6o WINTER SKETCHES. 



briar, the syringa, or the tansy by the wayside 

 of his home ? 



Everything of sixty-six years ago was still 

 where it was till we came to the site of the 

 little school-house, but the school-house is not. 

 More than half a century has passed since 

 Master Pierce was gathered to his fathers. 

 Daniel Webster's name alone is immortal. 

 His son, my little schoolmate, died upon the 

 battle-field, a sacrifice to the country that was 

 so ungrateful to his illustrious sire, while those 

 of us who survive them may thank God for 

 the memories of the life that has passed, for 

 the good in the life that now is, and for the 

 hope of the life to come. 



It is all like the little river we have just 

 crossed, which has meandered for miles 

 through rich meadows, bringing away the col- 

 ors of their grasses and their flowers bright- 

 ened by the sunlight falling upon the quiet 

 basin in which for a time it rests until it leaps 

 over the falls and loses itself, as all rivers are 

 lost at last, in the embraces of the boundless 

 sea. But is the pretty stream lost merely be- 

 cause it has poured itself into the ocean? 

 Does it not yet live in my memory and in 

 thousands of other memories besides? It is 



