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took me in his arms, and said, as he had said | my heart, and the day became onee more a ' before:

tival; just as truly a festival, I think, as it ta “ Did you think I should not be with you, when Willie blessed it and made it bright, be mother?

cause I knew he wished to have it so. And then I missed him. I called to him, but The older children went with us to chons he did not answer. I stretched out my arms that morning. Harry and Susy, finding the after him, but he did not come back to me. turkeys rather an impediment to religious elifThe room grew dark; my head swam; I tot- cation, kept guard at home. Susy's little le tered over to my husband.

per at starting did me good, I think. “Oh, John! I have lost him! Oh, John! Mamma, you're just like the old marana John!”

you you used to was.” Mary — why, Mary! what is the matter ?God knows I tried to be. and he caught me in his arms.

The little church was very still and pleasan: I looked up. I was not in the parlor by the that morning, and somehow the service stole frost-bound window; the children were not be- way down into my heart. It was no eloqueti side me.

The sitting-room fire had died down preacher that we heard ; only a plain man, with into ashes; the door into the hall was open, and God's plainest gifts of mind and culture. Mary my husband had on his over-coat. He was hold- a time I should have preferred my own worship ing me tightly in his arms.

to any to which he could help me. But this " How you shiver, Mary! Why, my darling, morning his heart was very full. I saw that ibe what has happened?"

day was real to him, and I listened. “ John, where when did you find me ?" A bit of Mrs. Browning music kept singing

“ I have just come in. I heard you cry; you itself in my soul: called my name, I think.”

“I praise Thee while my days go on, I know, I know! I thought — Oh, John, I love Thee while my days go on; John!”

Through dark and dearth, through fire and frost,

With emptied arms and treasure lost, And then I told him all my dream. When

I thank Thee while my days go on." I had finished he was still a long time, then

I think that I did thank Him - I, who only Mary, perhaps the boy has been to you." At this moment the clock on the mantle

last year had sat there with my boy beside mestruck twelve. We listened to its strokes till

so manly and so brave he looked, so pleased that the last one died away.

they chose the hymn he loved, so happy and at " It is our Thanksgiving morning," said my

rest while he sang it with them. husband, solemnly. “Let us give thanks to

I think that when the dear familiar words God.”

flooded the church with harmony again, as on So we knelt down and prayed together.

that other morning, and John and I clasped

hands silently– I think we uttered the old, old When the morning really came, with its cry, "Blessed be the name of the Lord !” fresh, frolicking winds, and sunlight, and blue

We stopped after church together where skies; with its merry faces and gay voices, and the boy was lying, to let May lay down her litthe happy children rapping at my door, I thought tle green wreath, and I was glad that she could of what he said : “ Perhaps the boy has been

do it calmly. Somehow I felt as if tears would to you.” Sometimes I think he must have been,

be profanation just then. Then we went quiet80 real and sweet is, even now, the memory


ly home. his coming. All that day he stood beside me;

It was a happy home that day -- as happy as all that day I saw his peaceful face, and felt the

it could be when we did not see him. Yet I blessing of his smile, and heard his low sweet

know he was there. voice. What for months I had looked


“ Did you think I should not be with you, feared with the bitterness of a great dread, the mother?" face, and smile, made almost painless.

I heard it over and over; I hear it over and The children’s merry greetings did not hurt over now; I shall hear it when the next Thanksme; my fingers did not tremble when they giving sun brightens his quiet grave. He wished twined the fresh green leaves about the walls. us to be happy; I know he was with us. I Into the very making of my pudding I threw think he will always be.


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sympathy — what brave, enduring spirits sink

ing down into despair! December.

It is sad — this looking into the realities of December comes to us, not with storms and life; but we cannot lay aside the fact that they chilling winds ; but mild and gentle; as if pity are such. Novelists and poets may write and ing the poor who are suffering from the high sing of sunshine and flowers and beauty; and prices that still prevail everywhere, and more

they are right in doing so. God has made for especially in the provision for larder and coal

us a beautiful world; fitted it with light and bin. God pity the poor whose hearths are cold incense and brightness. But behind all this and whose tables are empty of food! llow beauty, there are clouds that sometimes veil it little can one who has plenty and comfort at

from our sight. Poverty comes in and shrouds the board and the fireside, appreciate the bless

our blessings, and then the world is dark to the ing that rests on him. Ilow little can he feel eyes that before only saw light and beauty. for his poor neighbor, for him who toils with

Now, would it not be a blessed privilege to scanty reward, and finds, after all his labor, that minister to this sorrow, to bear up the sinking the meagre sum will not warm or feed or clothe heart, to hold up the feeble hands and to let in his family sufficiently.

once more the sweet light of Heaven? And it But, thank God! there are warm hearts and is, after all, so easy to do it! So easy to drop open hands, that are continually devising and the balm of consolation, to bind the broken excouting generous deeds. There are noble heart and set the grief-stricken prisoner free. charities, stealing, with their blessed influences,

Nor is it always money that is wanted for into the homes of those, who, by misfortune or

this. A little sympathy directed in the right bereavement, have sunk from competence to channel; an opening suggested that bas not that bitterest of all poverty - that which will

been presented to the mind of him who so not ask relief

. Many a mother, to-day, tends sorely needs it; a shifting of the dismal pheher fatherless children near a fireless hearth,

nomena that has so long been before his eyes, who, in the days of her prosperity was hailed

so as to let in a sun ray. Oh, how much this as the friend of the poor; yet now is poorer might do! Then the tone — the manner of than they whom she relieved. Many a father, addressing such an one, so as not to hurt his whose failing health is unequal to the labor of feelings by implied superiority on your part; providing for his family, is doomed to see others

the simple showing him how infinitely more you reaping the fruits that which his own talent and

think of the man than of his surroundings. enterprise once invented or established; while

Ilow such a course on your part will reconcile his own large and grand heart shrinks from

him to himself and help to sustain in him the

When the cruel rod of war

Blossoms white with righteous law, And the wrath of man is praise !

Blotted out!
All within and all about
Shall a fresher life begin ;

Freer breathe the universo

As it rolls its heavy curse
On the dead and buried sin !

It is done!
In the circuit of the sun
Shall the sound thereof go forth.

It shall bid the sad rejoice,

It shall give the dumb a voice,
It shall belt with joy the earth!

Ring and swing
Bells of joy! on morning's wing
Send the song of praise abroad;

With a sound of broken chains

Tell the nations that he reigns Who alone is Lord and God!

the heart of a man to rejoice through your simple words of cheer.

Try it! It will do you as much good as it will the object of your sympathy; for charity is always twice blessed. Go forth in the chill air of December, and nurse it into warmth by your own breath. No Christmas bells will be sweeter than your voice thus raised in love and benevolence, to cheer the drooping spirit. No Christmas gift will bless the receiver half so much as your more precious gift of feeling. Lay not your head upon the pillow, until you have made the head of your brother lie easier. Depend on it, the simple effort will bring its own exceeding great reward.

Hark to the ringing of Whittier's bells, as they float over land and sea, and are echoed from every hill and mountain top of our dear, glorious, free, unshackled country, where "slaves can no longer breathe.”

It is done!
Clang of bell and roar of gun
Send the tidings up and down.

How the belfries rock and reel,

How the great guns, peal on peal,
Fling the joy from town to town!

Ring, O bells !
Every stroke exulting tells
of the burial-hour of crime.

Loud and long that all may hear,
Ring for every listening ear
Of Eternity and Time!

Let us kneel;
God's own voice is in that peal,
And this spot is holy ground.

Lord forgive us! What are we,

That our eyes this glory see,
That our ears have heard the sound !

A New Volume. A new volume of the REPOSITORY will commence with the January number, and from this time the magazine will be issued in two volumes a year, the price being the same as heretofore, $2.50 a year. Twelve numbers of the REPOSITORY makes nearly 800 pages which is enough for two volumes, and if issued in two, can be bound in two, or in one, as the subscriber may prefer. With and after the beginning of the new volume much more of the matter in the REPOSITORY will be original, written specially for its pages, and after January, the numbers will appear promptly on or before the beginning of the month for which they are prepared.

OPEN-AIR preaching is becoming a great institution in England. It goes on in almost every part of the land, and a peculiar class of itinerant preachers is growing up to meet the demand. It is said:

" They preach wherever they can gather an audience, in the street, by the roadside, in cottages, theatres, town halls, corn exchanges, in camps and barracks. They are sure to be on race grounds, in fairs and at executions, whicb in England are public and draw together

For the Lord On the whirlwind is abroad; In the earthquake he has spoken :

He has smitten with his thunder

The iron walls asunder, And the gates of brass are broken!

Loud and long,
Lift the old exulting song ;
Sing with Miriam by the sea :

He hath east the mighty down:


Book Notices.

purely fictitious narrative. It is because we do COUNSEL AND ENCOURAGEXENT : Discourses on the Conduct not pick up what is under our feet, that we so of Life. By Hosea Ballou 2d, D. D.

often have to go abroad for specimens. Many This is a handsome book of upwards of four a man will visit a foreign land at great exhundred

pages, containing discourses upon va- pense to view a picture of a summer sunset, rious and well-chosen subjects, by the late when if he would only consult his almanac lamented President of Tufts College. It is a

and open his west window at the mentioned book which will be eagerly welcomed, both by moment, he might see the work of God himthe personal friends of Dr. Ballou, and by self. others who have been looking for such a me- And if we tire of legends, traditions, and morial of the thoughts that were as a pyra- purely historical topics, if we want something mid up-piled, on whose far top an angel sat fresh, new, modern, — the materials are at our and smiled.”

very threshold- low or high life, as you choose. The book is attractively bound, and is for Do you want poverty? There it is, gathering sale at the N. E. U. Publishing House. 37 into its patched bags the sweepings of railroad Cornhill.

Industry ? Its calloused hands were MILLIOENT HALPORD: A Tale of the Dark Days of Ken- delving this morning in those clay banks before

tucky, in the year 1865. By Miss Martha Remick, author your eyes were open. Energy? See it tunof Agnes Stanhope. Boston: A. Williams & Co., 1865. neling its way out of those cellar depths. PaWe have always believed that our own coun

tience? It is at that apple-stand, turning over try furnished abundant material for the novel the red-cheeked ones to the front. Perseverist, and believing this, we have sometimes been ance? It haunts you in that little match-girl. a little out of patience when we noticed that so Audacity ? Mark that news-boy insisting on many of our most practised pens were not only selling you a paper, when he sees your pockets confining their plots to the scenery of the Old are overrun with them already. World, but seeming to draw all their inspira- Will you go lower down and count the skin. tion in regard to narrative details and delinea- ny hands that are held out for pennies; the tion of character from European sources. white lips that cry for bread; the bare feet

What if our history is comparatively new freezing for lack of shoes; the homeless wariand brief! Every year is crowded with events, derers that are glad of the summer nights bestrange and startling. From the earliest dates cause then there is only dew or warm rain to of our national existence, the landing of the drip over them! Lower still, where — Oh, I Puritans in New England, the settlement of cannot write it! Out, out of the depths, and New York by the Dutch, the occupation of the up again where virtue keeps itself stainless Southern States by the ancestors of their amidst the soot of iniquity, and purity works “F. F.'s" there are innumerable threads of its fingers to the bone; and higher still where romance running hither and thither and every love, true, devoted and Christ-like weaves way, sometimes of so deep a crimson that we romance into the very web and woof of daily shudder as we trace the blood-red figures they realities. have woven; sometimes so purely white that Ah! for every class of stories the materials they seem lines dropt direct from the “Great lie thick about us ; from the sensation novel Throne;” sometimes so brilliant in their hues that deals in poison, murder, arson, and those that they seem to have been spun by fairy fin- yet blacker crimes which, while they seldom, gers, and again so sombre or so ghastly that we perhaps, find their way into the police caleninwardly shrink and shiver as if we had inad- dar, yet stain the genealogy of so many of our vertently dragged the pall from a coffin, or in would-be-aristocrats, to the Sabbath School the dusk of day felt the touch of skeleton fin- library book with its poor boys emerging out gers.

of log cabins and fighting their way to the Nay, more; take the veritable history of al- White House; and it wiary sewing-girls, ex

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and fortune of one of America's most distin- , about “ Jim's whipping," as one friend might guished authoresses, was purely national. No hear another's story. Sympathizing intuiother country could have furnished such a plot, tively with slavery in its efforts to throw off because, alas, no other country had such ma- its chains, praying that Fred's search for Jim terials.

might be a fruitless one, and emptying the conAnd now, even more so than ever before, tents of her purse into Susan's hand, without are we weaving the threads of romance into our pausing to think of the heavy penalty she was history. The last four years have unrolled a web, laying herself open to. Equal to emergencies, that for a strange and marvellous blending of taking the head of household affairs when her lights and shades, has nowhere its parallel. And aunt is suddenly stricken down, and fulfilling by and by, when time shall have thrown its gla- its onerous duties as though born to them, fearmour over these years, and they speak of less of contagion, and thoughtful even to the Springfield as we now speak of Mount Vernon, most minute details. Clear-sighted, able to and children recite Lee's surrender as we used calculate accurately from a single thought, the to that of Burgoyne, and grandfathers tell the precise time when the fearful attack should be little ones of the Rebellion as our grandfathers made upon a neighbor's home, and seeing, too, used to tell us of the Revolution,- then will her own duty in the matter, desperate as the this present period, or this period so fresh yet case seemed at that late time. Unfaltering in with us, be ransacked by story-writers of every courage, taking the long, lonely walk without a grade, as furnishing more thrilling romances thought of turning back, and able to hold her than the most fertile imagination could sug. breath prayerfully while she crouched in the gest.

rank, wet grass, waiting for the brutal marauders

to pass on to their hellish deed. Self-possessed, Millicent IIalford is a story of the early days stilling her nerves to read to the invalid in her of the Rebellion ; those dark days when the

usual voice, when every moment she expected most hopeful among us were trembling in

to see the light of the burning homestead. every nerve; and the scene, laid in one of True to the instincts of every woman, anxious those border States, which was neither North to begin the struggle of forgetfulness, the very nor South, and could not be neutral, hard day she discovered her heart had been given though it might try, is a vivid picture of those without the asking, and yet steeling herself to troubled times. There is, indeed, a vrai-sem- the wish, because duty opened another path to blance to it, as a whole, which assures us that her. Sensible all through, doing what was bethe writer either studied her part well and ac

fore her, and leaving the issues to God. curately, or else, if not really present, had

We hold our breath in some of the chapters; authentic sources of information.

that night-walk with the hounds baying on her | The story is straight-forward and natural, track, and that yet more-to-be-feared man, hurrying you on with a breathless interest to leering at her and holding her so cruelly,– 0, the denouement, just as we were hurried on heavens! Our blood runs cold, for what is through that first year of war; thoughts, emo- more horrible than the thought of a feeble girl tions, actions born, grown and matured in less struggling for honor and life in the grasp of a time than once they could have been con- determined villain ! And that night drive,

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