THE SINGER AND THE CHILD.-ADELINE E. GROSS.

Within the church, the light was dimmed
And colored, as it fell from pane
Of stately Gothic window, limned
With artist's skill in glowing stain.
A holy silence filled the place,
That like a benediction seemed,
While on full many a quiet face
The light of inward worship gleamed.
Not far from where the organ loft
Revealed its curved and gilded front,
A little boy, with dark eyes soft

And dreamy, sat, as was his wont;
And when, the prelude o'er, the song
Of praise was sung by one whose gift
Of voice carried all souls along

With it toward heaven, seeming to lift
Earth's weight of cares, the boy's rapt gaze
Was fixed upon the woman fair,
His face illumed like one who prays
Expectant of response to prayer.

Still, as she sang, his gaze unmoved

Dwelt on the singer's face; he seemed
To drink deep draughts of joy, removed
From thoughts of all around:-So dreamed
Apocalyptic John upon

The Isle of Patmos, when on him

The light of city without sun

Was shed, making earth's memories dim.

White robed was the soprano's form;

While roses, creamy hued, of June

Clasped the lace about her warm

White throat. Her pure garb seemed in tune
With the angelic strains she sang,

And portion of the harmony.

That flower-filled font, the notes that rang
In tones subdued from organ key,
The fragrance from the summer air,—
Made plain to hearts that understood,
Within that sacred house of prayer,
That God is great and nature good.

The singer ceased, a hush profound
Rested upon the worshiping throng,
When clear and sudden came the sound
Of childish voice the pews among.
"Mamma, was that an angel sung?"
All else forgotten had the child,
Whose soul had to the utterance clung

Of the sweet hymn. With wonder mild
He caught the warning glance bestowed
By one who, might she time and place
Ignore, would fain have then the bowed
Head kissed, and strained to her embrace.
Singer, well done thy work that day;
A weary, sin-stained man o'erheard
The question innocent, and “Nay,

"Tis not an angel" ('twas the word, Low-toned in answer) did not sound As truth; to him an angel sang Indeed, and he a message found In the soul-lifting strains that rang Through nave and aisle, while firm resolve Awoke responsive in his breast,

To turn from sins which must involve

His life in severance from the best

That was within him.

But, methought Two angels spoke to him that day:

Tidings of love to come, one brought,Forgiving love, given those who pray; The other, message from the past Brought home to him, of mother's love, With memories of the time, when last Beside that mother, now above,

In church he sat, while fancies strange Arose within his childish brain.

True pictures of that time arrange Themselves before him, and again, As then, he sits, a little child,

Happy and innocent as he

Whose music-charmed soul, his mild,

Dark eyes illumed with ecstasy.

Thou knewest not, dear singer, nor

Didst thou, thou white-browed boy, how well

Was wrought thy mission in that hour;
Its full fruition none may tell,

Until in surges manifold

Through heaven's court is heard the song
Of those forgiven, and is told
The story, by one soul among

The happy throng-how worship pure,
By her to whom the gift of song

Was granted, had once the power to lure

A tempted one from sin and wrong:

When, too, the white-souled innocence
Of childhood had a message borne,

A life for good to influence,

That earth-remembered Sabbath morn.

THE HERO WOMAN.-GEO. LIPPARD.

There was something very beautiful in that picture! The form of the young girl, framed by the square, massive window, the contrast between the rough timbers that enclosed her, and that rounded face, the lips parting, the hazel eye dilating, and the cheek warming and flushing with hope and fear; there was something very beautiful in that picture, a young girl leaning from the window of an old mansion, with her brown hair waving in glossy masses around her face!

He

Suddenly the shouts to the south grew nearer, and then, emerging from the deep hollow, there came an old man, running at full speed, yet every few paces turning round to fire the rifle which he loaded as he ran. was pursued by a party of ten or more British soldiers, who came rushing on, their bayonets fixed, as if to strike their victim down ere he advanced ten paces nearer the house.

On and on the old man came, while his daughter, quivering with suspense, hung leaning from the window; he reaches the block-house gate-look! He is surrounded, their muskets are leveled at his head; he is down, down at their feet, grappling for his life.

But

look again! He dashes his foes aside; with one bold movement he springs through the gate; an instant, and it is locked; the British soldiers, mad with rage, gaze upon the high wall of logs and stone, and vent their anger in drunken curses.

Now look to yonder window! Where the young girl stood a moment ago quivering with suspense, as she beheld her father struggling for his life, now stands that old man himself, his brow bared, his arm grasping the rifle, while his gray hairs wave back from his wrinkled and blood-dabbled face! That was a fine picture of an old veteran, nerved for his last fight; a stout warrior, preparing for his death-struggle.

Death-struggle? Yes! for the old man, Isaac Wampole, had dealt too many hard blows among the British soldiers, tricked, foiled, cheated them too often to escape now. A few moments longer, and they would be re-enforced by a strong party of refugees; the powder, the arms, in the old block-house, perhaps that daughter herself, was to be their reward. There was scarcely a hope for the old man, and yet he had determined to make a

desperate fight.

"We must bluff off these rascals," he said, with a grim smile, turning to his child. "Now Bess, my girl, when I fire this rifle do you hand me another, and so on, until the whole eight shots are fired. That will keep them on the other side of the wall for a few moments at least, and then we will have to trust to God for the rest."

Look down there and see a hand stealing over the edge of the wall! The old man levels his piece, that British trooper falls back, with a crushed hand, upon his comrade's heads!

No longer quivering with suspense, but grown suddenly firm, that young girl passes a loaded rifle to the veteran's grasp, and silently awaits the result.

For a moment all is silent below; the British bravoes are somewhat loath to try that wall, when a stout old

"Rebel," rifle in hand, is looking from yonder window. There is a pause-low, deep murmurs-they are holding a council.

A moment is gone, and nine heads are thrust above the wall at once. Hark! One, two, three. The old veteran has fired three shots--there are three dying men groveling in the yard beneath the shadow of the wall. "Quick, Bess, the rifles!"

And the brave girl passes the rifles to her father's grasp. There are four shots, one after the other; three more soldiers fell back, like weights of lead, upon the ground, and a single Red-coat is seen slowly mounting to the top of the wall, his eye fixed upon the hall door, which he will force ere a moment is gone!

Now the last ball is fired, the old man stands there in that second-story window, his hands vainly grasping for another loaded rifle. At this moment the wounded and dying band below are joined by a party of some twenty refugees, who, clad in their half-robber uniform, came rushing from the woods, and with one bound are leaping for the summit of the wall.

"Quick, Bess, my rifle!"

And look there; even while the veteran stood looking out upon his foes, the brave girl-for, slender in form and wildly beautiful in face, she is a brave girl, a herowoman-had managed, as if by instinctive impulse, to load a rifle. She handed it to her father, and then loaded another, and another. Wasn't that a beautiful sight? A fair young girl grasping powder and ball, with the ramrod rising and falling in her slender fingers!

Now look down to the wall again. The refugees are clambering over its summit-again that fatal aim-again a horrid cry, and another wounded man toppling down upon his dead and dying comrades!

But now look! A smoke rises there; a fire blazes up around the wall; they have fired the gate! A moment, and the bolt and the lock will be burnt from their