* * * * *

The two next pieces ought to go together. They resemble each other,
not only in their subjects, but in their beauty also. I hardly know
which is the most interesting.


THE SISTER'S GRAVE.

At Smyrna, the burial-ground of the Americans, like that of the
Moslems, is removed a short distance from the town, is sprinkled with
green trees, and is a favorite resort not only with the bereaved, but
with those whose feelings are not thus darkly overcast. I met there
one morning a little girl with a half-playful countenance, busy blue
eye, and sunny locks, bearing in one hand a small cup of china, and in
the other a wreath of fresh flowers. Feeling a very natural curiosity
to know what she could do with these bright things, in a place that
seemed to partake so much of sadness, I watched her light motions.
Reaching a retired grave, covered with a plain marble slab, she
emptied the seed, which it appeared the cup contained, into the slight
cavities which had been scooped out in the corners of the level
tablet, and laid the wreath on its pure face. "And why," I inquired,
"my sweet child, do you put the seed in those little bowls there?" "It
is to bring the birds here," she replied with a half-wondering look:
"they will light on this tree," pointing to the cypress above, "when
they have eaten the seed, and sing." "To whom do they sing?" I asked:
"to you or to each other?" "Oh! no," she quickly replied, "to my
sister: she sleeps here." "But your sister is dead?" "Oh! yes, sir;
but she hears the birds sing." "Well, if she does hear the birds sing,
she cannot see that wreath of flowers." "But she knows I put it there;