purple clouds come sailing over the sky, and through their vapory folds the winking stars shine as white as silver.

And now the glad, leafy midsummer, full of blossoms and the song of nightingales, is come. Saint John has taken the flowers and the festival of heathen Balder; and in

every village there is a Maypole fifty feet high, with wreaths and roses and ribbons streaming in the wind, and a noisy weathercock on top to tell the village whence the wind cometh and whither it goeth.

The sun does not set till ten o'clock at night; and the

children are at play in the streets an hour later. The windows and the doors are all open, and you may sit and read till midnight without a candle.

Oh, how beautiful is the summer night, which is not night but a sunless yet unclouded day, descending upon earth with dews and shadows and refreshing coolness!

How beautiful the long, mild twilight, which like a silver clasp unites to-day with yesterday!

How beautiful the silent hour when Morning and Evening sit together, hand in hand, beneath the starless sky of midnight!

From the church tower in the public square the bell tolls the hour, with a soft musical chime; and the watchman, whose watchtower is the belfry, blows a blast on his horn for each stroke of the hammer.

HENRY W. LONGFELLOW

HARK! HARK! MY SOUL

ARK! hark! my soul; Angelic songs are swelling

b

O'er earth's green fields, and ocean's wave-beat shore. How sweet the truths those blessed strains are telling Of that new life when sin shall be no more.

Angels of Jesus, Angels of light,

Singing to welcome the pilgrims of the night.

Onward we go, for still we hear them singing,
"Come, weary souls, for Jesus bids you come;"

And through the dark its echoes sweetly ringing
The music of the gospel leads us home.
Angels of Jesus, Angels of light,

Singing to welcome the pilgrims of the night.

Far, far away, like bells at evening pealing,
The voice of Jesus sounds o'er land and sea;
And laden souls by thousands meekly stealing,
Kind Shepherd, turn their weary steps to Thee.
Angels of Jesus, Angels of light,

Singing to welcome the pilgrims of the night.

Rest comes at length, though life be long and dreary,
The day must dawn, and darksome night be past;
Faith's journey ends in welcome to the weary,

And heaven

the heart's true home-will come at last. Angels of Jesus, Angels of light,

Singing to welcome the pilgrims of the night.

Angels, sing on! your faithful watches keeping;
Sing us sweet fragments of the songs above;
Till morning's joy shall end the night of weeping,
And life's long shadows break in cloudless love.
Angels of Jesus, Angels of light,

Singing to welcome the pilgrims of the night.

REV. F. W. FABER

AN ICEBERG

T twelve o'clock we went below, and had just got through dinner when the cook put his head down the companionway and told us to come on deck and see the finest sight we had ever seen. "Where away, cook?" asked the first man who came up. "On the port bow."

And there, floating in the ocean, several miles off, lay an immense irregular mass, its tops and points covered with snow and its center of a deep indigo color. This was an iceberg, and of the largest size, as one of our men said who had been in the Northern Ocean.

As far as the eye could reach, the sea in every direction. was of a deep blue color, the waves running high and fresh and sparkling in the light; and in the midst lay this immense

mountain island, its cavities and valleys thrown into deep shade and its points and pinnacles glittering in the sun. All hands were soon on deck, looking at it and admiring its beauty and grandeur.

But no description can give any idea of the strangeness, splendor and really the sublimity of the sight. Its great size for it must have been two or three miles in circumference, and several hundred feet in height; its slow motion, as its base rose and sank in the water and its high points nodded against the clouds; the dashing of the waves upon it, which, breaking high with foam, lined its base with a white crust; and the thundering sound of the crackling mass, and the breaking and tumbling down of huge pieces, as well as its nearness and approach, which added a slight element of fear-all combined to give it the character of true sublimity.

The main body of the mass was, as I have said, of an indigo color, its base crusted with frozen foam; and as it grew thin and transparent toward the edges and top, its color shaded off from a deep blue to the whiteness of snow.

Unfortunately there was no moon; but it was a clear night, and we could plainly mark the long, regular, heaving mass, as its edges moved slowly against the stars, now revealing them and now shutting them in. Several times in our watch loud racks were heard, which sounded as though they must have run through the whole length of the iceberg, and several pieces fell down with a thundering crash, plunging heavily into the sea.