Touch for an instant over the gloom,
And the dead thoughts and the living meet.
Oh, clamour of bells, sweep into my room!
Out of the midnight pulse and swell!
And do not simply ring the knell
Of the buried days and the buried dead,
For I sit with the spirit of Floriimel!
For I sit with the soul that has not fled
Forth from this soul of mine, nor will;
And as ones we heard in the air o'erhead
The iron tongues in the steeples tell
That a Year had come, a Year had sped,
So now,— by the heart's deep miracle.

Dear love! dear ghost! dear memory!
Beam of the light that does not die!
Now, while we hear the eddying chime
Which marks the solemn season set,
Like the sword-sharp bridge of Mahomet,
Between the Past and the Future time,
Do we not vibrate each to each?
Yes. Though the senses may not reach
Beyond the graveyard's barren wall,
And although we often grope and fall,
And see no opening, clear or dim,
Along the horizon's cruel rim,—
Thank God that across the shoals and sands
Of this perilous life, which is but death,
We feel at times with a catching breath
The wind that comes from the outer main—
From the sea that bathes the larger lands
Where the soul may grow and perfect itself,
Having space to beat its wings, and attain
To the sum of its being broad and high;
Not cramp'd as now on the narrow shelf
Of its undevelop'd capacity.
—All might be more than any are;
Our natures languish, incomplete;
Something obtuse in this our star
Shackles the spirits' winged feet:
But a glory moves us from afar,
And we know that we are strong and fleet.
And I know, oh Florimel, I know
That I can wait, and nowise fail,
Until from the ship that delivers me
(The ship that hoists no mortal sail)
I see the coast-line dropping low,
And hear the long wind breathe and blow
In the Year that is and is to be.

                 BEN'S BEAR.

THIRTY years ago, my father, a half-pay
captain, emigrated to Lower Canada. He
bought a farm in the vicinity of Stanstead,
where he settled with a family of three boys
and as many girls. There were too many of us
for his means in England, where boys often cost
more than they are worth— and possibly this is
sometimes true of girls. Brother Ben was
nineteen when we went into the bush: a brave
boy, and a good leader for his younger brothers,
and a good protector for his sisters, who were
younger still.

We had a log-house, as most settlers had
then, to begin with. It was quite an aristocratic
edifice for that region, having three large rooms,
while most log-houses had but two rooms, and
many but one. It was ceiled with hemlock bark,
smooth side towards the rooms, for we were to
spend one winter in it. We moved to our
"opening" the first of May, and had the summer
before us. We were full of spirit and hope.
A new country and a new life, with all before
you to conquer, and the consciousness of strength
to make the conquest, is a constant inspiration.

Ben's bear was his first winning in the game
which he had set himself to play with the wild
nature of the woods. I was then ten years old,
and that bear is the one thing that stands out
most clearly in the dim distance of thirty years
ago. Ben had shot the mother bear, and the
same ball that killed her, killed one of her
cubs; the other he brought home in his bosom.
"Poor little fellow," he said, " he is too young
to mourn for his mother, and I intend to be
a mother to him." And he kept his word.

The small beast slept with Ben, always
laying his nose over Ben's shoulder. He grew
apace; I used to think we could see him grow.
He was very fond of milk and butter, and he
ate bread and milk, and mush and milk, with
avidity. During the first winter, his was a
numbed sort of half life. In the early spring
he was a happy bear, going everywhere with
his master, and only miserable if he lost sight
of him. He was entirely obedient to my
brother, and always woke him in the morning.
As my father was about to build a frame-house,
he sent Ben to buy material of a man who
had a sawmill in the next town. This was
Bruin's first affliction, for he could not
accompany his master. Ben stole away from
him, and when the bear knew that he was gone,
he began a search for him. He went to my
brother's bed, and, beginning at the head,
inserted his nose under the sheets and blankets,
and came out at the foot; then he turned, and
reversed the process. This strange search he
would keep up by the hour, if he were not shut
out of the room. He took possession of his
master's clothes and other belongings, and used
them so roughly, still seeking for their owner—
inserting himself into legs of trousers and sleeves
of coats— that my mother locked everything in
a wardrobe. Nothing of Ben's was left out,
except a large folio Bible, which rested on the
top of the wardrobe, six or seven feet from the
floor. Up this, the bear contrived to climb, and
taking the Bible in a tender embrace, he curled
himself up, and dropped to the floor with it.
My mother attempted to take it from him, but
for the first time he showed fight. Many blows
from the broomstick were administered, but the
bear held fast to the book, and my mother came
off second best from the contest. This was fatal
to her authority, as we discovered afterwards.

When Ben came back, the bear's joy knew no
bounds. He lost his love for the sacred volume,
and had no care what became of it. He showed
his disrespect for my mother by taking the butter
from the tea-table and eating it before her eyes.
Ben gave him a drubbing for the robbery, and
he submitted to Ben's authority, but butter and
honey, and sweets of all kinds, were appropriated,
if Ben were not at hand to enforce good behaviour.
My mother was very unhappy, between