His brow was clouded, his eye was stern,

With a look of mingled sorrow and wrath; "Woe's me!" he murmured, “at every turn The pestilent Quakers are in my path. Some we have scourged, and banished some, Some hanged, more doomed, and still they come, Fast as the tide of yon bay sets in,

Sowing their heresy's seed of sin.

"Did we count on this? Did we leave behind
The graves of our kin, the comfort and ease
Of our English hearths and homes, to find
Troublers of Israel such as these?

Shall I spare? Shall I pity them? God forbid !
I will do as the prophet to Agag did :
They come to poison the wells of the word,
I will hew them in pieces before the Lord!"

The door swung open, and Rawson, the clerk,
Entered, and whispered under breath,
"There awaits below for the hangman's work
A fellow banished on pain of death-
Shattuck, of Salem, unhealed of the whip,
Brought over in Master Goldsmith's ship,
At anchor here in a Christian port,
With freight of the devil and all his sort!"

Twice and thrice on his chamber floor

Striding fiercely from wall to wall, "The Lord do so to me and more,"

The governor cried, "if I hang not all! Bring hither the Quaker." Calm, sedate, With the look of a man at ease with fate, Into that presence grim and dread

Came Samuel Shattuck, with hat on head.

"Off with the knave's hat!" An angry hand Smote down the offence; but the wearer said, With a quiet smile, "By the King's command

I bear his message and stand in his stead." In the governor's hand a missive he laid, With the royal arms on its seal displayed; And the proud man spake, as he gazed thereat, Uncovering, "Give Mr. Shattuck his hat."

He turned to the Quaker, bowing low:

"The King commandeth your friends' release.
Doubt not he shall be obeyed, although
To his subjects' sorrow and sin's increase.
What he here enjoineth, John Endicott,
His loyal servant, questioneth not.

You are free! God grant the spirit you own
May take you from us to parts unknown.”

So the door of the jail was open cast,

And like Daniel out of the lion's den

Tender youth and girlhood passed,

With age-bowed women and gray-locked men. And the voice of one appointed to die Was lifted in praise and thanks on high, And the little maid from New Netherlands, Kissed, in her joy, the doomed man's hands.

And one, whose call was to minister

To the souls in prison, beside him went, An ancient woman, bearing with her

The linen shroud for his burial meant. For she, not counting her own life dear,

In the strength of a love that cast out fear,

Had watched and served where her brethren died, Like those who waited the Cross beside.

One moment they paused on their way to look On the martyr graves by the Common side, And much-scourged Wharton of Salem took

His burden of prophecy up, and cried—

'Rest, souls of the valiant! Not in vain Have ye borne the Master's cross of pain;

Ye have fought the fight, ye are victors crowned, With a fourfold chain ye have Satan bound!"

The autumn haze lay soft and still

On wood and meadow and upland farms; On the brow of Snow Hill the great windmill Slowly and lazily swung its arms;

Broad in the sunshine stretched away,

With its capes and islands, the turquoise bay;
And over water and dusk of pines
Blue hills lifted their faint outlines.

The topaz leaves of the walnut glowed,
The sumach added its crimson fleck,
And double in air and water showed

The tinted maples along the Neck;
Through frost-flower clusters of pale star-mist,
And gentian fringes of amethyst,
And royal plumes of the golden-rod,

The grazing cattle on Centry trod.

But as they who see not, the Quakers saw
The world about them; they only thought
With deep thanksgiving and pious awe

Of the great deliverance God had wrought.
Through lane and alley the gazing town
Noisily followed them up and down;
Some with scoffing and brutal jeer,
Some with pity and words of cheer.

One brave voice rose above the din;
Upsall, gray with his length of days,
Cried from the door of his Red Lion Inn-
"Men of Boston, give God the praise!
No more shall innocent blood call down
The bolts of wrath on your guilty town.
The freedom of worship, dear to you,
Is dear to all, and to all is due.

"I see the vision of days to come,

When your beautiful City of the Bay
Shall be Christian liberty's chosen home,
And none shall his neighbor's rights gainsay.
The varying notes of worship shall blend
And as one great prayer to God ascend,
And hands of mutual charity raise
Walls of salvation and gates of praise."

So passed the Quakers through Boston town,
Whose painful ministers sighed to see
The walls of their sheep-fold falling down,
And wolves of heresy prowling free.
But the years went on, and brought no wrong;
With milder counsels the state grew strong,
As outward letter and inward light
Kept the balance of truth aright.

The Puritan spirit, perishing not,

To Concord's yeomen the signal sent,
And spake in the voice of the cannon-shot
That severed the chains of a continent.
With its gentler mission of peace and good-will
The thought of the Quaker is living still,
And the freedom of soul he prophesied
Is gospel and law where its martyrs died.

JOHN G WHITTIER.

BLUE SKY SOMEWHERE.

Baby and I were going to Uncle Brown's to spend the day. I hardly know which anticipated the most pleasure from the visit. Baby-though she had such an infantile pet name-was three years old; but then she was our "only one," and we loved best to call her Baby. Baby was fully conscious of the pleasures of a visit to Uncle Brown's large farm. For there were chickens, little pigs, cows, calves-and best of all, the lambs to see. And Baby knew, too, that her boy cousins, Jonnie and Georgie, were never tired of showing her all those, or in any way administering to her pleasure. And I, too, as Baby's mother, entered into her pleasure of these things, with thoughts of nice long chats with Cousin Sue, on domestic matters, and the pleasant walk I should have over the hills and through the meadows.

And so I put Baby to bed the night beforehand, she prattling of lambs and chickies, and stopping in the middle of "Now I lay me," to ask if Uncle Brown would show her the colt. And I, looking with an anxious eye at the dark clouds rolling in the west, said "“ If it rains to-morrow, Baby, we'll go next day."

"Oh, but I dess it wont," lisped she; and shutting her eyes was fast asleep in two minutes.

But in the morning, though it didn't rain, the thick fog covered everything. The trees dripped with moisture, and the sun vainly strove to penetrate the mist. "Shant we go, mamma?" asked Baby when I dressed her.

"I am afraid not," I replied.

For a moment the little face looked as lowering as the clouds; but Baby was too sunny herself to look