IN

N a brown house, "low and small,” on a farm in the Miami Valley, eight miles north of Cincinnati, Ohio, Alice Cary was born on the 26th day of April, 1820. In the same house, September 4, 1824, was born her sister and life-long companion, Phoebe.

This house appeared and reappeared in the verse of both sisters, till their last lines were written. Their affection for it was a deep and life-long emotion. Each sister, within the blinds of a city house, used to shut her eyes and listen till she thought she heard the rustle of the cherry-tree on the old roof, and smelled again the sweet-brier under the window. You will realize how perfectly it was daguerreotyped on Phoebe's heart when you follow two of the many pictures which she has left of it. Phoebe says: "The house was small, unpainted, without the slightest pretensions to architectural beauty. It was one story and a half in

height, the front looking toward the west and separated from the high road by a narrow strip of dooryard grass. A low porch ran across the north of the house, and from the steps of this a path of blue flagstones led to a cool, unfailing well of water a few yards distant. Close to the walls, on two sides, and almost pushing their strong, thrifty boughs through the little attic window, flourished several fruitful apple and cherry trees; and a luxuriant sweet-brier, the only thing near that seemed designed solely for ornament, almost covered the other side of the house. Beyond the door-yard, and sloping toward the south, lay a small garden, with two straight rows of currant bushes dividing its entire length, and beds of vegetables laid out on either side. Close against the fence nearest the yard grew several varieties of roses, and a few hardy and common flowers bordered the walks. In one corner a thriving peach tree threw in summer its shade over a row of bee-hives, and in another its withered mate was supported and quite hidden by a fragrant bower of hop vines. A little in the rear of the dwelling stood the ample, weather-beaten barn, the busy haunt of the restless swallows and quiet, comfortable doves, and in all seasons the never-failing resort of the children. A stately and symmetrical oak, which had been kindly spared from the forest when the clearing for the house was made, grew near it, and in the summer threw its thick, cool shadow over the road, making a grateful shade for the tired traveller, and a pleasant playground for the children, whose voices, now so many of them stilled, once made life and music there through all the livelong day."

THE HOUSE OF THEIR BIRTH

OUR HOMESTEAD.

Our old brown homestead reared its walls
From the wayside dust aloof,

Where the apple-boughs could almost cast
Their fruit upon its roof;

And the cherry-tree so near it grew

That, when awake I've lain

In the lonesome nights, I've heard the mos
As they creaked against the pane;

And those orchard trees! O, those orchard trees !

I've seen my little brothers rocked

In their tops by the summer breeze.

The sweet-brier under the window-sill,
Which the early birds made glad,
And the damask rose by the garden fence,
Were all the flowers we had.

I've looked at many a flower since then,

Exotics rich and rare,

That to other eyes were lovelier,

But not to me so fair

For those roses bright! O, those roses bright!
I have twined them in my sister's locks
That are hid in the dust from sight.

We had a well — a deep, old well,

Where the spring was never dry,

And the cool drops down from the mossy stones

Were falling constantly:

And there never was water half so sweet

As the draught which filled my cup,

Drawn up to the curb by the rude, old sweep,

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