ing to say or sing, in such speech as it can, “It is time to get up; come and see the flowers; a dew of pearl is on their leaves, and the sun is above the sea."

7. And what is more beautiful still, these birds follow him to the sanctuary 5 on Sunday, a distance of more than a mile from his house, as a kind of aerial escort, singing their Sabbath psalms of gladness and praise by the way. When the service is ended, they meet him on his return, and escort him home with a new set of hymns.

1 FÖRT'UNE. The good or ill that befalls 4 RA'TIONS. Certain allowances of proman; wealth. visions; allowance.

2 FAC'UL-TY. Power of body or mind; 5 SANCT'U-A-RY. A holy place ; a church. ability. 6 A-Ē'RI-AL. Belonging to the air.

8 TRIUMPHS. Victories; conquests.

[Jean Paul Frederic Richter was born in Wunsiedel, in Germany, March 21, 1763, and died November 14, 1825. He wrote a number of works, mostly in the form of novels, which are remarkable for a peculiar combination of imagination, tenderness, quaint humor, philosophic spirit, and curious learning. He is an extremely popular writer among his own countrymen, but much of the flavor of his writings evaporates in a translation. His personal character was generous and amiable. He is frequently called by his first two names, Jean Paul.]

1. It was New Year's night. An aged man was standing at a window. He raised his mournful eyes towards the deep-blue sky, where the stars were floating, like white lilies, on the surface of a clear, calm lake. Then he cast them on the earth, where few more hopeless beings than himself now moved towards their certain goal1-the tomb.

2. Already he had passed sixty of the stages 2 which lead to it, and he had brought from his journey

nothing but errors and remorse.

His health was de

stroyed, his mind vacant, his heart sorrowful, and his old age devoid of comfort.

3. The days of his youth rose up in a vision3 before him, and he recalled the solemn moment when his father had placed him at the entrance of two roads one leading into a peaceful, sunny land, covered with a fertile harvest, and resounding with soft, sweet songs; the other leading the wanderer into a deep, dark cave, whence there was no issue,4 where poison flowed instead of water, and where serpents hissed and crawled.

4. He looked towards the sky, and cried out in his agony, "O youth, return! O my father, place me once more at the entrance to life, that I may choose the better way!" But his father and the days of his youth had both passed away.

5. He saw wandering lights float away over dark marshes, and then disappear. These were the days of his wasted life. He saw a star fall from heaven, and vanish in darkness. This was an emblem of himself; and the sharp arrows of unavailing remorse struck home to his heart. Then he remembered his early companions, who entered on life with him, but who, having trod the paths of virtue and of labor, were now honored and happy on this New Year's night.

6. The clock in the high church tower struck, and the sound, falling on his ear, recalled his parents' early love for him, their erring son; the lessons they had taught him; the prayers they had offered up in his behalf. Overwhelmed with shame and grief, he dared no longer look towards that heaven where his

father dwelt; his darkened eyes dropped tears, and with one despairing effort, he cried aloud, "Come back, my early days! come back!"

7. And his youth did return; for all this was but a dream which visited his slumbers on New Year's night. He was still young; his faults alone were real. He thanked God fervently that time was still his own; that he had not yet entered the deep, dark cavern, but that he was free to tread the road leading to the peaceful land where sunny harvests

wave.

8. Ye who still linger on the threshold of life, doubting which path to choose, remember that, when years are passed, and your feet stumble on the dark mountain, you will cry bitterly, but cry in vain, "O youth, return! O, give me back my early days!"

[Henry Ward Beecher, son of the celebrated Lyman Beecher, was born in Litchfield, Connecticut. He has been for many years settled over a church in Brooklyn, New York. He is a man of active mind and generous temper, an eloquent preacher, and popular lecturer.]

1. THE recent snow-storms bring back our boyhood experience. Reared among the hills of Western Connecticut, we were brought up in the very school of

the snow. We remember the dreamy snow-falls, when great flakes came down wavering through the air as if they had no errand, and were sauntering for mere laziness. The air thickens. One by one familiar objects are hidden as by a mist. Paths disappear. Voices of teamsters are heard, but nothing in the road can be seen. Like a fog, the snow, fast falling, hides all things. It comes straight down; not a breath of wind disturbs its descent. All day long it falls. The fences are grotesquely1 muffled; evergreens bend, being burdened. Even the bare branches of deciduous 2 trees are clothed as with wool.

2. Still the noiseless flakes fill the sky. The eye. is bewildered in looking out upon the weird haze so calm, so still, so full of movement, and yet with a sense of death in it! But as one looks, a change is taking place. The snow-flake has become smaller. It has lost its calm and leisurely motion. It begins to pelt down, as if shot by some force from above. Now and then around the corner comes a puff of wind, which drives the snow off in long, slanting lines; or whirls of wind come, mixing them up in a strange medley.4 Night is shutting in. Every moment the air darkens. The wind is coming in earnest. The chimney roars with a hollow and shuddering sound.

3. There is no use of looking out any more: all is black. Drop the curtains. Throw on the logs. The flames fill the whole room with a warm glow. Draw round the table, for now one has the full sense of home security. The wind comes in gusts, and smites the house till it groans; and at times you distinctly feel that it rocks under you. What is that to you?

The blacker the night, the more turbulent5 the wind, the wilder the storm, all the more does each one within rejoice in the contrast. No such night at home in the country as a real stormy night!

4. But the young imagination is keen, and summons all its treasures. It hears in the wind voices in distress. Then come stories of wolves and benighted travellers. As the wind comes shrilly through crack or key-hole, one starts, as if a shriek sounded in his very ear. Now and then comes a buffet against the window-a straining and tugging at the side of the house, as if the night were seeking to storm the castle, and break in all its defences.

5. At length, one by one, we creep off to bed. We cuddle close together, and pull the clothes over our heads to deaden the sounds, as well as to keep out the snow. For no double windows protected the oldfashioned house, and fine snow, sifting in, filled the air; and often the morning found scarfs of snow upon

the bed.

6. But what a morning! The sun is up. The wind has not gone down. The snow has ceased to fall, but not to move. It is drifting in every direction. It hangs over the eaves. It has buried the kitchen door. Fences are all gone. It is a new land, a fairy land! Yonder is the top of a haystack, and beyond, the roofs of the sheds. The barn yet towers up in sight. Woe to them who have no wood-sheds, and who now must dig out the unsheltered pile!

7. A way must be cut through the drift that buries the front door! Paths must be opened. Every one in the neighborhood is busy. All intercourse is cut off. It will be late in the day before one can get to