"WHAT means this glory round our feet," The magi mused, "more bright than morn? And voices chanted clear and sweet,

"To-day the Prince of Peace is born!"

"What means that star," the shepherds said, "That brightens thro' the rocky glen?"

And angels, answering overhead,

Sang "Peace on earth, good will to men!"

All round about our feet shall shine
A Light like that the wise men saw,
If we our loving will incline

To that Sweet Life which is the Law.

So shall we learn to understand

The simple faith of shepherds then,
And, clasping kindly hand in hand,

Sing "Peace on earth, good will to men!"

And they who do their souls no wrong
But keep at eve the faith of morn,

Shall daily hear the angel song,

"To-day the Prince of Peace is born!"

-JAMES RUSSELL LOWELL.

GOING HOME FOR CHRISTMAS

IN the course of a December tour in Yorkshire I rode for a long distance in one of the public coaches, on the day preceding Christmas. The coach was crowded, both inside and out, with passengers, who, by their talk, seemed bound to the mansions of relations or friends, to eat the Christmas dinner. It was loaded also with hampers of game and baskets and boxes of delicacies; and hares hung dangling their long ears about the coachman's box, presents from distant friends for the coming feast.

I had among my fellow-passengers inside, three fine rosy-cheeked boys, full of health and manly spirits. They were returning home for the holidays in high glee, and promising themselves a world of enjoyment. It was delightful to hear the gigantic plans of the little rogues, and the feats they were to perform during their six weeks' freedom from book, birch, and teacher. They were full of joy at thought of the meeting with the family and household, down to the very cat and dog; and of the delight they were to give their little sisters by the presents with which their pockets were crammed. But the meeting to which they seemed to look forward with the greatest impatience was with Bantam, which I found to be a pony, and, according to their talk, possessed of more virtues than any steed since the days of Bucephalus. How he could trot! how he could run! and then such leaps as he would take - there was not a hedge in the whole country that he could not clear.

They were under the particular guardianship of the coachman, to whom, whenever an opportunity presented, the boys addressed a host of questions, and pronounced him one of the best fellows in the world. Indeed, I could not but notice the more than ordinary air of bustle and importance of the coachman, who wore his hat a little on one side, and had a large bunch of Christmas greens stuck in the button

hole of his coat. He is always a personage full of mighty care and business, but he is particularly so during this season, having so many commissions to execute in consequence of the great interchange of presents.

I fancied that I saw cheerfulness in every counte

nance throughout the journey. A stagecoach, however, carries animation always with it, and puts the world in motion as it whirls along. The horn, sounded at the entrance to a village, produces a general bustle. Some hasten forth to meet friends; some, with bundles and bandboxes, to secure places. As the coach rattles through the village, every one runs to the window, and you have glances on every side

of fresh country faces. At the corners are assembled groups of idlers and wise men, who take their stations there for the important purpose of seeing the

company pass.

Perhaps the coming holiday might have given a more than usual animation to the country, for it seemed to me that everybody was in good looks and good spirits. Game, poultry, and other luxuries of the table were in brisk circulation in the villages. The shops of the grocers and the butchers were thronged with customers. The housewives were stirring briskly about, putting their dwellings in order; and the glossy branches of holly, with their bright red berries, began to appear at the windows.

I was roused from my fit of luxurious meditation by a shout from my little traveling companions. They had been looking out of the coach windows for the last few miles, recognizing every tree and cottage as they approached home, and now there was a general burst of joy-"There's John! and there's old Carlo! and there's Bantam!" cried the happy little rogues, clapping their hands.

At the end of a lane there was an old, sober-looking servant in livery waiting for them. He was accompanied by an aged pointer and the famous Bantam, a little old rat of a pony, with a shaggy mane and long rusty tail, who stood dozing quietly by the road