of his, transplanted from a dark chamber. When will all our physicians enter more fully into Clytie's love? - The dark spirit of melancholy never enters here. Even if my thoughts turn-as his must often turn who seeks to speak the words of hope and comfort to those who need them upon the darker phase of life, the clear light that fills my study with its sunborn glory becomes typical of the cheering light that beams from the Sun of Righteousness, the Incarnation of Heavenly Love. It is but a natural transition to pass from the light of the sun to that yet holier light of heavenly wisdom. So Milton passed in his grand apostrophe to the "Offspring of Heaven first-born," from the effulgence that his blind eyes never should know again, to that celestial light that can — Shine inward, and the mind through all its powers He tells us that God is light. Yes, the perfect ray composed of the many rays of wisdom, power, justice, mercy, love, and all high attributes, forming no lurid, darkening twilight, but a clear, white, cheering light. We may, by a sort of analytic mental eyesight, resolve it into parts, and consider them separately, but only in their full composition do they truly give us God. | sianic light. They were laying hold on Wisdom, beginning to know the Truth that can make free. Happy is he who devotes himself to loving intensely this celestial light. He who so loves need fear no unrequital, for Christ has said "My Father will love him, and We will come unto him and make our abode with him.” But our reverie is leading into a sermon. It started, however, from the love of mythic Clytie, whose bust seemed incongruous to a study. What better proof of a deep-lying harmony! And it cannot fail to bring to mind, as I sit here in the fading twilight that tenderest of Keble's hymns that breathes the most thoroughly pervading adoration of the "Sun of my soul, thou Savior dear—" No, my Clytie, adorer of the sun, worshipper of light, you are not inappropriate here, nor would you be out of place in the study of the gray-haired sage, with busts of Socrates, Plato, Aristotle and Bacon. And now, as my reverie goes on, I am led back to my early home with the grandparents, and the tall, graceful sunflowers that grew in the garden, when I loved them for their ripening seeds, "much prized" — as our Massachusetts botanist would say "by chickens and small boys." But here the classic Clytie ceases to be the central sun of my system of dreamy comets. She had no home, nor had any of her descendants, among the sedges of the ponds where we fished, or under the willows of the brook where we waded with our pants rolled above our white knees. I revisit those familiar scenes with the same boyish company. Some are bearded men to-day, but touched by the wand of reminiscence their faces grow smooth and rounder, their eyes forget care and anxiety, their manly forms return to the appropriate dimensions of the roundabout. Some are recalled from their early graves. The manward path is retrodden down to the present day. To-day has its duties, its labors. Let me then no longer dream. Wisdom is light, Knowledge is light, Truth the altar-fire where they are kindled. According as we possess them do we become the light of the world. How strange it would have seemed to us had we stood beside Christ on the Mount of the Beatitudes, and heard him say to that motley multitude that had followed him from so many cities beholding his wonderful works, that they were the light of the world. We would have been more inclined, if we were unprejudiced witnesses, to have sustained the Pharisaic judgment, that they were the "scum of the earth," and have looked for light in the phylacteried wisdom of the rabbis. But "He knew what was in man." He knew that a great truth was dawning upon them. They had seen his wonderful works, they had marked how lovingly He moved among the afflicted ones, had perhaps heard the words of unselfish love that were the key-note of His religion, VALUE the friendship of him who stands and their souls were delighted with a new-by you in the storm; swarms of insects will born harmony, shone upon by the true Mes- surround you in the sunshine. THE MISSAL OE LIFE. BY MRS. HATTIE TYNG GRISWOLD. IN the calm of this holy eve, love, Let us turn in fond review, We have turned some sombre leaves, love, Not these shall linger in sight; We will hasten over the sombre and brown And pause at the gold and white. We shall find the first of the leaves, love, But soon as we hasten on, dear, The colors deepen and flush, We shall linger long o'er the leaves, dear, Condensed in one flame-like beam. And the leaves will be beautiful still, dear, The red and radiant hues of youth Were sweet for a time to behold, THE BY EMMA GARRISON JONES. HE afternoon was chill and dreary; a keen, easterly wind whirled about the dead leaves, and clanked the bare elm branches, and the lowering, leaden sky held an unmistakable prophecy of snow. Out in front of Squire Stebbin's gambrel-roofed cottage, the old-fashioned, bonnet-topped buggy was drawn up, and the Squire himself, muffled from top to toe, was harnessing in the old gray mare preparatory to a drive. "Now father," called his "better half," looking on from the yard gate-way, “ you'll be back in good time to-morrow, - do try and be spry, for I don't want my Thanksgiving dinner to spoil wi' waitin'. "Ay, ay, wife!” "And you're sure you're wrapped well; this is a terrible wind, it cuts like a knife; there'll be no lack o' snow by to-morrow. Button your coat up to the chin, or you'll be keeled up wi' rheumatiz. Goodness, gracious! you've forgot your comforter, and you wi' a sore throat last night! Annie, Annie, run, child! Look under the left end o' the lounge in the kitchen, and bring your father's white woolen comforter, and you may fetch the red one for Harry; he always was croupy But when calmer the heart and cooler the from a baby, and it'll do him no good to have pulse, We turn to the green and gold. And a leaf comes now and then, dear, his neck exposed. Be spry, child! Annie obeyed with alacrity, and climbing on the buggy wheel, her golden hair blown all about her fair face, she wound the comforter about the old man's neck, and deposited the scarlet one beneath the cushion for Harry. Then the Squire took up his reins, "Now Annie," began Mrs. Stebbins, "let's be spry if we ever was. Here it's goin' on to three, and lots to do before to morrow. There's the turkeys to stuff, and the mince pies to make, and cakes and pastry dear, dear, I'm afraid we shall never get through. Here, Annie, do you stone these raisins, and chop the apples, and I'll get about the piecrust; we've not a moment to idle." and gave the gray mare a slight tickle be- | plans. But if ever I do get back, I shall find neath her left ear, which caused her to start you waiting for me, shan't I, Annie?" off in a brisk trot, and, as a matter of course, Aye, would he, no matter how prolonged the old-fashioned buggy followed after. The his stay! Her eyes told him as much. two women watched it out of sight, and then Standing there, with her arms full of golden turned their faces towards the kitchen. pippins, she thought it all over, her eyes growing bright with happy tears. For halfa-dozen years she had been an inmate of Squire Stebbins' house, having been left to his care by a dying mother, and in all these happy years she had been learning to love Harry, and she had learned her lesson well. He was coming home on the morrow, wounded, and weary, and war-worn, coming home to eat his Thanksgiving dinner. The thought brought the rich blood to her cheeks, and a wondrous light to her blue eyes. It might not be necessary for him to go back again; and, after all, they might have that little home they had so often pictured. But, in the midst of this pretty dream, sharp and shrill from the steaming kitchen came the voice of Mrs. Stebbins. Annie tied on her brown apron, and brushed the curls out of her blue eyes, and sitting down on the old wooden settle, set herself to work. "I don't want a thing lacking about our dinner," continued Mrs. Stebbins, "for Harry was allers fond o'good things. I mind when Je was a bit of a lad, how he used to hang round me and beg, Mother, make me a plum cake,' or, 'do let's haye puddin.' Poor fellow, his fare's been hard enough since he left home, I'll warrant. There, Annie, that will be citron enough, I guess. Now for the apples - not them greenings bless me, no! run for the golden pippins, child; they were Harry's favorite apples, and he shall have 'em in his pies." The young girl ran up into the kitchen loft, and threw open the great blue chest, and dived down for the largest and ripest. All at once she paused, her dimpled arms heaped to overflowing, a sudden memory making her forgetful of all things else. The day they gathered in the golden pippins one year before, how vividly it came back to her! Harry had just enlisted, and wore his army blue for the first time, looking so handsome and noble; and he was helping her to gather the golden pippins. "Annie," he said, when they had heaped the great basket, "I shall be gone before the pippins ripen again, but you must not forget me. 'Tis very hard for me to go, but I know it is my duty, and a man mustn't shirk that, you know, no matter how much it costs him. I did think to have fixed up a little home, and had you all to myself before another pippin time, but this war has changed all my "Annie, Annie! for pity's sake, what are you doing?" The girl, thus rudely startled, let fall her pippins, scattering them in a dozen directions over the floor. "Well, you do beat all," continued Mrs. Stebbins, appearing head and shoulders above the stairs; "you can be spry when you wish to; what ails you to day?" "Nothing, auntie; I only dropped the pippins;" replied Annie, gravely. "Well, gather them up, will you, and hurry down? I want to get the pies in before the fire burns low, and the cake's wantin' to be beat, and the day's runnin' away like the wind." Annie gathered up her pippins, and went to work in good earnest. In two hours they had worked wonders. The kitchen table looked like a confectionary shop. Mrs. Stebbins looked on with a sigh of satisfaction, as Annie ranged the good things on the shelves of the cupboard. "I guess we're about done for to-night," she said; "we can roast the poultry and finish up like in the mornin'. You've been real spry, Annie; you can be when you try. You'll make a very good housewife after a little practice. Throw on a little more wood. I guess we'll set in here to-night, as we're by Annie blushed, and shook down her golden curls, stooping to polish the frosting on a loaf of cake. "Don't be foolish," said Mrs Stebbins, "I know my boy likes you, and I want you to look as bright as a pink in his eyes to-morrow. We must do our best to give him a happy welcome." With nightfall the snow began coming down with that slow and measured motion that indicates a heavy fall. All night long it continued, and morning found the world robed in white. "I knew it was coming," said Mrs. Stebbins, "and it's not done yet. Whenever the wind moans as it did yesterday, you may know what to look for. I'm afraid father'll catch his death o' cold, and Harry can't help being worsted, but it's the Lord's doin's, and a body mustn't complain." One o'clock found the Thanksgiving dinner in its glory, the poultry brown and crisp, the gravies and vegetables sending out a most fragrant aroma. In the best room the table was laid, with its snowy linen and oldfashioned china, and before the roaring hickory fire, rows of apples and brown mugs of cider awaited the coming of the travellers. Dressed in her church clothes, with her best cap and 'kerchief, Mrs. Stebbins stood in the door-way gazing anxiously down the lane, while Annie in her blue merino, with her golden hair in a thousand wilful curls, fluttered about like a humming bird, doing and doing when there was nothing to be done. "It must be time they were coming," said Mrs. Stebbins. "I urged Richard to be spry. I'm afraid the dinner'll spoil." "The trains may be late," suggested Annie, "on account of the snow. I guess they'll be here soon." Two o'clock, still they had not come. Mrs. Stebbins went out and replenished the fire in the stove to keep her gravies from cooling. Then she took her stand in the door-way till her garments were white with the falling snow. "There's somethin' the matter," said Mrs. Stebbins. "As sure as you're alive, there's somethin' the matter, or they'd a' been here afore this." Annie went out and shut up her chickens, and fed the brindle cow, and curried and stabled the roan pony; then she replenished the fire with heavy logs. It was growing dark. Would they never come? She strove to appear unconcerned, but she thought her heart would burst. At last, far down the lane, a moving object became visible. They're coming! O auntie, they're coming at last!" Mrs. Stebbins followed her down the lane with flying feet. The old buggy came on slowly under the arching elms, up to the yard gate. The poor mother sprang forward, and seized the bridle, but there was but one figure on the seat. The old man, his arms dangling at his sides, his head dropped upon his breast, his whole attitude betokening the most helpless despair. "O Reuben, Reuben, what's the matter? Where's Harry? Where's my boy?" He rose up mechanically and clambered to the ground. 66 Where's Harry? why didn't he come?" cried the poor mother. Speak to me, Reuben, or I shall go mad." "He'll never come back any more - he'll never come back any more," moaned the old man, shaking his gray head from side to side, half dazed by the terrible sorrow that had come upon him. Annie, as white as death, but calm and self-possessed, came forward and led him to the house, and after a while the whole story came. Simple enough and commonplace enough in those days. There had been a great battle. Harry was in the fight and fell,-there was his name in the list of killed and wounded. What an end for their Thanksgiving day! * Spring came. The snows melted on the New England hills, and the tiny mayflowers began to peep up. The golden pippin tree was covered with white, fragrant bloom. Life was going its old round at the home of Three o'clock, and no sight of them; four, Squire Stebbins. They were not the folks to drop into despair, no matter how great their sorrow. They sowed their fields and reaped their grain, and did the work appointed for them to do, but they had not forgotten their dead. All over the country, in those days of terror and trouble, there were hundreds like them; fathers and mothers and wives and sweethearts, whose sons and husbands and lovers had fallen on some far-off battle ground; yet they had to live, and earn their daily bread. The golden pippins were in blossom and Annie sat beneath the shadow of the fragrant branches, plying her needle busily. The village girls were getting up a box of clothing for their regiment; it was all they could do. Was it all? Annie had asked herself the question a hundred times before, and sitting there that sunny afternoon, beneath the golden pippin tree, she made up her mind. "I must go, auntie," she said, "I have felt it to be my duty for a long while. Our soldiers need good nurses and skillful attention, and I cannot sit at home in idleness while they are suffering." And she made her preparations. On the following Sabbath, young Squire Baldwin came down, as was his custom, to escort her to church. On their homeward way, he lingered in the rear. "Don't hurry, Annie," he said, "I want to talk with you. They tell me you are going down to nurse in the hospitals? Why, child, you could not stand it a week. You've no idea what it is,-strong men can't endure it - what would a weak girl like you do?" Annie smiled sadly. "I think I know my capabilities better than you do, Squire Baldwin," she said. "Perhaps you do," he continued, "but there's something else. I've known you for a long while, Annie, and I love you and want you to be my wife. I know all about that early attachment, but the poor fellow's gone, and you must learn to think of some one else. I am a rich man, I can give you every luxury you desire; you may sit down like a lily and neither toil or spin. I only want to see your sweet face and hear your gentle voice, and if ever man tried to make woman happy, I will. Now, I ask you to abandon this wild notion of yours, and choose a more womanly vocation. Be my wife, Annie, the mistress of my home and heart." His face was full of earnest, manly sincerity. The girl stood silent a moment, touched to the heart. The afternoon sunlight shone down upon his stately mansion just beyond them; there she might have love, rest, repose; but whither she was going there was only death and danger. Was she wise in her choice? For a moment she stood silent, then she shook her head slowly. "No, Squire Baldwin," she said, "I cannot accept your offer. I thank you for your kind feelings and intentions, but I shall never marry now, my heart is in his nameless grave, and I must do the work that God has called me to; if my woman's hands are weak, he will strengthen them." -- "Then you wish me to understand that nothing I can say will dissuade you from your purpose ? "I do, Squire Baldwin." He looked down upon her for a moment, his eyes full of solemn sadness; then stooping, he kissed her golden hair reverently, and turned away. The Southern air seemed charged with sulphur and the setting sun threw back a red, lurid heat. At intervals the silence was broken by the distant boom of artillery, or the sharp crack of a picket gun. It was the very heart of the war. At the window of one of the long, low hospital wards, sat a fair, fragile girl, looking out upon the gorgeous southern landscape with weary, wistful eyes. For four weeks she had been at her post, yet she was not weary, but her heart was sad, and on this particular evening her soul was tortured by memories of happy days gone by. Peaceful, sunny days, when war was unknown in the land, and no sounds of strife broke the summer silence. She seemed to be living her old life over again; she could see the old farm-house and the golden pippin tree, and hear Harry's voice full of life and love! Alas, alas! the sound of heavy steps aroused her from her dream. There was a fresh arrival of wounded men from the Wilderness and they were bringing some of them into that ward. She arose and met the accompanying surgeon. "What shall I do now, Doctor?" |