ful we have had his labors, his influence, and his example so long, and pray God that he may be succeeded, in his corps, by another as brave, as good, and as faithful as the leader they have lost.

MY WINDOW

all the better that Nature has so long worn her sullen garb.

THE LITERATURE OF THE WAR.

How wonderfully the war is developing this kind of literature. Every week adds a new list to the already marvellously extensive ones gone before, and not a little of it is of a really superior order. The best of it has been produced by the chaplains of the army, and they have given us an inside view of the army and the war, which we should never have had without them. They have thrown a more cheering coloring over the aspect of some portions of the Southern army than we have at all looked for. A work now before us-"The Color Guard"— really, in some of its pages, induces us to believe that, by and by, "When this cruel war is over," we shall become hand in glove with even the "poor whites," and find them jolly brethren. The author, a young preacher, learned to see more good in the hard, rough, barbarian "white-trash" than in their despotic rulers. Some goodness of heart, some humanity; and after meeting and talking with them after the capture of Port Hudson, he felt his "hostility to those fellows much mitigated.” Oh, it will do good in the end! We shall all live, I trust, to see the good that will grow out of this contest!

OPENS upon a scene to-day that seems in unison with the sad scenes now enacting in the far-off city of Butley town, where they bear the brave Birney to his rest. It is a dreary day, such an one, indeed, as we have, every day for more than four weeks, looked out upon; for during all that period it has been incessantly dreary, and rain, rain, without one day's cessation, has been the portion of us dwellers in Central New York. As I look out upon the scene so beautiful in bright weather, I see nothing but weeping trees, their bright, autumnal leaves bedraggled and faded like an old calico dress. They look like war-times and high prices, and as if taxes and other burdens had quite put it out of their power to purchase new attire, and they were sullenly holding on to their old rags like many a sentient human creature. The stooks of corn stand up in the field, brown and limp, or, overturned by the storms, lie forlorn and moulding under the universal drizzle. The barnyard fowls go slinking about in their wet feathers, neither Chanticleer nor Dame Partlet having the least inelination to cackle or to crow; while the ducks, though they bravely "quack, quack " about A GREAT man of England, Canning, the the yard, evidently have enough of water with- prime minister, is the author of the following out resorting to the puddles. simple but shrewd lines:

Well, it never did rain without stopping sometime, and so every morning and every evening we prophesy fine weather; and we have no doubt that, after a time, when it has done raining, our prophecies will be fulfilled, and we shall pass for a wondrously weatherwise

woman.

These rainy autumns are undoubtedly in many respects a blessing. They fill the earth with water, giving vigor to vegetation and preventing the possibility of a winter-drought, that fearful calamity, when the springs disappear, the streams sink into the ground, and the poor cattle vainly lap the ammoniated snow, and die for want of water. But it is muddy and disagreeable, notwithstanding; and they whom necessity compels to trust to the highways, find themselves sinking into unknown depths of a black pudding that has no equal. When the fine weather comes, as come it will, We shall all know how to prize it, and love it

"Tell me, tell me, gentle robin,

What is it sets thy breast a-throbbing?
Is it that grimalkin fell

Hath killed thy father or thy mother,
Thy sister or thy brother,
Or any other?

"Tell me but that,

And I'll kill the cat.

But stay, little robin, did you ever spare
A grub on the ground, or a fly in the air?
No; that you never did, I'll swear!
So I wont kill the cat,

That's flat!"

LOVE'S ALCHEMY.

A VERY cheering little poem is the one with that title, which follows. We are sure our readers will think so when they have read it.

2

LOVE'S ALCHEMY.

"There is an angel in whose hand

There is a book which hath

The names beloved enshrined to stand

In life-till death.'

Two names- we know not when

He wrote unbidden;

Lo! from the sight of men

No more are hidden.

By no apparelled priest

The miracle was done;

Love was the mighty alchemist
Who made them one!

THOUGHTS AND IMPRESSIONS ETERNAL.

was indeed no real flower before him, had restored his childhood, and every influence which could give strength to him in such an hour.

Another curious instance was related by one of the survivors of that terrible catastrophe, the loss of the steamer Central America, some years since, when four hundred persons were drowned. The survivor relates,

་་

"I guess I had been about four hours in the water, and had floated away from the rest, when the waves ceased to make any noise, and I heard my mother say, 'Johnny, did you eat sister's grapes!' I hadn't thought of it for twenty years at least. It had gone clean out of my mind. I had a sister that died of consumption more than thirty years ago, and when she was sick I was a boy of eleven or so-8 neighbor had sent her some early hot-house grapes. Well, those grapes were left in a room where I was, and I ought to have been skinned alive for it, little rascal that I was — I de

WE do not realize, or know, how indelibly
impressions and thoughts may be stamped upon
the heart, even when they may seem the most
fleeting. They may disappear from the memory,
and the brain may fail to have cognizance of
them for a lifetime, when suddenly, in the far-voured them all.
away years, when death is approaching near
us, they will flash like some bright picture be-
fore our mind, and we live them all over again.
Who can account for this? Who can tell us,
when the impression has lain dormant for half
a century, perhaps, to reappear in our weak-
ness and exhaustion when the last vestige of
mental power seems dying out?
Several instances bearing upon this
are related, which are full of interest.
three of them we shall transcribe.

mystery
Two or

Mother came to me after I had gone to bed, when she couldn't find the fruit for sister to moisten her month with in the night, and said, 'Johnny, did you eat sister's grapes?' I did not add to the meanness of my conduct by telling a lie. I owned up, and my mother went away in tears, but without flogging me. It occasioned me a qualm of conscience for many a year after; but, as I said, for twenty years, at least, I had not thought of it, till, when I was floating about, benumbed with cold, I heard it as plain as ever I heard her voice in my life, I heard mother say,'Johnny, did you eat sister's grapes?' I don't know how to account for it. It did not scare me though. I thought it was a presage of my death." We can all of us recall some incident of a

A young soldier in India, faint and weary with the long march in the tropic heats, scarcely recovered from a dangerous wound, fell out of the ranks and sank down by the roadside, while his comrades moved on, apparently leaving him to die. As they wound along in the distance, their music fading from his senses, he similar nature, when a voice or a vision seems leaned despairing against the tree at whose base he sat, and resigned himself to his fate. But just as he was closing his eyes, apparently for the last time, a simple dandelion blossom met his sight, and with it all the dear scenes of childhood, home, and mother swept before his vision as distinctly as if they had been really there. Come, my son, come, try again!"

said his mother, when a strange and wonderful
revulsion took place in his whole being.
Strength returned to his limbs, and resolution
and energy to his spirit. He rose to his feet,
and walking vigorously on, soon overtook his
companions, continuing with them through the
entire march, and living to return to his home
and mother. The visionary flower, for there

to return to us in a moment when most needed to give us strength and determination to bear on still. But what is the secret of the mystery who can tell?

from our associate, Mrs. Soule, who has for WE are glad to offer our readers something some time been silent, The articles which follow, over her initials, are hers.

AMERICAN INDUSTRY.

The industry of the American people! Do you ever pause, friends, in these exciting times, and ponder on it? There is something beside war going on in this country of ours; ay, a good deal. Thousands after thousands of stalwart men have left their homes and business to

unprotected, fearless and mighty, a Gibraltar
in the moral world, swaying no more to the
dictates of policy, or the venom of slander,
than moves that huge rock when the winds roll
over it, or the waves lash its sides. Cowards
drop their weapons as he approaches; enemies
slink to the fence; spies swallow their ciphers,
and he returns a conqueror. "I will!"-ah!
it is the synonyme of greatness.
The boy
grows into a man while he is speaking it, and
the man towers into a Hercules.

C. A. S.

follow the career of a soldier, may hap to find long life and glorious honor, and mayhap to die of lingering disease in camp or hospital, or fall at some mad shot upon the battle-field; and yet, how busy every workshop, mill, factory, store, office, place of business, name it what you will, continues to be. Industrious! Why, we were never more so than now. We not only plough and sow and reap our old farms, but the present season sees millions of virgin acres inheriting the promise of seed-time and harvest. We not only run our old mills, but new ones are being built in almost every bam"IF MOTHER COULD ONLY NURSE ME!"' let,-mills to grind, and mills to spin and weave. Machinery of every kind is pressed Ar the Sanitary Bazaar, held in Albany, N. into the most active service, while inventions Y., during the past winter, we were shown a are so common that nothing startles us any bullet that caused the death of one of the memmore. Our commerce, too, with uninterrupted bers of the Ninety-Seventh New York Regiment, at Antietam. He was wounded by a ball passsuccess, is floating its white sails over every sen, and unfolding our starry banner in every ing through the upper part of both thighs, harbor. Steamboats, gorgeous as oriental pal-breaking the bone of one of them. aces, are running upon every river; while the iron horse, with Herculean tread, is making tracks over every prairie. In a word, as an appreciative friend of America in England observes, we are "developing, at this time, greater resources than any nation in Europe is capable of showing." High, but merited praise!

"I WILL."

C. A. S.

It is a strong expression, but we like it. It has the ring of true metal. It isn't the pigmy's phrase, but the giant's. "Well, I don't know, perhaps I may; I'll see about it," says one man, and you may set him down as a skulking wretch,- one of those degenerate specimens of humanity who would rob orphans of their father's legacy and take the bed from under a sick widow, one of those miserable cowards who trembles at the lightning and shudders at the thunder. "1 will," says another man, and you look up into his face and feel at once there is something to be depended on in him. There's energy in his blood, there's strength in his muscle, there's power in his brain, and if his heart's in the right place, there'll a force go out from it that'll make him the true hero of time. "I will" may drop from the lips of a bad man; but you'll know where to find such a man always. He'll face you, and if he's got a blow for you, he'll let you know who hurt you. But when "I will" drops from the lips of a good man, you may rest assured he'll stand by you till the last drop in his heart is spent ; and more, he'll stand by himself alone,

He was

also shot through the flesh of his arm and in his
head, and in this condition was being carried
from the field, when his comrades were forced
As he lay on the
to drop him and retreat.
ground with his head towards the enemy, this
ball passed under the right collar-bone and out-

side of the ribs about twelve inches. The man-
ifest injury to an artery rendered death certain
within a few days; but he seemed determined
not to die, and he assured the surgeon that "if
his mother could only nurse him, he would re-
cover." On the eighteenth day, the artery burst,
and he quickly perished by hemorrhage. No
mother could have saved him ; but was not his
faith the same childlike one that sooner or later
comes to us all in seasons of doubt, trial, and
emergency, that if mother were only here, we
could live through it all?

-

IMPROMPTU.

C. A. S.

On hearing of the slaughter of the ThirtySecond Iowa, at Pleasant Hills, La., many of them my own brave townsmen.

Cold are the sleepers,

Wrapped in their shrouds ;
Pale are the weepers

The battle has bowed.
Softly they slumber-

Our soldiers-in death;
While hearts without number

Cry, with hushed breath,
"O God! are they dead?"

Pale are the sleepers,—
Like marble they lie;