"SOTTO L' USBERGO DEL SENTISSI PURO."

BY T. W. PARSONS.

BRUSH not the floor where my lady hath trod, Lest one light sign of her foot you mar; For where she walks in the spring on the sod, There, I have noticed, most violets are.

Touch not her work nor her book, nor a thing That her exquisite finger hath only pressed; But fan the dust off with a plume that the wing Of a ringdove let fall on his way to his nest.

I think the sun stops, if a moment she stand In the morn sometimes at her father's door; And the brook where she may have dipt her hand,

Runs purer to me than it did before.

How I dare to speak to her, scarce I can guess; But the courage comes, for she makes me strong.

What is in my heart? Is it love? Oh, yes! But a love with worship, that knows no wrong.

Under the mail of " I know me pure,"
I dare to dream of her; and by day,
As oft as I come to her presence, I'm sure
Had I one low thought, she would look it
away.

ABSENT-MINDED.— Jonathan Edwards was noted for absent-mindedness. When out riding one day a little boy opened a gate for him. "Whose boy are you, my little man?" asked the great theologian. "Noah Clark's boy, sir," was the answer. On the return of Edwards soon after, the same boy appeared and opened the gate for him again. The great theologian thanked him, and asked, "Whose boy are you, my little man?" to which the urchin replied, "Noah Clark's boy, sir; the same man's boy I was a quarter of an hour ago, sir."

ON Saturday, August 23, 1879, there died at Providence, Mr. J. Dunham Hedge, the librarian of the Providence Athenæum. He was born at Cambridge in 1809, on the seventh of January. His father was Levi Hedge, LL.D., his grandfather, the Rev. Lemuel Hedge, while his elder brother is now a professor at Harvard. Mr. J. D. Hedge was a Harvard graduate, and he grew up under the Cambridge influences of the second quarter in this century. This accounts largely for the truly classical tastes of the deceased. He was one of the few men, too rare now, who delighted in purchasing and in reading a model edition of a true Roman. Since 1854 he was the heart and soul of the Providence Athenæum, and in that capacity he contributed indefinitely to the literary taste and culture of Providence. The singular sweetness of his temper, his lavish liberality, and his truly encyclopædic knowledge were proverbial, and more than one of his younger friends did not think it worth while to undertake anything in reading without the advice of Mr. Hedge. Although he lived a quarter of a century in Providence, and was greatly beloved, he always felt that his true home was in Cambridge or Boston. His wife, who was the staff and comfort of his life, preceded him a few months since; they had no children. Mr. Hedge was born on a Saturday, and he wanted to die on a Saturday. His wish was gratified. Many thousands knew him as a singularly kind and obliging literary gentleman, a few knew of his love for the classics, and only one or two of his most intimate friends knew of his deep faith in the truths of the Christian religion.

Two countrymen went into a hatter's to buy one of them a hat. They were delighted with the sample, inside the crown of which was inserted a looking-glass. "What is the glass for?" said one of the men. The other, impatient at such a display of rural ignorance, exclaimed, "What for? Why, for the man who buys the hat to see how it fits!"

AT THE FIRESIDE.

THE June, 1880, number of the "Nursery," the pretty little monthly magazine published for the benefit of the youngest readers, contains these verses by Governor John D. Long:

AT nightfall, by the firelight's cheer,
My little Margaret sits me near,
And begs me tell of things that were
When I was little just like her.

Ah, little lips, you touch the spring
Of sweetest sad remembering,
And hearth and heart flash all aglow
With ruddy tints of long ago.

I at my father's fireside sit,
Youngest of all who circle it,
And beg him tell me what did he,
When he was little, just like me.

AN INTERESTING INVALID. The "Nachrichten" of Basel adds a new anecdote to the rich collection of German stork tales. During one of the great storms of the present year the lightning struck a barn in the village of Löwenberg, and a stork's nest, in which there were some young storklings, was threatened by the flames. The two parent birds contemplated the horrible situation from a distance with evident distress. At last the mother bird darted down upon the nest, and, seizing one of her young family with her beak, bore it off to a safe spot upon a meadow. The father followed her, and settled down to keep watch over his offspring. When the mother returned to the scene of danger, the fire had reached the nest, in which one bird still remained; but while she was flying round it, preparing for a descent, the young one fell through the charred nest into the burning barn. It was no moment for thought. Down darted the mother into the smoke and fire, and, coming up with her Sprössling in her beak, flew off, apparently unhurt. On

the next day a wounded stork fell to the ground in the market-place of the neighboring town of Trebbin. She was unable to stand, and the policeman of the little town carried her into the guard-house, where it was discovered that both her legs were sorely burned, and she was recognized as the heroic mother who had done the brave feat of rescue at the fire in Löwenberg. A physician was sent for, and the burgomaster found her a temporary hospital in the Rathhaus. Meanwhile, the spouse of the sick she-stork had discovered her whereabouts. He attended diligently to the two young ones, and paid daily visits to the mother, as if to inform himself how the patient was getting on, and to assure her that their children were doing well. The school children of Trebbin readily charged themselves with the task of finding food for the patient, bringing her every day far more than the necessary number of living frogs. The burgomaster paid an official visit every day to the sick guest of the municipality, to see that the doctor's orders were duly carried out, and in less than a fortnight the bird was sufficiently hale to fly away to her husband and children. - London Globe.

A GENTLEMAN who had a leisure rainy hour, the other afternoon, was led, while considering the wear to which a watch is subjected, to go into a calculation of the distance the second-hand travels in a year. The result, which nobody would guess, is this: The distance is two hundred and forty feet a day, and nearly seventeen miles a year; in exact figures, sixteen miles, one hundred and eighty rods, and eighteen inches, not counting the extra quarter of a day, which should be counted, and which adds sixty feet. The watch is of the ordinary size of a Swiss pocket-watch, the second dial being five-eighths of an inch in diameter. The sum is a simple and easy one, which anybody can figure out who chooses to give a few minutes to it.— Hartford Times.

BELOW

ABOVE.

THESE lines, by Bishop Alexander of Derry, were repeated by Bishop Huntington at the close of his sermon preached at the consecration of St. Stephen's Memorial Church, in Lynn, Nov. 2, 1881.

to the Lord Mayor, still a high functionary, albeit not quite the grandee of those days when Brass Crosby or Beckford ("Vathek's" father) ruled in "the City," announcing the event, which is forthwith posted at the Mansion House. In his letter the Secretary requests that the Lord Mayor will take the necessary steps for the tolling of the great

window

Glory by the autumnal trees is lent, And a knot of worshippers in mourning, Missing some one at the sacrament.

Down below, a sad, mysterious music,

shore,

Blended with a grand, majestic secret That keeps sweeping from us evermore.

Up above, the host no man can number,
In white robes, a palm in every hand;
Each some work sublime forever working,
In the spacious tracts of that great Land.

THE GREAT BELL OF ST. PAUL'S.

[From the New York Times.]

-

THERE is one traditional custom in London, on the occasion of such an event as has just occurred here [the death of President Garfield], which carries with it a sort of weird solemnity, we mean the tolling of the great bell of St. Paul's Cathedral. In all the years which have elapsed since that structure rose, which, superb as it is, fell, through the interference of others, so far short of the designs of its creator that he shed bitter tears over the failure of his hopes, the "great bell" has only tolled as many times as a man might in two minutes count on his fingers. Severe ceremony attends the event. On the demise of a member of the Royal Family, the Secretary of State for the Home Department addresses a letter

tones which have been immortalized by the illustrious author of "Villette." Except in the case of such men as Wellington and Nelson, the bell tolls only for the Royal Family, the Bishop of London, the Lord Mayor, and the Dean of St. Paul's. It would toll also for a prime minister dying in office. The most romantic incident connected with this bell (soon, we understand, to be recast) occurred some seventy-five years ago, at the time when "Bony" was the bugaboo by whom British nurses hushed refractory charges into propriety. A sentinel on Windsor Terrace was found apparently asleep, and immediately arrested. The penalty for such an offence then was death. "I was not asleep," said the delinquent; "I was lying listening intently, and to prove it I will tell you this, -I heard the clock of St. Paul's, which strikes on the great bell, strike thirteen." Of course the man was not believed; but subsequent inquiry proved that in consequence of something going wrong in the machinery of the clock it had that night struck thirteen. The question has often been mooted whether the strokes could have been heard. Windsor Terrace stands on very high ground, the country being flat between it and London, about fifteen miles from St. Paul's, in an airline, and it has been thought that with the wind blowing from London a man with very sharp ears might have distinguished the boom of the great bell.

EMBROIDERY AND JAPANESE

WORK.

AT the Museum of Fine Arts the most beautiful embroideries ever exhibited in this country are now to be seen. First in importance, because first in originality, are the landscapes by Mrs. O. W. Holmes, Jr. This is probably the most remarkable needlework ever done. It stands quite alone, and there is nothing in the least like it with which to compare it. Mrs. Holmes, who, as Miss Dixwell, contributed decorative embroidery to some of the earlier art exhibitions, is an artist; but instead of using paints and canvas, she makes her pictures with silks and satin, using her needle with masterly freedom, and producing tender or bold effects with the same ease that an accomplished painter does. She has no patterns which are to be painfully followed, but on the satin background she sketches and fills in her picture with her needle with boldness and wonderful success. One who has not seen this work cannot form the least idea of it.

The fourteen panels now at the Museum are, a winter scene: a dark tree and driving snow; a wide water view, framed in pinetrees; a field, with glimpses of the sea through evergreens; a sunset at sea; a silvery gray day at sea, with one sail in the foreground; a gorgeous sunset; a mass of milk-weed in seed, flying about as if in a light wind; clematis in its bearded state, with a little bird a-tilt on a stalk of dead mullein; two river-scenes: one at night with stars and a new moon, the other, a golden sunset; a summer sea with pine-trees; a field of golden-rod and asters, with the sea beyond; an ocean view: blue, white-capped waves, with no shore and no sail; and a field of white weed in bloom beneath a golden sky. Perspective, atmosphere, character are all given in this interesting work, and Mrs. Holmes knows how to produce any desired effect of light or warmth. It is useless to talk about style or stitches. The style is her own, she has invented it; the stitches

cannot be described. Here they are massed and rich and heavy, there delicate and smooth; in one place orderly and regular, in another flung from point to point with the freedom and grace of a spider's lines. The panels are for wall-decoration, and this is the only opportunity for the public to see them.

It was

WASHINGTON'S BIRTHPLACE, in Westmoreland County, Va., on the bank of the Potomac, is now marked only by a pile of crumbling brick and a simple stone, suitably inscribed, that was erected by a namesake. The house was destroyed by fire during the President's boyhood, and as the spot is visited by but few people, little thought has been given until recently to the placing of a memorial upon the site. A short time before his term of office expired, Secretary Evarts took a lively interest in the matter. afterward brought before Congress, and that body appropriated $30,000 for such a monument as was acceptable to the State Department. It is certain that the plans by which the work will be done are those submitted by Howe and Dodd of this city. Over the ruins of the fireplace it is proposed to build a house twenty-five feet square and about thirty-five feet high, the roof being pitched. The locality is so lonely, that in preparing the designs the architects considered well the fact that the memorial must stand for years without much care. They select brick and terra-cotta for building materials, granite not being available, and intend that the roof shall be covered with tiles, and the doors and windows screened by bronze grilles. Over the door will be the inscription, George Washington, Hic Natus, Ubique Notus.” This is to be surmounted by an eagle. On either side of the door, in panels, will be placed the ancient gravestones now standing on the premises. The interior of the building will be plain, the roof-timbers showing, and the floor being laid in mosaic. The house will be in full view of passengers on the river boats.

66

GARFIELD AS A FARM-BOY.

C. H. LEONARD, M.D., of Detroit, who was a class-mate of Garfield at College, writes these recollections of him in the "News" of that city,—

When he came to work for my grandfather (he worked two summers for him, during haying and harvest-time), he was a lad of some sixteen years, tall, muscular, "raw-boned," poorly clad, pants not reaching down to his ankles, barefooted (as my grandfather describes him on his first visit), hair fuzzy, wiry, and rebellious to a comb, large eyes, and a frank, honest face. He had a scythe swung over his shoulder, and was walking with long, though not ungainly, strides toward the farmhouse. His first question was, after salutations, if my grandfather needed another man. The reply was, yes, he needed another man, but not a boy. Garfield then argued the point, that if a boy could do a man's work, then a boy should have a man's wages, and so far as the employer was concerned, it ought not to matter how old the laborer was.

The argument was so well put that it attracted my grandfather's attention, and instead of turning him away abruptly, as he intended doing, he began questioning him as to his early history, intentions, etc. Garfield explained quite minutely, ending with the remark that he had just quit the canal, and that he wanted to earn some money with which to get an education. The conversation ended in a contract that if the boy did the man's work, as the boy felt confident of doing, then he should receive a man's wages (I think it was seventy-five cents for harvest hands).

The next morning he was assigned his position, with four good mowers, in a field of Timothy-grass. The four men thought they would have a little fun, so they placed the "boy" in the middle two to lead him in swath-making, and two to crowd him close at the rear, and so turn their swaths upon him and “bush him" as they had planned. Swath after swath was cut around the field,

the "boy," rather than lagging behind, crowding a little on the mowers in front. Things were getting uncomfortable for the four as the day advanced, and when the noon-horn was blown, they were very glad to get the hour's rest.

The "boy" said nothing, ate his dinner silently, and when the "nooning" was up, and the men had returned to the field, asked if they would allow him to "lead" in the afternoon, as he was anxious to make his claim good to Mr. Taylor (my grandfather). The boy's hands were then already blistered, though he made no murmur as he struck into the grass as leader for swath number one. If things were uncomfortable for the four in the forenoon, they were getting still more so as the afternoon wore along. They wanted rest; but the "boy" kept at work, and finally put the four "to bush," while he kept steadily along with a sure, but slower swing of his scythe, till the hour for supper had come. After this was over, the four soon went to bed. The "boy" asked for an extra tallow-dip" (as candles were called in those days).