitfully