tower and the absence of Luftzug it would be very dangerous (sehr gefährlich) not to ring the bells in time of a storm; and moreover, don't you see, the very wording"

"Never mind that, Mortimer; don't waste the precious time in talk. Get the large dinner-bell; it is right there in the hall. Quick, Mortimer dear; we are almost safe. Oh, dear, I do believe we are going to be saved, at last!"

Our little summer establishment stands on top of a high range of hills, overlooking a valley. Several farm-houses are in our neighborhood,—the nearest some three or four hundred yards away.

When I, mounted on the chair, had been clanging that dreadful bell a matter of seven or eight minutes, our shutters were suddenly torn open from without, and a brilliant bull's-eye lantern was thrust in at the window, followed by a hoarse inquiry:

"What in the nation is the matter here?"

The window was full of men's heads, and the heads were full of eyes that stared wildly at my night-dress and my war-like accoutrements.

I dropped the bell, skipped down from the chair in confusion, and said:

"There is nothing the matter, friends,-only a little discomfort on account of the thunder-storm. I was trying to keep off the lightning."

"Thunder-storm? Lightning? Why, Mr. McWilliams, have you lost your mind? It is a beautiful starlight night; there has been no storm."

I looked out, and I was so astonished I could hardly speak for awhile. Then I said:

“I do not understand this. We distinctly saw the glow of the flashes through the curtains and shutters, and heard the thunder."

One after another those people lay down on the ground to laugh,-and two of them died. One of the survivors remarked:

You see, the tele

"Pity you didn't think to open your blinds and look over to the top of the high hill yonder. What you heard was cannon; what you saw was the flash. graph brought some news, just at midnight; our man's nominated,—and that's what's the matter!"

THE HOUSEHOLD JEWELS.

A traveler, from journeying

In countries far away,

Repassed his threshold at the close

Of one calm Sabbath day;
A voice of love, a comely face,

A kiss of chaste delight,

Were the first things to welcome him
On that blessed Sabbath night.

He stretched his limbs upon the hearth,
Before its friendly blaze,

And conjured up mixed memories

Of gay and gloomy days;

And felt that none of gentle soul,
However far he roam,

Can e'er forego, can e'er forget,
The quiet joys of home.

"Bring me my children!" cried the sire, With eager, earnest tone;

"I long to press them, and to mark How lovely they have grown;

Twelve weary months have passed away Since I went o'er the sea,

To feel how sad and lone I was

Without my babes and thee."

"Refresh thee, as 'tis needful,” said
The fair and faithful wife,

The while her pensive features paled,
And stirred with inward strife;
"Refresh thee, husband of my heart,
I ask it as a boon;

Our children are reposing, love;
Thou shalt behold them soon."

She spread the meal, she filled the cup,
She pressed him to partake;

He sat down blithely at the board,

And all for her sweet sake;

But when the frugal feast was done,
The thankful prayer preferred,
Again affection's fountain flowed;
Again its voice was heard.

"Bring me my children, darling wife, I'm in an ardent mood;

My soul lacks purer aliment,

I long for other food;

Bring forth my children to my gaze,
Or ere I rage or weep,

I yearn to kiss their happy eyes
Before the hour of sleep."

66 I have a question yet to ask,
Be patient, husband dear.
A stranger, one auspicious morn,
Did send some jewels here;
Until to take them from my care,
But yesterday he came,

And I restored them with a sigh-
Dost thou approve or blame?"

"I marvel much, sweet wife, that thou
Shouldst breathe such words to me;
Restore to man, resign to God,
Whate'er is lent to thee;

Restore it with a willing heart,

Be grateful for the trust;

Whate'er may tempt or try us, wife,
Let us be ever just."

She took him by the passive hand,
And up the moonlit stair,

She led him to their bridal bed,

With mute and mournful air;
She turned the cover down, and there,
In grave-like garments dressed,
Lay the twin children of their love,
In death's serenest rest.

"These were the jewels lent to me,
Which God has deigned to own;
The precious caskets still remain,
But, ah, the gems are flown!
But thou didst teach me to resign
What God alone can claim;
He giveth and he takes away,
Blest be His holy name!"

The father gazed upon his babes,
The mother drooped apart,

59

While all the woman's sorrow gushed
From her o'erburdened heart;
And with the striving of her grief,
Which wrung the tears she shed,
Were mingled low and loving words
To the unconscious dead.

When the sad sire had looked his fill,
He veiled each breathless face,
And down in self-abasement bowed,
For comfort and for grace;
With the deep eloquence of woe,
Poured forth his secret soul;
Rose up, and stood erect and calm,
In spirit healed and whole.

"Restrain thy tears, poor wife," he said,

66

"I learn this lesson still,

God gives, and God can take away,
Blest be His holy will!

Blest are my children, for they live
From sin and sorrow free,
And I am not all joyless, wife,

With faith, hope, love-and thee."

I LIVE FOR THEE.-ALFRED TENNYSON.
Home they brought her warrior dead:
She nor swooned, nor uttered cry:

All her maidens, watching, said,
"She must weep, or she will die."

Then they praised him, soft and low,
Called him worthy to be loved,
Truest friend and noblest foe;

Yet she neither spoke nor moved.

Stole a maiden from her place,
Lightly to the warrior stept,

Took the face-cloth from the face;
Yet she neither moved nor wept.

Rose a nurse of ninety years,

Set his child upon her knee

Like summer tempest came her tears"Sweet my child, I live for thee.”

THE SCHOOLMASTER'S CONQUEST.

Bronson Alcott, of Boston, told Joseph Cook, and Joseph Cook told everybody he met, that he made a regulation in his school that if a pupil violated a rule, the master should substitute his own voluntary sacrificial chastisement for that pupil's punishment; and this regulation almost Christianized his school. "One day," Mr. Alcott said, "I called up before me a pupil who had violated an important rule. I put the ruler into the offender's hand; I extended my own hand; I told him to strike. Instantly I saw a struggle begin in his face. A new light sprang up in his countenance. A new set of shuttles seemed to be weaving a new nature within him. I kept my hand extended, and the school was in tears. The boy struck once and burst into tears. He seemed transformed by the idea that I should suffer chastisement in the place of his punishment, and ever after was the most docile fellow in the school, though he had at first been the rudest."

Now, this is very affecting and reasonable and striking. The incident came to the knowledge of Willis K. Stoddard, who for years past has been teaching a district-school in Flint River township, in Iowa. He read this extract from one of Joseph Cook's lectures, and never forgot the great moral it conveyed. Young Stoddard had some pretty hard boys in his school. They were big and noisy and rough and turbulent. He had reasoned with them; he had expostulated; he had begged and wept. He had whipped them until his arms ached, and the directors had threatened to dismiss him for unnecessary severity and absolute cruelty; and the boys grew worse and worse every day. But when he was at his wits' end, and was seriously thinking of running away and losing all his back salary, rather than stay at the school another day, he read this incident and it gave his troubled mind new light. He had treasured it up probably half a day when, one bright June afternoon, Samuel Johnson, the biggest and strongest and worst of all the big boys, tore seven leaves out of his geography. These he crammed into his mouth, and when he had chewed them into a pulp he took the "wad" into his hand, and propelled