arations occupied
several days, and, being nearly completed, Margaret was called upon to
produce the play. "O," she replied, "I have not written it yet." "How
is this? Do you make the dresses first, and then write the play to
suit them?" "O," replied she, "the writing of the play is the easiest
part of the preparation; it will be ready before the dresses." In
two days she produced her drama; "which," says Mr. Irving, "is a
curious specimen of the prompt talent of this most ingenious child,
and by no means more incongruous in its incidents than many current
dramas by veteran and experienced playwrights."

Though it was the study of her relatives to make her residence in New
York as agreeable to her as possible, the heart of Margaret yearned
for her home: her feelings are expressed in the following lines:--

"I would fly from the city, would fly from its care,
To my own native plants and my flowerets so fair;
To the cool grassy shade and the rivulet bright,
Which reflects the pale moon on its bosom of light.
Again would I view the old mansion so dear,
Where I sported a babe, without sorrow or fear;
I would leave this great city, so brilliant and gay,
For a peep at my home on this fine summer day.
I have friends whom I love, and would leave with regret,
But the love of my home, O, 'tis tenderer yet!
There a sister reposes unconscious in death;
'Twas there she first drew, and there yielded, her breath:
A father I love is away from me now--
O, could I but print a sweet kiss on his brow,
Or smooth the gray locks, to my fond heart so dear,
How quickly would vanish each trace of a tear!
Attentive I listen to pleasure's gay call,
But my own darling home, it is dearer than all."

In the autumn the travellers turned their faces homewards, but it was
not to the home of Margaret's tender longings. The wintry winds of
Lake Champlain were deemed too severe for the invalids, and the family
took up its residence at Ballston. Margaret's feelings upon this
disappointment are thus recorded:--

"MY NATIVE LAKE.

"Thy verdant banks, thy lucid stream,
Lit by the sun's resplendent beam,
Reflect each bending tree so light
Upon thy bounding bosom bright!
Could I but see thee once again,
My own, my beautiful Champlain!

The little isles that deck thy breast,
And calmly on thy bottom rest,
How often, in my childish glee,
I've sported round them, bright and free!
Could I bu