Marvel was far better qualified than the teachers of the said
school, to direct the literary training of her child. She was a
strong-minded woman, and a reader of all the books she could
compass. But she had the in-door farm-work to do--cheese to make,
butter to churn, &c. and after little Mary had learned to read and
spell, she must be sent to school for the more elaborate processes
of learning--arithmetic, geography, &c.

"Now, Julius Hasen," said Marvel to his only neighbour's son, "don't
you want to call, as you go by, days, with your little sister, and
take our Mary to school? I guess she won't be a trouble. She could
go alone; but, somehow, mother and I shall feel easier--as the river
is to pass, &c.--if you are willing."

A kind boy was Julius; and, without hesitation, he promised to take
Marvel's treasure under his convoy. And, for the two years
following, whenever the district school was in operation, Julius
might be seen conducting the two little girls down the hill that
leads to the bridge. At the bridge they loitered. Its charm was
felt, but indefinable. It was a spell upon their senses; they would
look up and down the sparkling stream till it winded far away from
sight, and at their own pretty faces, that smiled again to them, and
at Julius skittering the stones along the water, (a magical rustic
art!) That old bridge was a point of sight for pictures, lovelier
than Claude painted. For many a year, the old lingered there, to
recall the poetry of their earlier days; lovers, to watch the rising
and setting of many a star, and children to play out their
"noon-times" and twilights. Heaven forgive those who replaced it
with a, dark, dirty, covered, barn-like thing of bad odour in every
sense! The worst kind of barbarians, those, who make war--not upon