THIS

CLARA LE CLERC.

HIS young lady is favorably known in a limited circle as a charming writer of tales." She is an Alabamian by birth, although the early years of her childhood were passed in Mississippi. Several months after her ninth birthday, her parents moved to the "Empire State," (Georgia,) and in one of the many pleasant little towns of the noble old State has she ever since resided.

Entering school at the age of eleven, she remained a close student until she graduated, a few days before her eighteenth birthday. During her scholastic life, every spare moment was devoted to her pen, and oftentimes her vacations were passed in scribbling.

Her first story was entitled, "Popie Weston." Very few of her writings have ever found their way into print. When she was fifteen years of age, Dabney Jones, the great temperance lecturer, begged a short story, which appeared in "The Temperance Crusader," then edited by Mrs. Mary E. Bryan.

In 1865, she wrote a series of "Reveries" for the "Southern Literary Companion," under the signature of "Harry Holt;" also replies, "Old Maid Reveries," by "Polly Holt." Since that time she has contributed to "Scott's Magazine," "Miss Barber's Weekly," "Child's Delight," and "Burke's Weekly for Boys and Girls." Some of her friends affirm that she possesses the faculty of pleasing children to a greater extent than almost any one of the present day.

Miss Le Clerc has been, as assistant teacher, sheltered beneath the wing of her alma mater since her graduation, which alma mater is "College Temple," at Newnan, Georgia.

MEMORIES.

"They come those memories of the buried Past,

And in my solitude they seem to cast

A shadow o'er me."

I do but lift the curtain that shrouds the Then from the Now, and they come thronging about me, peering into my face with their wistful eyes of

the "long ago". those memories of childhood, of hope, of love, and buried joys. Back! back to your homes, O ye weird spirits of the past! Your presence casts a shadow o'er me, your mournful gaze fills my soul with sadness. Away, away! I would not dream of the past. Alas! it may not be. Their forms still haunt my mourning heart; and here, in the dimness of the summer twilight, while the great heart of the world throbs quietly after the weary toils of the day; while aching hearts soothe their sorrow in the calmness of nature's repose; with the vista of the past - that shadow-land of the heart-opening to my view, and with its multiplicity of memories pleading for place in my wearied heart, tired hands are folded listlessly, an aching head reclines upon the window-sill; and with the tiny stars- heralds of night's glowing train-peering from the twilight clouds upon me, I dream of the past.

DREAM OF THE BABY.

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The cold, chilly November winds of 18- had carpeted the ground, and filled every little rut and crevice with withered flowers and brown forestleaves. The squirrel had ensconced himself in his snug little burrow for the winter, and the tiny brown bird hopped from leafless boughs to the one small spot of green before a wee cottage-door" of a Southern home. The winter was unusually severe, and the honeysuckle and star-jasmine — which had decked the piazza during the summer months—now, like the rest of fair nature's flowers, slept their winter's sleep, leaving only the bare, brown vines as marks of their former beauty. Within the cottage, all was cheerful and warm. Bright crimson curtains shaded the windows; a brown carpet, with crimson berries scattered temptingly over it, covered the floor, and a bright fire burned upon the neat hearth; upon the rug before the fire lay a large white cat -a perfect "Kittie White;" and a little French clock ticked merrily upon the mantel. Upon a snowy bed in one corner of the pleasant room was a young and beautiful woman. Near by stood a crib a dainty affair; and amid ruffles, and muslins, and soft, silky blankets could be seen a baby-face a tiny baby-face.

Presently the door opened softly, and a lady in the prime of life entered the room. "Has baby wakened since I left you, daughter?" What measureless love there was in the voice! And as the young mother replied in the negative, "grandmother" approached, and bent lovingly over the crib. Byand-by the door opened again, and two gentlemen entered on tiptoe. One asked, "How are you now, my daughter?" The other, "How are you and baby, dear Addie?" In the next breath, "What shall we call her? Do help me decide upon a name for baby. She is now a week old, and yet without a name!" And a look of distress, quite amusing to behold, settled upon the young father's brow. "Let us call her Carrie," suggested the grandfather. "C, for constant, candid, and careful; A, for amiable, attractive,

and artless; R, for respectful, right, and religious; I, for industrious, ingenious, and irresistible; E, for earnest, eagle-eyed, and endearing. What think you of Carrie for the wee ladie's' name?" And the grandfather bent lovingly over the rosewood crib. "Bravo, father!" exclaimed the younger of the gentlemen, clapping his hands softly together. "Carrie let it bethat is, if Addie agrees," and he passed his hand caressingly over the bands of shining hair. A willing assent was given, and little "Carrie" was set apart as something pure, sacred, and beloved by that devoted household band.

A MEMORY OF CHILDHOOD.

A soft, hazy light of a June sunset; a cool, open piazza, with honeysuckle and star-eyed jasmine wreathing the pillars; a small table, with a snowy cover, in the centre of the floor; upon the table, a miniature tea-set, candy, a large orange, a tiny sponge-cake, and a small pitcher of lemonade.

“Oh, yes, Roland dear! come on, and drink tea, or rather lemonade, with your little Carrie!" and a wee sprite of ten years comes down the length of the piazza, leading by the hand a handsome youth of eighteen. The child is plain—no marks of beauty about her; yet a peculiar charm rests upon her open face and in her gray eyes. The young man - for such he is in form, if not in years is a true type of young manly beauty; with his tall, elegant form, dark, silky hair, and deep blue eyes, wherein lurked a world of fun, wit, and love. "Yes, ma petite, Cousin Roland will drink tea with your little ladyship." And he very gallantly placed her in the chair at the head of the table, and seated himself opposite.

The little lady proceeded, with all due dignity and decorum, to fill the miniature cups with the delicious beverage, and passed one to the young gentleman opposite. He meanwhile cut the orange and cake, and, in his turn, waited upon Carrie. "How cosy we are, Carrie dear! Don't you think it is nice?" And the youth fixed his beautiful eyes upon the tiny figure of the little girl. Certainly, it's nice, Roland. Grandma never makes any cakes but nice ones!" And the little maiden folded her hands and raised her heavy eyebrows as she looked with astonishment upon the young gentleman. "Oh, fie, Carrie darling! I did not mean the cake; I had reference to our being here alone, with this nice little table, and everything so neat and nice. When I get to be a man, and you a young lady, we will have a home all our own, where I shall be lord and you 'ladie-faire,' and you shall be with me always, won't you, ma belle ?" And a look came into the beautiful eyes of the boy which seemed to say that he very much wished that future and its pleasures. "Yes, Cousin Roland, won't that be nice? I can be your little housekeeper, and fix up things ever so nice for you!” But, Carrie darling, I'll want you for my little wife. Promise me now that you will be my little wife!” And, in his eagerness, Roland left his chair, came to the little girl's side, and placed his arm caressingly over her shoulder.

"Promise me, darling!" The great gray eyes looked up innocently into the pleading blue ones, and Carrie, in her queer, childish way, answered, Certainly, Roland; I'll do anything on earth for you!" "Kiss me now as a pledge!" and he placed his bright red lips to hers. Two little arms went up and twined about his neck; a pair of scarlet lips met his fearlessly and frankly, while the boy pressed a real lover's kiss upon the child's lips. This was the betrothal of their childhood.

A DREAM OF MAIDENHOOD.

"Good-bye, my darling, good-bye; you will not forget Cousin Roland while he is away?" No answer. The girl sat upon the door-step, her face buried in her hands. "T was the gray dawn of a chilly April morning, and a heavy dampness filled the air, and cast a gloom and nameless sadness over awakening nature.

Seating himself by the drooping figure, Roland placed one arm tenderly about the slender waist, and, with the other hand, lifted the bowed head. "Look up, darling!" But when she did look up, the despair and misery written upon her face startled him. The eyes were heavy with unshed tears, and the sweet mouth quivered convulsively, while the cheeks seemed to have lost their bloom forever. With a low exclamation of astonishment, he caught the small form to his breast and pressed kiss after kiss upon the cold lips. "Carrie, Carrie! speak to me! 'T will not be for long-only a year-and then Cousin Roland will come back to you." "A year! Oh, Roland! how can I let you go? dear, dear Roland!" And the little arms clung convulsively to the loved form. "Only one year, and my Carrie will be through school and be quite a young lady. I have but one fear — that she will forget poor Cousin Roland while he is in the far West, making himself a name. But, darling, I have only time to bid you good-bye, as the train will soon be here." He stood up as he spoke, and tenderly raised the girl from her lowly seat.

Both arms were placed lovingly, caressingly about her, and one last, long kiss pressed upon the quivering lips. He was gone. With her small hands clasped over the wildly beating heart, and her eyes, those deep windows of her soul, gazing, oh! so mournfully, after the retreating form, the girl, with her first great sorrow, leaned faint and trembling against the balustrade, and prayed fervently, entreatingly, in her wild, impulsive way, that God would protect the idol of her young heart.

THE BETROTHAL.

Summer, with bright flowers and glowing heats, moonlight nights and dewy mornings; winter, with bitter winds and biting frosts, shuddering rains

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and heavy snows, had come and gone, until three times had the old peartree at the garden-gate borne its crown of golden bells; three times had the Christmas-tree been made in the cosy parlor, and each time a beautiful gift hung thereon for the absent one: and yet Cousin Roland, the loved, the neverforgotten, absented himself from the loving hearts of that little household band. One heart had hoped and prayed, and yet hoped on. One pair of lips had syllabled those daily, hourly prayers which had birth in the heart. Hope deferred maketh the heart sick," and ofttimes the body. 'Twas such a June sunset as had flooded the earth ten years before, when Roland had won the child's promise to be his little wife. The child was now a woman, a weak, suffering woman, and her pallid face rivalled the snowy pillow upon which the aching head reclined. "Roland! Roland! will you never come?" The thin hands were clasped, the feeble lips murmured words of entreaty: "O my Father, send him to me ere I die! To look upon his face, to hear the sound of his loved voice, would bring life and health to this languishing spirit. Roland! Roland! save me! I would not die! Not yet; oh, not yet!" Loving hearts and willing hands ministered to the sufferer, but the one cry of her heart could not be stilled. "Raise me higher; I pray you let me see the dying day, and the birth of the summer moon and stars."

The billowy clouds were heaped in the west; the golden arrows faded one by one; the dusk of twilight veiled the earth, and by and by the pure, silver light of the moon stole over the earth, wrapping shrub, tree, and flower in a misty veil of lambent light. A deep hush brooded over the sleeping earth, and Carrie begged to be left alone with the night and deep silence.

The click of the gate-latch broke the stillness. A firm, quick tread came up the neat white walk, and a tall, manly form stepped upon the piazza and leaned for a moment against the vine-wreathed column. The sufferer's breath came thick and fast; the weak fingers laced and interlaced themselves convulsively. "Roland! Roland!" But for one moment the form stood thus; for that cry, feeble as it was, reached the heart, if not the ears of the strong man, and, with swift steps, he reached the window and sprang into the room.

No words were spoken-none were needed; and the curious moon, looking in at the window, saw a man holding closely to his breast the white-robed figure of a woman— a woman who smiled through her tears that was all. They had renewed their betrothal.

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SHATTERED HOPES.

There, fasten that spray of orange-buds to the veil with this pearl pin: how exquisite! Carrie, those great gray eyes are full of splendor this morning!" and the merry bridesmaid stepped back to admire her work. A tiny form, robed in purest white, a soft, fleecy white; a wreath of orange-buds