thronged the house, and in their company I began to recover myself somewhat. There was good old Mr. Waters and wife, so paternal in their address, so gentle in all their words and actions; Deacon Cross and his matronly dame, who talked to me in such a motherly way, and Miss Becky Brown, a maiden lady, with a heart full of rich, warm feelings, and a host of others in whose society I shall delight.

Then came a couple that threw an icy chill over my heart. It was an old couple, familiarly known in the village as "Father and Mother Stevens," from the fact of their being the oldest members of the church. Mr. Hardscrabble had been unexpectedly called away to see a sick man, and I was obliged to receive them alone. I did it with fear and trembling, for there was an ominous frown lingering on the old man's shaggy brows, and his wife's skinny lips were tightly compressed, as if afraid a smile would inadvertently cross them. As soon as they were seated the old gentleman began:

"Well, sister Hardscrabble, I hope you are prepared to enter upon your duties here in a Christian way. I think ministers' wives should be bright and shining lights in communities."

I bowed assent, and he continued:

"Now I hope you will attend our class-meeting regularly. We meet every Monday evening at our house. I think ministers' wives should attend every means of grace. Mrs. Hope hardly missed a classmeeting while here; and then our prayer-meetings on Thursday and Saturday evenings; I hope you will be punctual at them. I think if our ministers' wives would set better examples, much of the folly and wickedness of the people would be done away with." (Here

the old lady sighed and nodded her head.) "Mrs. Hope was a bright and shining light, going in and out among the people as a Christian should.”

When Mr. Hardscrabble returned he found me in tears, and I have wept long and bitterly, because I am that most unfortunate of all women, a minister's wife. ALMEDIA BROWN.

THE BATTLE FLAG AT SHENANDOAH.

THE tented field wore a wrinkled frown,

And the emptied church from the hill looked down
On the emptied road and the emptied town,
That summer Sunday morning.

And here was the blue, and there was the gray;
And a wide green valley rolled away
Between where the battling armies lay,
That sacred Sunday morning.

Young Custer sat, with impatient will,
His restless steed, 'mid his troopers still,
As he watched with glass from the oak-set hill,
That silent Sunday morning.

Then fast he began to chafe and fret;
"There's a battle flag on a bayonet
Too close to my own true soldiers set

For peace this Sunday morning!

"Ride over, some one," he haughtily said,
"And bring it to me! Why, in bars blood red
And in stars I will stain it, and overhead

Will flaunt it this Sunday morning!"

Then a West-born lad, pale-faced and slim,
Rode out, and touching his cap to him,
Swept down, as swift as the swallows swim,
That anxious Sunday morning.

On, on through the valley! up, up, anywhere!
That pale-faced lad like a bird through the air
Kept on till he climbed to the banner there
That bravest Sunday morning'

And he caught up the flag, and around his waist
He wound it tight, and he fled in haste
And swift his perilous route retraced

That daring Sunday morning.

All honor and praise to the trusty steed!
Ah! boy, and banner, and tell God speed!
God's pity for you in your hour of need
That deadly Sunday morning.

O, deadly shot! and O, shower of lead!
O, iron rain on the brave, bare head!
Why, even the leaves from the trees fall dead
This dreadful Sunday morning!

But he gains the oaks! Men cheer in their might!
Brave Custer is weeping in his delight!

Why, he is embracing the boy outright
This glorious Sunday morning!

But, soft! Not a word has the pale boy said.
He unwinds the flag. It is starred, striped, red
With his heart best blood; and he falls down dead,
In God's still Sunday morning!

So; wrap his flag to his soldier's breast;
Into Stars and Stripes it is stained and blest;
And under the oaks let him rest and rest
In God's own Sunday morning!

JOAQUIN MILLER

HE

THE BELLS.

EAR the sledges with the bells—
Silver bells!

What a world of merriment their melody foretells!

How they tinkle, tinkle, tinkle,
In the icy air of night!
While stars that oversprinkle
All the heavens seem to twinkle
With a crystalline delight;
Keeping time, time, time,
In a sort of Runic rhyme,

To the tintinnabulation that so musically wells
From the bells, bells, bells, bells,
Bells, bells, bells-

From the jingling and the tinkling of the bells.

Hear the mellow wedding bells

Golden bells!

What a world of happiness their harmony foretells!
Through the balmy air of night

How they ring out their delight!
From the molten-golden notes,
And all in tune,

What a liquid ditty floats

To the turtle-dove that listens, while she gloats

On the moon!

Oh! from out the sounding cells,

What a gush of euphony voluminously wells!

How it swells!

How it dwells

On the future! how it tells
Of the rapture that impels
To the swinging and the ringing
Of the bells, bells, bells—
Of the bells, bells, bells, bells,
Bells, bells, bells—

To the rhyming and the chiming of the bells!

Hear the loud alarum bells

Brazen bells!

What a tale of terror, now, their turbulency tells!
In the startled ear of night

How they scream out their affright!
Too much horrified to speak,

They can only shriek, shriek,
Out of tune,

In a clamorous appealing to the mercy of the fire,
In a mad expostulation with the deaf and frantic fire
Leaping higher, higher, higher,
With a desperate desire,

And a resolute endeavor,
Now- -now to sit or never,
By the side of the pale-faced moon.
O, the bells, bells, bells!

What a tale their terror tells

Of despair!

How the clang, and clash, and roar!
What a horror they outpour

On the bosom of the palpitating air!