ent when Uncle Ephraim was busily occupied in making some
arithmetical calculations regarding his farm-products. The result not
proving satisfactory he handed his slate to a friend for inspection, and
it was soon discovered that he had made a very considerable error in his
calculation. When the error was pointed out to him, he looked up with a
perplexed countenance, saying; "It is the weather: nothing else would
have caused me to make such a blunder." His son happened to marry
against his wishes; so much so, that he had the ceremony performed
without his father's knowledge; who afterwards, making a virtue of
necessity, wisely made the best of the matter. On learning that his son
was actually married without his knowledge, the only remark he made was
this: "What could have induced Ben to cut up such a caper as to go and
get married without my leave; it must have been the weather, nothing
else," and as if he had settled the question to his own satisfaction he
was never heard to allude to the matter again. Years passed away, till
one day the tidings reached us that Uncle Ephraim was dangerously ill.
He grew rapidly worse, and it was soon evident that his days on earth
would soon be numbered. I have a very distinct recollection of stealing
quietly in, to look upon him as he lay on his dying bed; of the tears I
shed when I gazed upon his fearfully changed features. He was even then
past speaking or recognizing one from another; and before another sun
rose he had passed from among the living. I obtained permission to go in
once more and look upon him as he lay shrouded for the grave. I was then
a child of ten years, but even at that early age I had not that morbid
terror of looking upon death, so common among children. With my own
hands, I folded back the napkin which covered his face, and gazed upon
his aged, but now serene, countenance. There was nothing in his
appearance to inspire terror, and for a moment I placed my hand on his
cold brow. He had ever been very kind to me, and I regarded him with
much affection, and the tears coursed freely down my cheeks when I
looked my last upon his familiar countenance now lifeless and sealed in
death. I have forgotten his exact age, but I know it exceeded seventy
years. It so happened that I did not attend his funeral; but he was
followed to the grave by a large number of friends and neighbours, many
of whom still live to cherish his memory.

STORY OF A LOG CABIN.[A]

[A] I la