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Hanna, Abigail Stanley

"Withered Leaves from Memory's Garland"



It was a beautiful morning in early June, and nature was dressed in
her beautiful robes of pale green, as the leaves had not yet assumed
that deeper hue that the mature rays of a summer sun impart to them.
No cloud floated over the blue vault of heaven. The golden sun
diffused a radiant light, and shed a sparkling lustre upon the deep,
black water of the mighty river, that rolled on in gentle undulating
waves, as it was tossed lightly by the sighing breeze that floated
over its surface.
Far as the eye could scan were seen the snowy sails, as the mariners
pursued their way over the black bosom of the waters to enter the
briny Atlantic, that received the waters of the rolling river and
mingled them with its own foaming wave. The smaller sail boats were
flying before the wind, while innumerable ships lay at rest in the
harbor, with snowy sails unfurled, while the rough cry of the sailors
broke boisterously upon the morning air.
At the wharf, before the flourishing village that lay reposing on the
banks of the river, lay a ferry-boat, impatient to launch away upon
the restless waters.
There was hurry and bustle as the time for the boat's departure had
arrive, and many wished to be borne to the opposite shore.
Among the rest came a gay group of laughing school girls. Their joyous
faces were lit up with bright smiles, and they were chatting gaily of
the afternoon's party, and the anticipated evening's walk, heedless
of the care worn man of business that shuffled in by their side, or
prudent ladies who looked upon the gay party as pert or presuming.


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