whose colors I cannot define, and whose names I do not know. 8. And so the days went on to seven, to ten, to fourteen. There were few to see it; but even the busy and usually unobservant farming people took note of it. There is no doubt that many years will come and go before Bethlehem hills will see such sights again. All her people agree in saying they never saw such before, and I myself in fifteen autumns of mountain rambling have never seen anything like it. 9. As I write the air is full of whirling leaves, brown, yellow, and red. The show is over. The winds, like noisy carpenters, are taking down the scenery. Soon the naked wood of the trees will be all that we shall see of last week's pomp and spectacle. But the next thing in beauty to a tree in full leaf is a tree bare; its very exquisiteness of shape revealed, its hold on the sky seeming so unspeakably assured; the solemn grace of prophecy and promise which every slender twig bears in its tiny gray buds revealed. 10. Last night, as if in final symphony to the play, and grand prelude of winter, the color spirits took possession of the sky, and for three hours shook its very folds with the noiseless cadence of their motions. There they all were, the green, the pink, the fiery red, which we had dared to touch and pick in leaves, now floating and dancing in disembodied ecstasy over our heads, wrapped and twined in very light of very light as in celestial garments. 11. From the zenith to the eastern, western, and northern horizon, no spot was dark. If there had been snow on the ground it would have been lit to redness as by fire. The village looked on in solemn silence; bareheaded men and women stood almost in awe at every threshold and gate. This also was such sight as had not been seen from their doors. The oldest man here does not remember such an aurora. It is hard to believe that Lapland itself ever saw one more weird, more beautiful. HELEN HUNT JACKSON. XXVI. HOW SLEEP THE BRAVE! How sleep the brave who sink to rest By fairy hands their knell is rung, By the flow of the inland river, Whence the fleets of iron have fled, Where the blades of the grave-grass quiver, Waiting the judgment day; These, in the robings of glory, From the silence of sorrowful hours, Lovingly laden with flowers, Alike for the friend and the foe; Under the sod and the dew, Waiting the judgment day; Under the roses, the Blue, So, with an equal splendor, With a touch, impartially tender, So, when the summer calleth, Sadly, but not with upbraiding, The generous deed was done; No braver battle was won; Under the sod and the dew, No more shall the war-cry sever, Ther banish our ancer forever 93 Under the sod and the dew, Tears and love, for the Gray. ANON. XXVIII. FUN. 1. The word "fun," as it is used by young people, means any kind of "a good time." a good time." Whatever is surprising is called funny sometimes even if it is something sad. Properly speaking, only that is funny which is laughable. I wish to speak now of what may be found comical by one and another, and of what may be done for the sake of raising a laugh. 2. We may often find in kindly and innocent mirth both pleasure and refreshment. President Lincoln was very fond of a funny story. He felt the strain and burden of the war so strongly that, if it had not been for this relief, he would have broken down long before the war was over. For one who is serious all the time the strain of life is often too hard. 3. It is a great thing to be able to see the ludicrous side of one's own mishaps or failures. What one person will grieve over another will carry off with a laugh. One is mortified beyond measure, another finds only amusement. A person who can never see the funny side of his mishaps goes through life as if he were in a |