The mug of cider simmered slow;
The apples sputtered in a row;

And, close at hand, the basket stood
With nuts from brown October's wood.

3. What matter how the night behaved?
What matter how the north wind raved ?
Blow high, blow low, not all its snow
Could quench our hearth-fire's ruddy glow.
O Time and Change! with hair as gray
As was my sire's that winter day,
How strange it seems, with so much gone
Of life and love, to still live on!

4. Ah, brother! only I and thou
Are left of all that circle now,
The dear home-faces whereupon
That fitful fire-light paled and shone.
Henceforward, listen as we will,

The voices of that hearth are still;
Look where we may the wide earth o'er,
Those lighted faces smile no more.

5. We tread the paths their feet have worn; We sit beneath their orchard-trees;

We hear, like them, the hum of bees,
And rustle of the bladed corn;
We turn the pages which they read;

Their written words we linger o'er:
But in the sun they cast no shade,
No voice is heard, no sign is made,
No step is on the conscious floor!

6. Yet Love will dream, and Faith will trust, (Since He who knows our need is just,)

That somehow, somewhere, meet we must.
Alas for him who never sees

The stars shine through his cypress-trees;
Who, hopeless, lays his dead away,
Nor looks to see the breaking day
Across the mournful marbles play;
Who hath not learned, in hours of faith,
The truth to flesh and sense unknown,
That Life is ever lord of Death,

And Love can never lose its own!

DEFINITIONS.

Whittier.

And ́ i rons, iron utensils for supporting wood in a fire-place.

Couch' ant, lying down.

Sil' hou ette (sil oo et), a dark picture showing only the outlines of an object, like a shadow.

Sim' mered, boiled gently, or with a slight hissing.

LESSON LXXXIX.

LIFE, TRUTH, AND FAITH.

FIRST VOICE.

There is a bleak Desert, where daylight grows weary
Of wasting its smile on a region so dreary,-
What may that Desert be?

SECOND VOICE.

'Tis Life, cheerless Life, where the few joys that come Are lost like that daylight, for 't is not their home.

FIRST VOICE.

There is a lone Pilgrim, before whose faint eyes
The water he pants for but sparkles and flies, -
Who may that Pilgrim be?

SECOND VOICE.

'Tis Man, hapless Man, through this life tempted on By fair, shining hopes, that in shining are gone.

FIRST VOICE.

There is a bright Fountain through that Desert stealing, To pure lips alone its refreshment revealing,

What may that Fountain be?

SECOND VOICE.

'Tis Truth, holy Truth, that, like springs under ground, By the gift of kind Heaven alone can be found.

FIRST VOICE.

There is a fair Spirit, whose wand hath the spell
To point where those waters in secrecy dwell, -
Who may that Spirit be?

SECOND VOICE.

'Tis Faith, humble Faith, who hath learned that, where'er Her wand bends to worship, the Truth must be there!

LESSON XC.

THE WINTER WIND.

1. Restless wind of drear December,

Listened to by dying ember,

Do you hold the same sad meaning to all other hearts this night?

Sweeping over land and ocean

With your mighty, rythmic motion,

Has your hasting brought swift wasting to their hope, and

joy, and light?

2. To them does your passing darken

Night's black shadow as they hearken;

Filling it with mystic phantoms, such as throng some haunted

spot

With the ghosts of joys and pleasures,

Tortures now that once were treasures?

Does your sighing seem the crying of a soul for what is not?

3. Does the same weird, weary moaning

Seem to underlie your toning,

Whether risen in your strength, or sunk to wailing, fitful blast?

Do they hear wild, distant dirges

In your falls or in your surges ?

Does your swelling seem the knelling for a dead, unburied Past?

Anne M. Crane.

LESSON XCI.

CHRISTMAS FESTIVITY.

1. There is something in the very season of the year that gives a charm to the festivity of Christmas. At other times we derive a great portion of our pleasures from the mere beauties of nature. Our feelings sally forth and dissipate themselves over the sunny landscape, and we "live abroad and everywhere." The song of the bird, the murmur of the stream, the breathing fragrance of spring, the soft voluptuousness of summer, the golden pomp of autumn; earth with its mantle of refreshing green, and heaven with its deep, delicious blue and its cloudy magnificence, all fill us with mute but exquisite delight, and we revel in the luxury of mere sensation.

2. But in the depth of winter, when Nature lies despoiled of every charm, and wrapped in her shroud of sheeted snow, we turn for our gratifications to moral sources. The dreariness and desolation of the landscape, the short, gloomy days and darksome nights, while they circumscribe our wanderings, shut in our feelings also from rambling abroad, and make us more keenly disposed for the pleasures of the social circle.

3. Our thoughts are more concentrated, our friendly sympathies more aroused. We feel more sensibly the charm of each other's society, and are brought more closely together by dependence on each other for enjoyment. Heart calleth unto heart, and we draw our pleasures from the deep wells of loving-kindness which lie in the quiet recesses of our bosoms, and which, when resorted to, furnish forth the pure element of domestic felicity.

4. The pitchy gloom without makes the heart dilate, on entering the room filled with the glow and warmth of the evening fire. The ruddy blaze diffuses an artificial summer and sunshine through the room, and lights up each countenance in a kindlier welcome. Where does the honest face of hospipitality expand into a broader and more cordial smile, where is the shy glance of love more sweetly eloquent, than by the winter fireside? And as the hollow blast of wintery wind rushes through the hall, claps the distant door, whistles about the casement, and rumbles down the chimney, what can be more grateful than that feeling of sober and sheltered security, with which we look round upon the comfortable chamber and the scene of domestic hilarity?

5. The English, from the great prevalence of rural habit throughout every class of society, have always been fond of those festivals and holidays which agreeably interrupt the stillness of country life; and they were, in former days, particularly observant of the religious and social rites of ChristIt is inspiring to read even the dry details which some

mas.