ould say no more--but Abijah understood him. When his father had
gone, he went into the meadow, and dug a deep pit, beside which he
placed the sods at first removed by the spade. He then carefully
loaded his rifle and called to the old gray. The poor animal, who was
accustomed to obey the voice of every member of the family, feebly
neighed and tottered to the brink of the pit. The young man threw a
handkerchief over the horse's eyes, and placing the muzzle of the
rifle to his ear, fired. The poor old horse fell, without a groan,
into the grave which had been prepared for him. With streaming eyes,
Abijah threw the earth over the remains of his playmate, and then
carefully replaced the sod.

When the deacon returned with his fine new horse, he manifested no
elation at his purchase, nor, though he perceived that the stall was
empty, did he trust himself to make any inquiries respecting the old
gray. Only the family noticed, that in the course of the afternoon, in
wandering through the meadow, he came upon the new-made grave, and
though the sods had been carefully replaced, he evidently noticed
traces of the spade, and suspected the cause, for he tried the soil
with his foot, and was also observed to pass the back of his hand
across his eyes. But he never alluded to his old servant.

If there be men who can smile at the grief of a family for the loss of
an animal who has been long endeared to them by service and
association, be assured that their hearts are not in the right place;
and that they are individuals who would exhibit a like callousness to
the loss of human friends.

THE CONTRABANDISTA.

A TALE OF THE PACIFIC COAST.

Night was setting in--a clear, starlight night--as a small armed brig
was working her way into a little bay upon the western coast of
Mexico. She was a trim-built craft, and not too deeply laden to
conceal the symmetry of her dark and exquisitely-modelled hull. The
cleanness of her run, the elegance of her lines, the rake of her
slender masts, and the cut of her sails, showed her, at a glance, to
be a Baltimore-built clipper--at the time of which we speak--some
years ago--the fastest thing upon the ocean. She was working to
windward against a light breeze, and hence was unable to exhibit any
thing of her qualities, though a seaman's eye would have decided at a
glance that she could sail like a witch. The Zanthe, for that was the
name inscribed in gilt letters on her stern and sideboards,