kind and amiable disposition greatly endeared him.

Mr. Scott began to write poetry when about twenty-one years of age, and
continued to do so, though sometimes at long intervals, until a short
time before his death. His early poems were printed in "The Cecil Whig,"
but being published anonymously cannot be identified. Like many others,
he did not preserve his writings, and a few of his best poems have been
lost. Of his poetic ability and religious belief, we do not care to
speak, but prefer that the reader should form his own judgment of them
from the data derived from a perusal of his poems.

In 1844, Mr. Scott married Miss Agatha R. Fulton, a most estimable lady,
who, with their son Howard Scott and daughter Miss Annie Mary Scott,
survive him.

In conclusion, the editor thinks it not improper to say that he enjoyed
the pleasure of Mr. Scott's intimate friendship for nearly thirty years,
and esteemed him as his best and most intimate friend. And that while
his friend was only mortal, and subject to mortal frailities, he had a
kind and generous heart; a soul which shrank from even the semblance of
meanness, and was the embodiment of every trait which ennobles and
elevates humanity.

LINES

SUGGESTED BY THE SINGING OF A BIRD EARLY IN MARCH, 1868.

Sing on, sweet feathered warbler, sing!
Mount higher on thy joyous wing,
And let thy morning anthem ring
Full on my ear;
Thou art the only sign of spring
I see or hear.

The earth is buried deep in snow;
The muffled streams refuse to flow,
The rattling mill can scarcely go,
For ice and frost:
The beauty of the vale below
In death is lost.

Save thine, no note of joy is heard--
Thy kindred songsters of the wood
Have long since gone, and thou, sweet bird,
Art left behind--
A faithful friend, whose every word
Is sweet and kind.

But Spring will come, as thou wilt see,
With blooming flower and budding tree,
And song of bird and hum of bee
Their charms to lend;
But I will cherish none like thee,
My constant friend.

Like the dear friends who ne'er forsake me--
Whatever sorrows overtake me--
In spite of all my faults which make me
Myself detest,
They still cling to and kindly take me
Unto their breast.

AN EASTERN TALE

ADDRESSED TO MRS. S.C. CHOATE.

A Persian lady we're informed--
This happened long, long years before
The Christian era ever dawned,
A thousand years, it may be